You Had It Coming by B.M. Carroll (snow like ashes series .txt) 📗

‘Yep.’

Vince will organise Billy’s first amateur fight in the next month or so. He is already putting out feelers to find the right opponent. Too good, and Billy could get scared off. Not good enough, and Billy won’t learn much from the experience.

The boys leave, one by one, through the garage roller door. The gym is located in an industrial estate in Artarmon, neighboured by warehouses and factories. Each departure is pre-empted by a series of fist bumps: the club’s version of a handshake.

Billy catches her eye on his way out. ‘See you, Jess. Thanks.’

He makes no secret of the fact that he likes her. He’s an associate lawyer with one of the big firms in the city. Every day he puts on a sharp suit and plays games with the truth.

‘See ya.’ She gives him an abrupt nod.

There is no obligation to like him back. She is his coach, not his friend.

Her hatred of lawyers is so ingrained, no amount of charm or good looks can get past it.

Home is a five-minute walk through the industrial estate, followed by a fifteen-minute train ride. The industrial estate is poorly lit, deserted, but that doesn’t bother her. She is more than capable of defending herself. In many ways she’d welcome the challenge.

The 8.48 arrives as she’s scaling the concrete stairs to the bridge. She sprints, takes two steps at a time on the descent, and flies through the open doors just in time. The carriage is virtually empty: rush hour has come and gone, it’s just the stragglers left. She pulls out her phone from the inside pocket of her backpack; she hasn’t looked at it for hours. The fact that she can take a long time to answer messages is a long-running complaint of friends and family.

Two new messages. The most recent one is from Alex.

Hey, babe. Just gone for a few beers with Ramsey. Don’t wait up! A

She sighs and smiles at the same time. This is what Alex does: works hard and plays even harder. While one part of her wishes he would grow up, another wants him to stay the way he is: always living life to the fullest, a daily reminder that she should have the same aim. She has an early shift in the morning, doesn’t want him waking her up when he stumbles in the door. But there’s no way to say that without nagging so it’s easier to say nothing at all.

The second message is from a former friend. Just seeing Megan’s name brings a rush of guilt. It’s been a few years since they last had contact.

Something weird just happened. Got called to a shooting in Killara and you won’t believe who the victim was. William Newson!!! He’s badly wounded. Don’t know if he’s going to make it. Thought you’d like to know.

She’s so startled she almost drops the phone, fumbling to re-establish her grip on it, then brings it closer to read the message again. William Newson has been shot. Maybe there is justice in the world, after all.

A whoosh of cold air brings her back to the present. This is her stop. She exits the station, crosses the road, takes the second left. Her pace is slower than usual; her legs seem to have lost their power. William Newson! Someone has actually done it. Taken action. All Jess was capable of was fantasy. Who? Why? How many lives has he ruined this time?

Home is a one-bedroom 1970s apartment, its proximity to the station equating to a hefty price tag. She used her prize money to pay the deposit, with a small amount left over for furniture. Most of her neighbours are well into retirement. The lift judders upwards, an old-people smell lingering within its confines. Jess doesn’t mind it; better than the smell of sweat in the gym.

She decides to eat before composing a reply to Megan. Nutrition is a constant battle. So many calories burned in training, fitted in during quiet periods at the gym, along with whatever she expends instructing classes. Calories out always seem to outweigh calories in, despite her best efforts.

Dinner is a toasted sandwich in front of the TV. The food sits in her gut. She can’t stomach the last few bites and pushes the plate aside. Megan will be waiting for a response. It takes a few attempts to come up with one.

Someone else must hate him as much as we do.

She puts the phone down and goes for a shower. The water cascades over her face and along the sharp angles of her body. She shampoos her hair, massaging the lather into her scalp as images flash through her mind. Megan, her eyes swollen and accusing. William Newson, every reproachful word and gesture. The police, the parents, the jurors. The lies, the shame, the injustice.

The bathroom is freezing when she exits the shower cubicle. She rubs her skin roughly, before wrapping the towel around herself. The mirror is condensed and she uses her fingers to clear a circle. There she is. Platinum-blonde hair darkened from the water. Her nose, kinked from three separate breaks. A scar under her left eye and another above her right, where she’s had stitches. Her face is just the half of it: fractures of the wrist and thumb, dislocation of both shoulders, ankle and finger sprains, and three concussions, the last one signifying the end of her career. But it was worth the pain.

When people find out that she was a professional boxer, they automatically assume a rough background. Her father is a heart surgeon, her mother a concert pianist turned piano tutor. Rough is about the last word in the dictionary that applies to them.

Boxing saved her, albeit not from a poor background. It provided a release. It gave her focus, goals and a training routine to cling to. More than anything, it rebuilt her self-respect, which William Newson had done his utmost to destroy.

‘You had it coming,’ she says, as though it were his reflection in