Loser's Corner

by Antonin Varenne, Frank Wynne

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Suspense

Synopsis

2008. George 'The Wall' Crozat has racked up thirty-eight victories (twenty-three of them by knock-out), eight defeats, and an empty bank account. Finally ready to hang up the gloves and focus on his career as a police officer, his chief concern is how to fund his prostitution habit. When a shady bouncer offers him a photograph, an address and a chance to finally turn a profit with his fists, the temptation is irresistible. Before long the money is flowing, but Crozat has unknowingly become a pawn in a very dangerous game. Powerful forces are using his brutality to keep their own secrets, and Crozat teeters on the precipice of an abyss that stretches fifty years into the past, to the darkest chapter of France's colonial history. Switching effortlessly between past and present, and drawing on his own father's experience of the Algerian War, Antonin Varenne's darkly personal thriller shines a light on corruption, torture, conspiracy and revenge.

Release date: December 4, 2014

Publisher: MacLehose Press

Print pages: 257

Sample

April 2009

Days I’ve had this guy right in front of me.

It’s changed, this boxing club; used to be different, but I know the place. Not the first time I’ve fought here.

Round four.

It’s a hard ring. Old lags prefer a hard surface.

Kravine keeps his boys doped up. Two more punches and I’ll take him down.

Bastard’s got some arms. He’s got the arms, but not the stomach. I’m going to beat the shit out of him. The dope will wear off, then all he’ll have in his favour is the fact that he’s twenty. What the fuck does anyone know when they’re twenty?

Focus.

Handsome lad, this black kid. Legs like springs, a killer’s shoulders, a good reach. This is a bullshit match.

Too much rebound. Ninety-one kilos. He’s got the advantage in this bout. He’s got twenty years on me. Forty-year-old Georges.

Don’t make your move; wait till he tires himself out. I’m built to take punches. Georges, he can take punches like a brick wall. “The Wall”. That’s what they call me. Or Georges the Cop. Don’t like it when they call me that.

Focus.

Easier to take the punches than roll with ’em.

But how long can you go on taking them? Things have to square up sometime.

Stop thinking! Just fight.

The kid shifts to his left foot, trying to get on my outside. I don’t have an outside. Four walls. First-class hook. He comes from some island, this lad, I can’t remember which one. A killing machine. He’s looking me right in the eye.

Kravine chose the venue.

Paolo set up the bout. “This is your fight, Georges.” Fucking bullshit match.

Another reputation. Kravine figures the new kid can cut his teeth on me. People say I’m washed up. But Kravine’s cagey. The dope, this ring, this club full of guys who didn’t come to cheer me on. Last bout on the bill. Oldest trick in the book. I don’t have any fans.

Never did.

A fucking bullshit match too far, Georges.

Still gagging to get into the ring, now more than ever.

Shooting pains in my arm. Out of breath. The kid is panting like a steam train.

Me, pale as a ghost. Haven’t seen a ray of sun in fuck knows how long . . . Him, young and black with teeth that could snap your bones . . . What the hell are you thinking, Georges? Pile into him, for Christ’s sake, get stuck in, don’t just stand there.

A wall, you’re a WALL, Georges. What the f—? A quick right cross – I never saw it coming. Got right under my guard. Landed square to the temple. Still standing. A little stunner. Ears ringing, everything blurry. If he’d followed with a left hook, I’d have been fucked.

Focus. Something happened there, Georges, right there.

His right wrist is giving him gyp. He’s raised his guard, no more mixing it up, no more quick jabs, he’s running out of steam. He’s worried about taking a hit. Gloves shielding his face, the peek-a-boo guard – this is what I’ve been waiting for.

His liver’s mine.

Weak wrists. His weak spot, Georges, the chink in the armour that’ll bring him down. Rossi, the piece of shit who claims to be his coach, is too fucking dumb to tell him to watch his guard, he’s screaming for the kid to hit harder . . . But that’s not the problem, the kid’s already throwing punches that could stop a fucking train. Kravine has spotted it too. I hear his high-pitched voice from ringside screaming at his protégé not to change his guard. But his guard’s not the problem either. It’s your confidence, sonny, your confidence cracking like your knuckles.

Two more rounds playing punchbag.

My arm is fine. Ready to lash out when the time comes.

I let him throw a couple of jabs to my head. It’s tough enough to take it. He thinks I can’t move anymore. He jabs at my face, blood trickles into my mouth.

We’re in a clinch now; bend, bend, push your head into his chest. That’s it. He’s ripping at my ears with his gloves; a couple of kidney punches while the sightline is blocked. I know all Kravine’s tricks.

I shove the kid away, he’s lighter than me. He’s flailing. He’s going again. The dope’s wearing off . . . Thirty seconds to the end of round four. Kravine’s obviously briefed him. Round six. Always round six, Georges.

I’m pissing blood, my eyebrows are mashed to a pulp. But I’ll be here for the fifth round. Georges “The Wall” will be here.

The kid’s riled now. He wants to take me out before the sixth. Move in. Push him, that’s right, get your elbows in. That’s it, keep pushing. Move your legs. Bring your head in. He’s got no idea what I’m doing. Right there. He’s confused. A quick right hook, gentle, a pitty-pat punch. Let him think I’m a worn-out punchbag. He parries. Now! Left upper cut to his blind side, keep my feet nailed to the mat, back straight, follow through from the hip. Perfect.

Never saw it coming. Got him smack on the chin. One second to go before the bell.

He looks shocked. His brain is really rattling inside his skull.

Came within a second of hitting the canvas and he knows it.

And you know it too . . .

You fucked up, Georges.

Learn your lesson, not before time . . . The kid’s twenty years old, Georges, you stunned him, but you wasted all that energy two seconds before he gets to take a rest.

Don’t slump down on the stool, don’t let him see. Paolo’s hands on my face. My calves are starting to cramp.

The kid stares at me from his corner. He’s jittery, his feet are twitching. He’s capable of anything now, he wants to kill me. A minute from now, he’ll have completely recovered; it’ll take me ten times as long.

Paolo gives me the spiel, slathers my face in vaseline, dabs adrenaline juice all over my bleeding eyebrows which are worth shit now. Tells me to stop acting the maggot.

“Stop trying to play the heavyweight, Georges! Wait till he’s worn out, otherwise he’ll beat the shit out of you!”

I stare across the ring at the black kid. Two or three wins and he’ll be a serious contender. He’ll be a pro soon. An old hand and well on his way . . .

“You listening to me, Georges?”

The audience, people chattering, they don’t give a shit what’s happening in the ring. Paolo doesn’t realise, I’m taking a beating the likes of which I’ve never had to take.

“What?”

“O.K., so he’s dazed, but he’s not completely out of it, don’t try and box clever. Keep jabbing. Go for his belly. Two more rounds, don’t go in for the kill before that!”

My smashed face, that’s my coach’s strategy.

Obviously, he reminds me of when I was twenty.

What has he got in his corner? Youth, a will to win for reasons he doesn’t even understand yet, the need to get the fuck out of whatever shithole he grew up in. Carlier, a good cut-man, is spraying his face, smearing him with vaseline and camphor, massaging his wrists. I see you, Carlier, I see you fussing over your boy’s cuts and bruises . . . Sitting ringside with some tart got up in pink and gold is the club owner, Kravine. How many careers has Kravine ruined? Do yourself a favour, kid, get out of his hairy clutches as fast as possible . . . But I can tell from that pretty face you know how to look after yourself.

Yeah, you’ve got people in your corner.

In my corner, Paolo, twenty years in the ring, thirty years sweating blood, liver shot to shit, one eye fucked up; Paolo the Portuguese, Paolo the Porkchop, a decent featherweight in his day, calls himself a trainer, but really he’s a cut-man, a real surgeon, but completely incapable of tying a bandage. He took too many knocks to the head, did Paolo, but I’m happy to have him in my corner. What the fuck am I doing? I shouldn’t be thinking about shit like this right now – the job, the apartment, the girls, the training . . . Shut the fuck up, Georges! No point thinking about a job that everyone in this room hates you for. The kid in the far corner, if he gave up boxing, he could be a model. My face is like a sack of potatoes, I’m a cop, a brigadier with fifteen years on the force who still pushes himself to jog five miles every morning, just for the sake of having . . .

“Hey, Georges! Jesus Christ, what the hell are you thinking?”

“Wha . . .? What?”

“Shift your arse!”

The bell. Shit. Completely zoned out. Didn’t hear a thing.

Still feel the urge to get back in the ring.

That bastard Paolo didn’t rinse my mouth-guard. I can taste blood. He knows I hate that, but he’s deliberately trying to get me riled.

Round five.

Back to the centre.

We stare each other down.

The kid is more canny. He’s angry, but he’s not dumb. He’s not prancing around like some faggot anymore, he’s more careful about where he places his punches. This isn’t going to be a walkover. I need to get a couple of punches in before the sixth. Paolo doesn’t seem to realise if I don’t slow the kid up now, he’ll take me down. My legs are . . .

What the fuck? I’m down – one knee on the canvas. And one glove.

What’s that voice . . .?

The referee. The count. Already at three . . . Make the most of every second. Jesus, I need them.

Breathe, Georges.

Five . . . Six . . .

Head spinning.

Seven . . .

The kid is waiting for me.

Eight . . .

Back on my feet.

The ref looks me in the eye, his voice sounds weird, gives my Picasso features the once-over and doesn’t much like what he sees. I tell him I’m fine, try to stare him down when actually I can see fuck all. He pulls a face.

Not a T.K.O.

Not now. Oh shit, not now.

I start to bob, everything’s reeling.

The referee watches me bob and weave, but he’s not fooled.

He says something I don’t catch straight off.

“You’re going to get your K.O., if that’s what you want.”

What did he say that for? Why did he glance at the front row?

White spots dancing before my eyes.

The ref lets me carry on, convinced I’m going to get myself K.O.’d. Kravine’s got him in his pocket . . . What the fuck am I doing here?

I’m scared shitless.

First time ever. The kid’s gloves are like iron, I’m going to die. I’m scared . . . The bell. It’s going to start all over again. What th—

Put your guard up!

A sudden flurry; it’s raining punches.

This whole thing’s a set-up. They’ve planned my death, all of them. What am I supposed to do?

I’m still standing. You’re still standing, Georges.

You’re still here.

It’s just boxing.

The kid’s gloves aren’t loaded. Your face is your own, it’s taking the punches; your legs are your own, they’re holding you up; your gloves are still there at the end of your arms, they’re moving, they’re yours.

I no longer feel the punches.

But I know they’re still coming. The kid’s not pulling his punches, he’s putting his whole weight behind them, I’m taking a serious pounding. There’s nothing rigged. This is boxing. This is my life.

Watch your chin, get behind him. No-one’s taking me down in this ring.

I’m bricking it.

I’m going to fucking kill Kravine.

A black whirlwind. The kid’s everywhere. Where’s the ring?

Don’t lose it, Georges! Your eyes, Jesus Christ, keep your eyes open. You’ve got the experience, he’s flailing and furious. He’s picking up momentum, like this was some sparring match. Jesus Christ, he’s windmilling so hard he’s out of breath.

Breathe.

Don’t feel the fear anymore, feel the hatred, you’ve got experience on your side.

You haven’t taken too much of a beating.

Let him push you back. That’s it. Edge backwards. The ropes are right behind you. You’re getting your second wind, your guard’s holding up. Lean on him. Throw your arms round him. Get him in a clinch. That’s it. You disgust him, you stink of sweat and old age, Georges. You’re glued to his skin. He screams and swears, tries to bite your ear off.

The ref isn’t even looking anymore.

Go back and bawl on his shoulder. Lean your whole weight on him.

Let him push you.

You’ve still got your arms. He’s worn himself out, you’ve held up, Georges, you’re still standing.

Kravine is shouting at his boy to get the fuck out of the clinch, he’s screaming harder than Rossi, who’s finally woken up.

Nostrils flaring like a galloping horse, puffed up as hard as possible.

Kravine knows me, and he knows boxing, even if he is prepared to shit all over it. They roar at their protégé to get clear, but the kid can’t hear anything now. He’s back in the schoolyard, throwing wild, uncoordinated punches. Behind me, Paolo must be pissing himself laughing, baring his toothless gums.

Fall into the black kid’s arms, you’re nothing but an old wreck. Let him think that, let him roar.

He viciously shoves me away.

Now, bounce off the ropes, it’s your only chance.

A little aikido, kid; feel your own twenty-year-old power coming back to smack you in the face.

Arms above his head, he’s forgotten everything he knows about boxing, he’s flailing wildly.

Eight kilos in a single glove. A jab to his solar plexus, winding him. I could have killed him. Didn’t have the strength.

His face is grey, his toes turned out, his eyes wide.

I manage to bend my knees. Little steps. Push him, Georges, push him all the way back across the ring.

Move, for Christ’s sake, don’t let up now or you’re truly fucked.

God, these gloves feel heavy. Hang in there. Jab, cross, jab, they’re weak pitty-pat punches but they’re enough. I’m going to take him. Look, Paolo, look, I’m going to take him down! Careful, he knows how to box on the back foot, close that gap, don’t give him a chance to recover. He lashes out with all the strength he’s got left. He’s got the power, but he’s forgotten how to use it. Don’t give him any reach or you’re dead meat. Right, you’ve got him now. Christ, I’ve got no strength left. Dodge, he’s about to crumple. Too many questions on his face; he can’t think anymore. I’ve got no strength left.

Jab, right hook, left hook. These aren’t punches now, this is pure showmanship.

Liver, ribs, heart.

Accuracy, it’s your only hope.

No strength left, only weight.

Cramps in my shoulders, hands burning, blood pouring into my eyes. This is the end, for him or for me. There’ll be no purgatory.

The kid takes the beating, the post is holding him up. He’s not going down, he’s not crumpling, Jesus Christ! Sheer willpower, a pair of twenty-year-old legs. I’ve nothing left.

I don’t want to lose. I can’t go on. What’s he waiting for, why doesn’t he just kill me? Don’t fuck with me, just finish me off, I’ve got no strength left. What are you waiting for?

He . . . It’s over. He’s giving up. His arms fall to his sides. I can see his head right there in front of me, I can’t see his gloves anymore. What do I do?

Box, Georges, box, for fuck’s sake, if it’s the last thing you do before you croak.

Hook to the temple, once, twice.

The chin, rattle his brain inside his skull. Upper cut, my arm is shaking, my last ounce of strength, pitiful, just enough, in extremis . . .

I can’t believe it.

Twenty years of raw power crumpled at my feet.

I almost feel like picking him up.

I can barely stand. I’ll sleep for ten years after this.

He’s slumped to a sitting position. The count starts.

Six. Seven. He’s not dead, his eyes are still throwing punches at me. I’m scared shitless. Stay on your arse, kid. Don’t get up, please . . . don’t get up. Let me have this match. Eight. The kid grabs the ropes. There’ll be other bouts, kid, let me have this one. He slips. Nine. The ref is counting off seconds half an hour long. The kid shakes his head. I stare at him as though my eyes could add weight on his shoulders. He manages to get a knee up, he is magnificent, he struggles to his feet. He slips, falls back. The ref can’t string it out any longer. Just say it, for fuck’s sake!

Ten.

It’s over . . .

One second.

One more second and he would have been back on his feet.

I’m still staring at him. He’s gasping, half choking.

The crowd roars, I can’t even see the auditorium.

I’m standing there over the kid.

Carlier takes out his mouth-guard, tells him to breathe through his nose. The kid looks me up and down. That’s it, he closes his eyes, lets the cut-man spray water on his face.

An old horse foaming at the mouth, beating him scares me.

I feel like thanking him.

You won. Try to smile, Georges, you’re happy. You won.

He opens his eyes. It’s over. He gathers his wits, he thinks. He smiles at me.

I haven’t got the energy to do a victory tour of the ring.

Always in the sixth round, Georges. Except when someone gives me a chance in the fifth . . .

Don’t kid yourself.

It’s the kid who really won, sitting on his stool already recovering his strength.

Paolo throws my gown around my shoulders. I feel cold. I’m sweating like a pig and I feel cold.

A good bout, all things considered.

Even Kravine can’t tarnish everything.

Paolo is smiling, the old bastard is happy. He’s the one who raises my arms. I’m about to collapse.

The tall black kid is on his feet, he skips into the middle of the ring, I place one glove on his killer’s shoulder and say:

“You might have lost, kid, but it’s gonna take me a hell of a lot longer to recover.”

He presses his mouth to my mangled ear.

“Thanks for the lesson, Gramps. See you next time.”

He smiles.

A decent boxer.

*

The crowd trudged out of Juvisy Sports Centre in sluggish columns. Men of all ages, a few women, drunks, ex-bruisers, kids from the local boxing clubs. Now the heavyweight bout was over, the hall was emptying out. Meagre betting, the half-hearted enthusiasm of a weekday night. All that remained was the stench of sweat mingled with the acrid tang of bleach a council worker was using to swab down the ring, wringing out his floor cloth into a bucket.

Out on the street, the stragglers chewed over the last bout.

Georges “The Wall” – 38 wins (23 knockouts, 15 decisions), 5 losses (5 decisions) – had beaten André Gabin – 11 wins (7 knockouts, 4 decisions), 2 losses (1 K.O.) – in the fifth round by a knockout. In a half-empty hall, Georges “The Wall” Crozat had been the first boxer to knock Gabin out; a desperate effort that went almost unnoticed.

In the empty hall the circuit-breakers crackled. Only the solitary changing room at the rear of the building was still lit.

Crozat was sitting on the massage table, wrapped in a navy blue robe. His bare feet dangled in the empty air. His swollen right hand was plunged into a bucket of ice while Paolo was cutting away the last of the tapes from his left. In the tiled gloom of the changing room, the old sparring partners looked like melting lumps of wax. After the referee finished the count, every movement was marked by the slowness of routine, by a brittle homesickness.

“You’re fucking crap at handwraps. I tell you, next time, I’ll get the commission to fire your sorry arse.”

Paolo snorted, ready to play the game.

“Caralho! I didn’t notice my handwraps giving you no problem in the ring. From the state of Gabin’s face, I figure they held up pretty good, huh? Tight enough to fuck his face up good and proper.”

Georges flexed his right hand, numbed by the ice.

“Yeah, that’ll do for now.”

Paolo slapped The Wall on the thigh and gave him a wink, an old habit he’d kept up even after his left eye gave out. He ripped off the final piece of tape.

“Go take your shower, I’ll pick up your cheque.”

Georges looked down at the bucket.

“How much?”

“Four hundred, same as always. We can’t hit ’em up for any more, you know that.”

“So what’s your cut, you old fucker?”

“Same as always, the whole wedge.”

Still Georges didn’t crack a smile.

“Paolo . . .”

Embarrassed, Paolo buried his face in his first-aid kit.

“The fucking kid’s twenty years old, Georges, and you beat the shit out of him. You won twice as much as he lost. Go take your shower and I’ll stand you a meal from my cut. We should celebrate.”

Georges slid off the table, but his legs gave out under him. He leaned on the trainer’s shoulder.

He allowed the hot water to course down his neck, then slowly turned on the cold tap. Not recommended after a bout; the shock of switching from hot to cold can bring on a heart attack. But Georges needed it to dispel the thoughts whirling in his head.

He’d come to win; he had won, and it felt worse than losing.

He hung up his gloves.

No more boxing? Nothing but the day job. And the money? No more fights meant no more girls. He spat out a thick gob of spit and blood and watched it eddy around the drain.

He could find a couple of amateurs and train them. Work with Paolo. A little boxing club out in the banlieue, coach a few kids. Or maybe The Ring out in the 14th arrondissement, where the other cops trained; Marco could get him a gig there . . . Spend all day grafting with his colleagues, and all night too . . .

No thanks.

Keep fighting? Third-rate bouts . . . Plug away until you lost an eye or some young rookie permanently fucked your brain.

Georges stepped out of the shower, towelling his cropped hair, careful with the slippery tiles. The door of the changing room slammed.

“Paolo, I’m not sure I want to eat – I’m shattered, I don’t suppose you could . . .”

He balled his fists, his knuckles cracking like breaking glass.

“Evening, officer. Good bout.”

Kravine, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

Georges looked down, tied the towel round his waist.

“What do you want?”

“Just came to say congratulations. Straight up, you deserve it.”

“With you, nothing is straight up, or for free. What do you want?”

Georges pulled on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt while Kravine, his hands behind his back, prowled around the massage table.

Kravine had boxed as a kid, though not for long. A thug, a middleweight who never managed to find a style, brute force but no technique; he’d given up the ring to become a trainer and, later, a promoter.

The boxing world was full of guys like him. It clearly needed them, one way or another. Kravine peddled success, money, winning, he never talked about losing; he fixed a few fights, made sure his kids got enough of a taste of winning to sucker them in. Only to be crushed later because they hadn’t had enough training. Rigged bouts, steroids, dodgy rankings, risk-free investments, careers on the slide. This wasn’t about sport. It was about money. These days Kravine had to travel further and further afield to find his marks. Farm boys from the sticks weren’t enough for sharks like him. These days he had to go all the way to Africa to find fighters prepared to sign away their talent for a wad of cash and a handshake.

Georges might be from the skanky suburbs of Montrouge, but he knew a thing or two.

Kravine was the kind of guy who came round feeling sorry for you after he’d dumped you in the shit.

The Wall slumped down onto a bench. A rictus grin tugged at the scars on his face; he imagined Robert Kravine in an African slum, standing in a pile of goat shit, dusting down his three-piece suit.

“You’ve got an eye, always have had, that something that can’t be taught. It was a great bout, Georges, straight up. You could have had a great career, everyone knows that; you were made for championships . . .”

“Don’t . . .