Wearing Purple

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 amp;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 engage 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.

Then the spotlight hit me, and I realised, maybe for the first time, what a poser I was. It was just me in that light; the thousands in the arena, the millions on the other end of the transmission didn’t matter at all.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Newcastle Arena, and welcome to the Global Wrestling Alliance Saturday BattleGround!’ I heard my own voice, rich and full, booming round the hall.

‘Before we begin this evening, the GWA is proud to welcome two special guests.’ I paused, giving the second spotlight time to pick up its cue. ‘In his home city, the Lord Mayor of Newcastle, Councillor Daniel Dees, and all the way from our home base, Mr Glasgow himself, Lord Provost Jack Gantry.’ A few people in the crowd cheered. More of them booed actually, but that didn’t matter, for their noise was drowned out by the canned acclamation on the effects tape.

I waited until it died down. ‘And now, our first contest of the evening: a heavyweight clash between two of the GWA’s most colourful superstars. First, may I introduce to you, all the way from Palermo, Sicily. .’

Scarletto/King and Rockette/Rutherford really did put on a show. For all the full dress runs-through we had done, the live action was different since it had the added ingredient of the powerful heat of the television lighting.The two wrestlers, fit as they were, still poured sweat long before the end of their bout.

Rockette’s guitar seemed to explode into a hundred pieces as it smashed into the back of Scarletto’s head. The referee waved at the bell-man, who did his stuff. Then it was me again. ‘And the winner by disqualification. .’

Even concentrating on my introductions, and on the spoof barrier by my side, I had to admit that BattleGround was a terrific show. The fans, or ‘marks’ in Internet parlance, certainly thought so. They cheered the faces, they booed the heels, on time and in accordance with a script unknown to them and unseen by them. With their signs, banners, GWA tee-shirts and merchandise, they were all, without realising it, extras in a multi-million pound television extravaganza.

The loudest cheer of the show, before the main event, went to Sally Crockett, the GWA World Ladies’ Champion. The pleasant lass I had met the day before turned into a tigress as soon as she climbed through the ropes. Even with my limited experience, I could see that she was something special. She could fly like a bird, she had martial arts moves that would have graced any Kung Fu movie, and she finished her match with a power-slam that looked so hard it almost winded me at ringside.

We ran to perfect time. My watch showed eight minutes past seven, exactly on schedule, as I climbed into the ring to announce the headline match. The lights went out again as soon as I set foot on the canvas. Most of the crowd recognised the signal for the Black Angel’s entrance at once; those who didn’t were encouraged by some more taped cheers. As the applause took hold another sound began to build from the speakers. The howling wind noise grew in volume, reaching its height as a single green-tinged spotlight picked out the curtained entrance to the arena, and the enormous figure of Darius Hencke.

He was wearing an ankle-length robe, which was in reality a flexible frame for the huge plastic wings on his back. He seemed to glide down the ramp which led to the ring, without entrance music, only that howling wind, lit by only that pale green light. He reached the steps and climbed up on to the ring apron, then seized the top rope and vaulted high over it, in a flying entrance.

The lights came up as he landed, and the crowd erupted. I glanced down at the ringside and saw my nephews on their feet as their idol paraded round the ring, screaming, ‘Angel! Angel!’ with the rest. So was my dad. I stored that one away for future use.

The great thing about Darius was that he didn’t need an introduction. So, as the din subsided and as Darius peeled off his winged robe to reveal the black combat suit underneath, I stepped forward to do my bit.

‘. . and his opponent, in this title match, all the way from Dublin, Ireland, the GWA Transcontinental Champion, Liam. . The Man. . Matthews!’

I gave him the build up he wanted. The boy couldn’t have done it better himself. With his little, loud-jacketed manager Dee Dee by his side, he swaggered his way to the ring in time with his music, a jazzed up version of something by Thin Lizzy, dressed in green satin tights with shamrocks picked out in sequins. His hair was tied back in a pony tail, and round his waist he wore his gaudy leather and gold championship belt.

He unbuckled it as he stepped through the ropes, to use it as a weapon as he flew at Darius, whose back was turned — stupidly, I thought, given that this was Liam Matthews. But it was part of the act and the crowd loved it.

I beat it out of the ring before I got caught in the crossfire, returning to my ringside seat and renewing my grip on the special crush barrier which was soon to come into use. As I looked back up at the action, Darius had regained his feet, but Liam was still battering him with the belt, until at last, the Angel managed to rip it from his grasp and throw it over the top rope, conveniently in the direction of one of the roadies, whose job it was to recover all the props.

Having disposed of his weapon, he put the Irishman’s pony tail to good use, by grabbing it and using it as a lever to send him tumbling across the ring, in a beautifully disguised somersault.

That was only the start of ten minutes of absolute mayhem. I could hear my nephews screaming behind me as the television warriors gave as fine an imitation as I have ever seen of two guys knocking ten extremely large bells out of each other. First, the Angel, apparently recovered from the treacherous attack with the championship belt, battered Liam from ring-post to ring-post, as Dee Dee screamed constant abuse at the referee. Just when the crowd thought the Irishman was done, he countered with a series of lightning-fast wrestling moves which seemed to bewilder his huge opponent, culminating in a flying drop-kick from the top rope which stretched him out flat on his back.

I glanced round at the boys. Pure horror showed on their faces, until the Angel thrust an arm in the air, defeating Liam’s attempt at a decisive pin-fall. Beyond them the eyes of the Lord Mayor of Newcastle were shining, while on his left, Jack Gantry sat, shaking his head in what looked like bewilderment.

The Angel rallied, then Matthews came back, each of them seeming to soak up punishment. In fact, as I had learned, much of it was real. The drop-kicks and forearm smashes were pulled slightly, but the power moves were another thing entirely. Each wrestler’s well-being depended on his technique in absorbing their impact.

At last the moment of the climax arrived. I had seen Darius throw Liam over the top rope before, but from a distance away. This time he was no more than three feet from me as his broad, muscular back smacked into the padded mat surround. As Darius climbed to the top of the ring-post for the finisher, he lay with his eyes closed and his chest heaving from the very real exertion of his unreal fight. The pony tail had long since come undone, and his sweat-soaked hair was plastered across his face and around his neck.

I looked up at the Angel, balanced carefully high on the top turn-buckle almost twenty feet above me. In the second before he launched himself into the air, and as Dee Dee approached, I let go of the crowd barrier. Darius was in mid-air, his right arm stretched out before him in a flying v-shape, as the little manager pulled it over, so that it covered Matthews’ body completely, but without touching him.

The crowd on the far side of the arena, those without a clear view of the live action, could see every detail of what was happening on the giant screen. They roared as the big German flew; through the din I could hear the voices of the commentators rise in anticipation and mock horror. I thought I could even hear Jonathan scream.

Not even that cacophony though, could drown out the noise of the impact as the Black Angel of Death landed on the shiny barrier, exactly on time and exactly on target. It was a mixture of sounds: a metallic creaking and cracking, a booming rush as the pent-up breath left the German’s body in a great exhalation, and a loud, agonised scream — from Liam Matthews.

Close as I was, at first even I thought that it was part of the act. But then Darius rolled over slowly onto the matting, as if badly winded at the very least, and I could see that I was wrong. The Irishman’s face was screwed up, mouth open, eyes shut tight as if that would drive away the pain.

Several of the vertical aluminium struts which made up the centre of the barrier had snapped clean through with the impact of the Black Angel’s dive. Three of them had pierced Liam, one through his shoulder, one through his ribcage and one through his abdomen. Blood was pouring from the wounds.

Unaware of the disaster, the ringside cameraman moved in for a close-up shot. I had been frozen to my seat, but as he approached I jumped up and pushed him away. I grabbed my mike, not knowing if it was live or not.

‘Medics,’ I heard myself yell. ‘Get the medics down here!’