Free Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) by Lee Cooper Page B

him.
      “Come on ‘en. Let’s get going.”
      Jumping into the car, I immediately laid it out.  “Look, don’t speak to me on the way down the road. I can’t be fucked wi’ you right now.”
      “Don’t be like that, lad.”
      “I said don’t fuckin’ talk, just drive.” I snapped at him, talking from the side of my mouth, burning a glance at his face, and he got the point.
      “Alright Joe, whatever you say.”
      Staring out the window at the path I was taking, left me deep in thought about what I was walking into. What kind of world would this be? Who’s this Steve Dean that Tim fears so much? I couldn’t stop fidgeting in the car, using my phone to keep my hands busy, spitting out and replacing chewing gum every ten minutes. I was anxious about the whole affair, but at the end of the day, it was still a fight, a fight I had to win more than ever now.
      The conversation was non-existent, apart from Tim taking a couple of phone calls. Things started to make more sense now. Kilgours was full of raw boxers loaded on steroids, dodgy characters and bad attitudes. It fitted the scene of the unlicensed scrappers. Kilgours was named after an old street in Tillydrone. Kilgour Avenue. The name changed to Alexander Terrace in the late 60’s because of its notorious reputation for crime.
    I always wondered why the sparring was so brutal and now I knew, now it made sense. The kind of bout I’d be in tonight, wouldn't be the kind you see on TV between two professionals. The rules might be there, but wouldn’t be followed.
      Guessed it would be more like street-fighting than anything. You could be up against any cunt, an ex con, ex-army, a psycho or an ex-fighter like me, I just didn’t know what to expect.
      About a half hour into the journey, Tim broke silence. “Joe, I’ve got to make a pick-up. It’s a little detour through Montrose. Won’t take long.”
      “Whatever.” I couldn’t go the rest of the day without speaking to him.
    He reversed into an industrial-estate, stopping at the rear of a small, shabby-looking building with faded cream paint and no windows, just a roller-door big enough for a car and an entrance by the side. It looked like the back of a vacant shop.
      Tim disappeared inside, leaving me alone in the car. The roller-door opened after ten minutes, letting me see inside the building, which was brightly-lit with a white light and untidy. I could make out a couple printing-machines and piles of scrunched-up, ink-stained paper scattered around.
      Tim popped the boot of the car while I eyed him in the side-mirror, watching curiously to see what he was up to. A short, slimy bald guy sidled out carrying a couple of briefcases, his fingers and arms covered in ink.
      Tim placed the briefcases in the boot and chatted for a couple of minutes. Out from the side door came another man. A malicious, dodgy-looking character, wearing one of those black puffed-up jackets, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and drawing on a smoke.
      He stood, reading from a slip of paper in front of Tim. I couldn’t make out the conversation, but it sounded like figures. Tim handed over an envelope, which I assumed was cash. Sticking it into his back pocket, the dodgy man glanced into the side-mirror, catching my stare, arms by his side, the fag hanging out his mouth. His evil, intimidating glare sent a shiver through me, an aura of pure hatred in his eyes. Turning his back, I stared at a massive swastika tattoo on the back of his head. One of these Nazi white supremacist types. Tim finished his business, shook hands, and returned to the car.
      “What the fuck was going on there?”
      “I can’t tell you, lad. You don’t need to know.”
      “You’re into some dodgy shit, aren’t you?”
      “Just doing a pick-up, that’s all.”
      “Need to know basis, I get it.”
      “The less you know the better, the way I see it.”
      “This part o’ your income?”
      “Nae exactly. I