Wearing Purple (Oz Blackstone Mystery) Read online

  Since I had left the place, four lighting towers had been built, one in each corner of the arena. I looked around and saw television cameras at three fixed points and a fourth, a remote, fixed on a long boom. Above the wrestlers’ entrance to the Arena, curtained off at the top of the ramp, the roadies had erected a huge TV screen, from which a still image of The Behemoth snarled down at the empty hall.

  ‘Not bad, huh?’ It was a gentle voice, one I hadn’t heard before. ‘Sometimes he even scares me.’

  In civvies, without the battle-dress and the white leather scrum cap, even Jerry Gradi’s voice seemed to be different. He was wearing a blue suit, beautifully cut from a sort of shiny material, which I guessed had not come off the peg at Ralph Slater’s, and patent leather shoes. He was clean shaven and his ginger hair was neatly groomed, so neatly that he could have been taken for a television presenter - okay, a huge television presenter.

  ‘I didn’t think you were on this week,’ I said, genuinely surprised to see him.

  He grinned at me. ‘I’m not. I got a hamstring tweak, so all I’m doin’ is yelling from the sidelines on video.’

  ‘But Everett said you were on kids’ TV this morning.’

  ‘So I was, but my slot was done by nine-thirty. I was gonna stay in London for the day, but I changed my mind. They drove me to the airport and I caught a flight. Looks like you and I beat the rest of the guys here.

  ‘You all set for your first night?’ he asked.

  ‘Just about.’ I paused. ‘What happens this afternoon? Everett said there would be a run-through.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Jerry nodded. ‘A dress rehearsal, so that we can get the TV angles right.The guys and gals will go through the whole show, minus the high impact moves.’

  ‘Why do you miss those out?’

  ‘We never take a chance on someone gettin’ hurt just before the show. Even if it is unlikely. Our guys are careful.’

  He looked at me. ‘This may sound odd to you, but career-wise the worst thing a wrestler can do is to hurt another wrestler. Word gets around, and he becomes a bad risk. I known guys could only get work in Japan, because they were too dangerous.’

  ‘Is there anyone in GWA you don’t like working with?’

  The big man considered my question at some length. ‘Rockette split my head open once with that guitar prop of his. It’s made to give on impact, but he caught me with the edge of the damn thing. I had woids with him after, and he’s been careful since.’ I grinned at the thought of what those ‘woids’ might have been.

  ‘There’s the Irish guy, I suppose. Everything he does is on the limit. Daze and I would can him, only he’s the best goddamn flier either of us have ever seen.’

  I must have looked puzzled again, for he explained. ‘In this sport, your body dictates your style. The big guys, like me and the British Bulldog, and Hogan and Big André, some of us might have one or two off-the-ground moves, but mostly we go for power - piledrivers, bodyslams, that sort of thing. The smaller, lighter guys like Matthews, and Snuka, and Savage, they go for more acrobatic stuff. Matthews can fly two thirds of the way across the ring off that top rope.

  ‘I never worked with him yet. When we do we’ll try a move where he flies that far and I catch him. If it works it’ll be great. If not, one of us could get hurt.’

  ‘What about Everett?’ I asked. ‘I suppose he’s a power man.’

  Jerry Gradi chuckled. ‘You really got a lot to learn about this business. Daze can do everything. He’s the best ever . . . and he never hurt another wrestler in his life.’

  I almost said ‘Until last night’, but decided that I’d let someone else tell him that, so that word couldn’t get back to Matthews that I’d been boasting about popping him one.

  Just then, the big double doors, behind us, crashed open, and a buzz of sound invaded the hall. The Irishman was at the front of the crowd of performers as they made their way into the auditorium, each carrying a hold-all containing, I supposed, their ring gear. He headed directly for me. I looked around to make sure that my new friend The Behemoth was still there.

  Matthews stopped, his face a couple of feet from mine. I was pleased to see that his nose was slightly swollen; I hoped I’d broken it. ‘Daze said I should apologise,’ he said. ‘So I apologise. Let’s forget it, okay?’

  I looked at him, straight in the eye. ‘You apologise to my wife, Liam. Then we’ll see what’s to be forgotten. Okay?’

  Unsmiling, he nodded, then turned and headed for the changing rooms.

  Jerry Gradi watched him go. ‘Looks like someone slugged that bastard at last,’ he grunted. A huge grin broke out on his face as he saw my embarrassment. ‘You?’

  ‘Shh!’ I urged him. ‘He might hear you.’

  Still chuckling, the gigantic Gradi headed up the aisle towards Everett, who had arrived with Diane by his side. I stuck a thumb through the strap of my suit-bag and followed Matthews, to change into my working clothes.

  There were several dressing rooms at the side of the arena. One had been signed ‘Ladies’. I found a door marked ‘Officials’, guessed it might mean me, and stepped inside. A bench ran the full length of one tiled wall, with a row of lockers facing it. The sign on the door had obviously meant nothing, for I spotted Darius Hencke - not difficult, since he was nearly seven feet tall - among a crowd of half-naked wrestlers. There was a spare peg beside him.

  ‘You ready for action?’ I asked him casually.

  ‘You want me fix Liam for you?’ he asked, with a grin.

  ‘Could you? Like for real?’

  ‘Sure, in two seconds maybe. But only if I could catch him. He’s very fast, very agile.’

  ‘This stunt you’re doing this afternoon. How dangerous is it?’

  The big German looked down at me. ‘You try it, you’d break your focking neck. Even if you could pluck up courage to make jump, you’d never land right. Liam and me, we’re good. We know what we can do and we go through with it, full throttle. It’ll be great finish.’

  As he spoke, I noticed a big black bruise just above the elbow of his tattooed right arm (wrestlers are crazy about tattoos). ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘In practice. My arm catch the outside of the barrier. That not happen again.’

  I was impressed by his confidence. I was pleased too, by the way he was talking to me, like one of the GWA family; as, of course, I was. I changed into my announcer’s gear, and fastened my new bow tie around my neck . . . okay, I admit it. It was a clip-on job.

  I checked myself in the mirror. Yes, I looked the part; but just to curb my growing confidence my old friend the hamster began to run around in my stomach once more.

  Back in the arena, Everett, in slacks and a Rioja-coloured cashmere blazer gathered the team around the ring. He was carrying a remote mike, like the one with which I had rehearsed. ‘Okay,’ he began, once he was satisfied that the whole cast was assembled. ‘As usual we’ll do two dry runs, the first to let the colour commentators see what’s happening, the second for timing.

  ‘First match: Scarletto and Rockette.’ As if in answer to a question the two contestants each raised a hand. ‘Good; get backstage, then, ready for your entrance. Sound men, cue up the music. Commentators, behind your desks. Oz, get in the ring. Start the intro on my signal.’

  The hamster was running flat out as I stepped through the ropes. I had written the details of each bout on a series of cards, small enough to fit into my hand without, I hoped, it appearing too obvious on camera. I sneaked a quick look at the first one, and decided to do it from memory.

  I watched Everett as he checked the hall, until finally he nodded and pointed at me. I took a deep breath and stepped into centre ring, raising my mike. ‘Ladies and gentlemen . . .’ I heard my own voice booming around the arena, and found to my surprise that I liked the sound. ‘. . . Welcome to Newcastle Arena, and welcome to the GWA Saturday Night BattleGround!

  ‘Our first contest of the evening is a heavyweight clash between tw
o of the GWA’s most colourful superstars. First, may I introduce to you, all the way from Palermo, Sicily . . .’ I let my voice rise to a pitch on the name. ‘. . . Salvatore Scarletto!’

  I stepped back as the intro music began - each wrestler has his own - and a spotlight picked out the bogus Mafioso as he stepped through the entrance curtain. I was having so much fun that Everett had to cue me again when it was time to go on.

  My first introduction over, I slipped through the ropes, to my appointed seat at a small table near the guy whose job it was to ring the bell.

  ‘Hey, that was very good.’ Diane was in the front row, directly behind me. She leaned forward. ‘The guy who recommended you did right by us. My husband said you were an actor. I was in the business before I met Everett and got drawn into Sports Entertainment. I made a few movies. What plays have you been in?’

  I hoped she didn’t see me gulp. ‘I’ve had a few jobs around Scotland,’ I mumbled. ‘Stock stuff mostly. Detective parts.’

  ‘How about movies?’ she asked. ‘Have you done any?’

  ‘I was involved with Miles Grayson’s Scottish movie,’ I offered. I hoped that would satisfy her, but it didn’t.

  ‘Oh yeah.’ She laughed, lightly. ‘That tartan and heather epic he did, with that new Scots actress. What’s her name again?’

  ‘Dawn Phillips.’

  ‘That’s her. I read they were living together now.’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘You know her too?’

  ‘Yes. I know her sister better: I’ve done quite a bit of work with her.’

  ‘Wow!’ Diane was beginning to sound impressed. ‘Who did you play in the movie?’

  I sighed, a bit theatrically. ‘My scenes were all edited out. You’ve been in the business; you must know how it is.’

  ‘Too true.’

  Fortunately, I glanced up at the ring at that moment where Tommy Rockette was miming caving in his opponent’s head with his prop guitar. The referee waved frantically at the guy on my right, who rang his bell.

  I picked up my cue. ‘And the winner by disqualification,’ I called into my mike, from my ringside seat. ‘Salvatore Scarletto!’

  As instructed, I let the Italian whose real name was Johnny King pose in mid-ring, feigning exhaustion. As he exited, under the bottom rope, I climbed up the steps for my second introduction . . . trying not to be distracted by the fact that Everett Davis had chosen not to let his wife into the secret reason for my joining their grappling circus.

  Chapter 9

  As far as I could see the rehearsals went perfectly, apart from the occasion in the second run-through when Sally Crockett’s opponent fleetingly broke free from her costume - although I wondered initially whether that had been part of their routine.

  I had nothing to do between five o’clock and show time, and so as the half-hour approached I strolled out to look for Jan at the main entrance, where she would be waiting for the boys.

  She was in there, all right, in conversation with Gary O’Rourke. The big roadie was wearing slacks and a GWA bomber jacket with the word ‘Security’ written across the back.

  ‘Hello darling.’ I slipped my arm around my wife’s waist as I spoke and kissed her lightly. ‘Had a good afternoon?’

  ‘You’ve seen one M&S, you’ve seen them all,’ she replied. ‘I bought football tops for the boys, though.’

  ‘This is Jan, my wife,’ I said to Gary. ‘Jan, this is Gary, the hardest working guy in the whole circus. He builds the set then takes it down afterwards.’

  ‘Aye,’ said the Glaswegian, smiling. ‘And in-between times I guard it.’

  ‘Are you out here during the show?’

  ‘No. Ah’m around ringside then.’

  Jan tugged my arm. ‘Look, there they are,’ she called out. ‘Just at the top of the entranceway.’

  Jonathan and Colin spotted us at the same time and began to wave, frantically, but just at that moment they were cut off from our sight by a black, chauffeured car which pulled up in front of us. The grey-liveried driver opened the passenger door in a flash, and Jack Gantry stepped out, followed by another man. Both of them wore heavy gold chains of office.

  Ever the politician, he recognised us at once. ‘It’s Jan, isn’t it,’ he said. ‘And Oz, Susie’s friends. What brings you down here?’

  ‘I’m involved with the show,’ I answered.

  ‘Ahh,’ Gantry exclaimed, with what struck me as a slightly forced show of interest. ‘I didn’t know that. Maybe we can have a chat afterwards, but now I have to take my Lord Mayor to meet our host.’ Unbidden, Gary O’Rourke pulled the entrance door open, and the two dignitaries, neither giving him the briefest nods of thanks, swept inside.

  They were hardly gone before Dad and the boys were on us, wee Colin grabbing me around the knees, and Jonathan, who always has been an adventurous lad, leaping at his Aunt Janet and giving her a large hug. My father looked me up and down, appraisingly, with an amused, slightly quirky smile on his face.

  ‘A bit over-dressed for this time of day, are you not, son?’ He shook his head, and the grin turned into a chuckle. ‘Oz, how the f . . . or goodness’ sake did you get involved in this?’

  I was suddenly and acutely aware that by now there were a number of team players gathered at the entrance, looking for families and friends just like us. The reason for my presence was not a subject I wanted to discuss with anyone, not even Mac the Dentist, in such a public place.

  ‘A pal of mine knew I needed a job, and introduced me to Everett Davis.’ As I answered him, I shot him a quick frown, which he read.

  ‘Ahh, I see. Jonathan and Colin have always wondered what their Uncle Oz did for a living. Now they know.’

  My nephews were both looking up at me, with a look which I’d have liked to think was adulation but which made me feel somehow like a world-famous cartoon Duck. ‘Come on, Huey and Dewey,’ I said, ruffling their hair in an Uncly sort of way. ‘Let’s get you to your seats.’

  ‘Will we get to meet Daze?’ Jonathan asked. ‘And Liam Matthews? And the Black Angel of Death?’

  ‘And the Bee-Moff?’ chipped in his wee brother.

  ‘Afterward, lads, afterwards. Let’s go, now.’

  The VIP block was directly behind my appointed position during the show. Jack Gantry and the Lord Mayor of Newcastle were already in their places, just a little further along the front row from Jan, my dad and the boys. Beyond them, Liam Matthews was hugging a middle-aged lady with bottle-blonde hair. ‘Look after yourself now son,’ I heard her say in an accent which sounded more like Belfast than the wrestler’s professed home town of Dublin.

  ‘Sure, ’n don’t I always, Ma,’ he replied, in the same tones.

  The soft Southern Irish tones were back in place as he strolled along the row, past Gantry, to our seats. ‘Hello there, my friend,’ he said, so smoothly that I could almost smell the snake oil. ‘And who would these be?’

  I didn’t answer him. Instead, I nodded towards Jan. The Irishman dropped as courtly a bow as you’ll ever see, took her hand in his and kissed it lightly. ‘A thousand apologies, lovely lady,’ he whispered. My wife gave him a brief, unconvinced smile, and a very slight nod. He turned to me again.

  ‘These are my nephews, Liam: Jonathan and Colin. Great fans of yours, both of them. Aren’t you, lads?’

  In unison, Huey and Dewey nodded, mute, mouths hanging open slightly. Matthews grinned, suddenly awkward. I guessed he had still to learn how to respond to his younger admirers. ‘And this is my dad,’ I went on. ‘Mac Blackstone.’ My father stood up and extended his hand.

  It’s barely credible that any professional sportsman would try to muscle a handshake with a fifty-something man, yet with his standard cocky smirk back in place, that’s exactly what Liam did; out of still-smouldering resentment against me, I can only guess.

  There are two things you should never do with a dentist. One is to annoy him as he’s standing over you with the drill in his hand. The other is to e
ngage him in any sort of test of hand and forearm strength. In his younger days, Mac the Dentist was once challenged to an arm-wrestling duel by a disgruntled fisherman patient in a pub in Pittenweem. Quite accidentally, he broke the man’s wrist.

  For the second time in two days, I watched the arrogance leave Matthews’ eyes. Then I saw him wince. My dad let him off lightly.

  ‘Christ almighty, man,’ he said. ‘Where did you get a grip like that?’

  ‘Thirty years of pulling out teeth, son.’ He leaned slightly forward, peering at Matthews’ face. ‘Yours look fine though. Whoever did those two crowns in the front made a bloody good job of them. How did you lose them?’ He was genuinely, professionally, interested.

  ‘In a match,’ the wrestler answered. ‘When I was learning the business on the independent circuit.’

  ‘And what did that teach you?’

  ‘Never to work with a wrestler I didn’t trust, or whose moves I hadn’t sized up first.’

  So there is an acceptable side to Liam Matthews, I thought. I began to wonder whether his arrogance sprang from his unreal lifestyle, and whether, maybe, I had done him some kind of a favour by banjoing him the night before. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Blackstone,’ he said with a second, gentler, handshake. ‘Got to go to work now.’ He smiled down at the boys, and along at my wife. ‘See you after the show, guys, Jan.’

  I glanced at my watch. It was five minutes to six: almost show time. At the thought, my hamster kick-started its treadmill. I picked up my mike from the bell-man’s table, and took my seat, laying my arm casually along the top of the prop crush-barrier. I looked along at the three commentary teams, all in place at their tables: German, Spanish, and closest to me, English. I saw that Jerry Gradi, wearing his ring-kit, minus the white leather scrum-cap, had joined the UK team. I nodded to him; he scowled at me and I realised that Behemoths don’t smile.

  All of a sudden the arena lights went out, stilling the chatter and giving me my cue to climb into the ring. I stood there, facing in the direction of the main camera, and looking straight at its red light, glowing in the darkness. My hamster was whizzing round in circles. There was a crash from the speakers as the BattleGround theme music began to play. There was a blue flashing as the giant screen lit up with the opening video sequence. In the four corners of the arena, thunderflashes exploded.