The Sound Of The Bell

Dickens's novella

A Christmas Carol

has been rewritten and adapted many times. Four of us got together and decided to move it through time and space. It came across the ocean, from London to the Big Apple, and one hundred and seventy-eight years forward ... minus two months.

We each took a part, shortened the story a bit, and took the minor liberty of ignoring the medical situation of the present day.

We hope you enjoy it.

—Bebop3, RiverMaya, vanmyers86, chasten

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Chapter 1

I stood on the sidewalk, people-watching. Two hundred years ago this neighborhood would have been considered a paradise. Running water? Indoor toilets? Refrigeration? Astonishing. Few people went hungry and luxuries were abundant. For most of the history of mankind, this would have been considered miraculous. Still, today's residents bemoaned their fates and envied those who had it better.

The church behind me wasn't opulent, wasn't ornate and wasn't large. It was, however, scrupulously maintained. Every inch was scrubbed, polished and cleaned regularly. Love, piety and dedication abounded in this modest building.

It was only slightly warmer inside than on the streets, and the petitioners in the church wore their coats and jackets as they prayed in the chilly house of worship. I found the weather bracing and relished being amongst people and all of their little idiosyncrasies. I'd nod good naturedly and tip my nonexistent hat as they walked by me, ignoring my presence.

There were so many misconceptions. I greatly admired those that did good. Trust me, few knew better than I how difficult it was to stay on the straight and narrow. I held such people in the very highest of regards.

I felt good about this year. So much time had passed but I maintained my vigil. If Mariel could return with such single-mindedness, so could I. Year after year, she came to this church the nine days before Halloween and prayed while I waited. I was her silent shadow, standing outside, always patient, always ready.

Mariel worked her fingers over the rosary, ignoring her aching knees as she prayed for Lucas O'Grady; the businessman, the landlord, the promoter, the manager, the pugilistic legend who'd never stepped foot in the ring to fight. Halloween was nigh, the anniversary of her father's death. She prayed, prayed, prayed and I silently urged her on.

Ending her prayers, she kissed the rosary, made the sign of the cross and I alone heard the tolling of the bell. Finally! My eyes looked skyward and my lips curled into a smile. People walking near me suddenly shivered and turned away. I tugged on the sleeve of my bespoke suit, checked my immaculate hair and stretched.

I was unshackled. I was free to act. My time had finally come. With the greatest of care, I reached into the interior pocket of my jacket, pulled out the velvet container and retrieved the white mask. A holdover from better days, I wore it to remind myself of the greatness possible in every man, even one whose life had, so far, fallen short.

I stepped from Here to There and stood in front of O'Grady.

"Hello, Lucas. I bring you greetings on this All Hallows' Eve. I'm the first to visit you this evening, but I won't be the last."

Chapter 2

Lucas O'Grady sat at his desk, confused and unable to move, transfixed by the sight of the stranger in front of him. He'd just finished reading the last page of his divorce settlement and was actually pleased that his lawyer had found a way so that Caitlin, his soon-to-be ex-wife, would be getting far less than what she had expected (and deserved). The lack of tiny feet pattering had turned out to be a blessing and the prenup he had her sign twelve years before certainly helped.

He had spent the whole day in the study of his posh Manhattan penthouse, ironing out the last details of the latest fight he was handling; it was only a day away, Halloween to be exact. Everything was in place for "All Tricks, No Treats," with Davin Abascal and Juan Adigue, until ESPN called him the day before to inform him that they wouldn't be able to air the taped interviews and short bios of the two fighters until after Halloween. But he pulled some strings, called in a few favors and got an even better deal from NBC. No wonder, he was

numero uno

, he was the man every manager sought if they wanted their boy to get to the top, and he certainly had elevated more than a few of them... three had already been inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame... and two more of his current fighters were shoe-ins, one was already being touted the "Greatest Of All Time." Every fight, and fighter, he'd promoted earned... and it earned BIG – stadium seats, pay-for-view, thirty-minute pre-fight TV bios, "live" weigh-ins and interviews that Luke turned into major altercations between the combatants – Luke had mastered them all.

Of course, there were the chumps, the few expendable ones who'd had to be "sacrificed" on the altar, or in this case, in the center of the square ring, but only Luke O'Grady and a very select few knew about them and the tactics he had to employ to ensure the lowest risks and the most favorable outcome for everyone involved; boxing was a sport where the prize money was big... and the back-room deals were even bigger.

He was deep into his third scotch, when this –

stranger

– just materialized in the middle of his study. He looked to be about Luke's age, slightly shorter and slimmer. His three-piece suit was well-made, tailored close to his body, the narrow waist accentuating his slenderness, the trousers pleated and ironed to perfection. But the strangest thing about him was the white Zorro-like mask he wore, it hid half of his face so that one's attention was drawn to the silver eyes that gazed out from behind the slits.

Thinking it was the liquor messing with his wits, Lucas said the one word he understood:

"Visit?"

The man nodded, and smiled – almost invitingly.

"Yes, three visitors and forgive me, I have been terribly remiss, I am Stephen."

"Just Stephen?"

"For now... yes. Come, you have far too many things to do and many places to go to, tonight."

He laid a cold hand on Luke's sleeve and guided him gently out to the living-room and up the long staircase that led to the second floor of the penthouse, all the while keeping a light conversation going with his bemused host. Luke obeyed, and even found himself answering the stranger's questions: yes, he had promoted the last three mega-fights, all of them in Vegas, but this latest one would be here in New York, at Madison Square Garden, the Mecca of Boxing, as a homage to the all the big fights that had been held there before the lights of Nevada drew everything west; an odd thing for him to do, because Lucas O'Grady

never gave anything away for free.

"Ahh, I remember those fights," Stephen said, wistfully, "Tyson-Green, Holyfield-Lewis, Ali-Frazier, one and two..."

"Ali-Frazier? That was in the seventies and you saw both fights?" Luke asked, surprised, as his uninvited guest did not look a day over fifty.

"And the Thrilla in Manila, of course. I even saw Marciano and Louis back in '51. But that is ancient history, there is another fight I'd like to talk about, one that is more recent. You promoted the Kolosov-Baquiran match, didn't you?"

Luke stopped as they reached the top of the stairs and looked at Stephen, one eyebrow raised.

"That was years ago, I... wasn't a promoter yet, I was Alejo Baquiran's friend and manager."

"Ahh, I see, that explains why."

Luke was about to ask what he meant, but they had reached the door to his bedroom; Stephen opened it and waved Luke to enter first, as the clock downstairs struck the hour.

"It's ten, time to begin."

"Wait," Luke said, "I've played along with your... game, but don't you think you owe me an explanation?"

Stephen sighed.

"I'll try to explain," he said, as if he were talking to a child, "you will have three visitors, each is tasked to show you specific times in your life, when your actions were – shall we say, less than stellar – you've been given many gifts, Luke, by the people I represent, but you have wasted them all. It is hoped that by showing you where you erred, you can set things right again."

"What happens if I can't or won't?"

"Then there will be dire consequences for you, Luke. Very few people are given an opportunity like this, my friend. Count yourself lucky that my associates were persuaded to give you one."

"Who persuaded them?"

"Someone has been praying very hard for this to happen to you, Luke. It would be a shame not to take advantage of it."

Luke nodded.

Once again, Stephen placed a cold hand on Luke's arm and guided him, this time to the adjoining bathroom.

"Watch the mirror," he whispered into Luke's ear.

The huge mirror on the opposite wall began to recede as a mist started forming on its surface, swirling and blurring the reflections it held. It moved so far back that it looked like a postage stamp; then, just as quickly, it began to surge forward again. Luke felt the first sliver of fear inch up his spine as Stephen started pushing him towards the mirror; this dream was turning dangerous, he thought. He tried to resist, but his feet refused to obey; instead, they carried him faster and closer to the mirror as everything turned dark and from far away, he heard the ding of a boxing bell. He closed his eyes, readying himself for the sound of breaking glass.

"You can open your eyes now, Luke," Stephen whispered.

Luke did and as the dark mist started clearing, he found himself face to face with a new stranger; but this one wasn't as fashionably attired as Stephen; he was wearing a boxing robe and a full head gear covered his entire face.

"Meet your first visitor," Stephen said.

The boxer, Luke didn't know what else to call him, held out a hand. Luke took it and it was even colder than Stephen's. When he tried to let go, the boxer's grip tightened.

Stephen smiled reassuringly.

"He wants you to go with him."

The boxer tugged at Luke's hand.

"What..."

Before he could say another word, Luke found himself back in Jimmy Riordan's gym, a place he hadn't seen for twenty years.

"This... this is crazy," Luke whispered, "I can't be here now, this gym's been closed for years."

"Oh, but you aren't here

now

, Luke, you're here, back when it was still open," Stephen said, "and don't worry no one can see you. I have to leave now, but I'll look in on you from time to time. Our friend here," he clapped the silent boxer on the shoulder, "will take care of you."

The boxer merely nodded; and just as quickly as he had appeared, Stephen vanished.

Muffled voices and the sound of glove hitting glove drew Luke's attention to the ring. Two fighters were sparring, one was African-American, the other Latino, both young, tall and lean; middle-weight class, Luke quickly figured. The African-American was quick, and his footwork was good, but the Latino, though slower, definitely had more power. He evaded a one-two combination then let loose with a strong left upper-cut to his opponent's mid-section, the other boxer quickly doubled over in pain. When the Latino turned around, Luke saw his face for the first time and realized it was Alejo Baquiran.

"You got him, Alejo!" someone shouted.

Luke glanced at the young man on the other side of the ring who was rooting for Alejo... and saw a younger version of himself jump over the ropes and embrace the Latino. The two young men exchanged high fives and walked over to where old Jimmy Riordan, the trainer and owner of the gym was standing, the familiar toothless smile painted on his weathered face; he'd lost almost all of his front teeth from fighting and had his nose broken at least twice. But Jimmy was rather proud of his crooked proboscis.

"Makes me look distinguished," he'd often say.

Luke watched as his younger self and Alejo listened intently to the trainer; he saw the two young men nod as Jimmy ducked and weaved against an imaginary opponent, explaining the importance of every movement.

"Never stop moving, that's the way you defend..."

"Against a southpaw," Luke finished softly, a soft smile on his lips. He remembered that day now; it was the afternoon just before Alejo's first pro fight, a deal Luke had worked on for months as Alejo's friend and manager. They were rookies, wet behind the ears when it came to the sport and business of professional fighting, but they were both young, adventurous and willing to risk everything – Luke a little more than Alejo.

"Get your guy home, Luke," Jimmy said, "load up on the protein and carbs tonight, Alejo... and, Luke, make sure he's in bed by eight... and no shenanigans."

Luke watched as the two young men made their way to the locker room; long-suppressed memories crept back to his consciousness: he and his cousin, Shawn Harris, had met Alejo back in high-school – and when the two of them realized that Alejo, the tall, lean Latino, quiet, shy and unassuming could fight, it wasn't long before they began to set up clandestine matches in the alley behind the billiard hall that Shawn's dad owned. The money was good, at least enough to eventually buy a fourth-hand Dodge Galaxie which they shared on date nights, they loved that old car, Alejo even proposed to his then girlfriend, Valeria Espinosa, in it.

It was Shawn who recognized Alejo's potential; Luke's cousin was a true fan of the sweet science, he didn't box himself, he'd always been a sickly child with a "condition" that the adults never fully explained to the confused, younger Luke, his cousin was his only friend. Shawn spent weeks in hospital, but he spent that time reading every book and magazine about the sport that he could get his hands on, by the time he did come home, he was something of an expert on it.

By their junior year, the three of them had made some tentative plans about Alejo possibly going pro with Shawn as manager and Luke as his handler, but Shawn's mysterious childhood illness returned, and this time he didn't come home. It was at his funeral that Luke promised he'd pursue Shawn's dream for Alejo.

It was ironic now that he'd barely thought about Alejo Baquiran since his last unfortunate fight; he suddenly realized that he missed both his cousin and Alejo; young as they were back then, the three of them had trusted each other completely, they had each other's backs. It was a shame things ended the way they did, but would they have been different if Shawn had been there? It didn't take long for Luke to come up with an answer.

"Probably, buddy," he murmured.

The boxer took hold of Luke's arm again, the distant bell rang and the dark mist engulfed them once more.

At least, I'm not crashing headlong into a mirror, he thought.

When the mist cleared, he found himself outside Jimmy's office at the back of the gym. The boxer released his arm and motioned for him to look through the room's tiny window.

Luke and Jimmy were inside, and it was clear that some time had passed since that afternoon before Alejo Baquiran's first fight; they were both a little older, Luke was wearing a suit, not the tie-dyed t-shirt and jeans he'd had on before, and the bald spot in the middle of Jimmy's head had grown bigger. It was also clear that Jimmy was upset, very upset. He couldn't make out their conversation at first, but soon the words became clearer.

"You don't seem to understand, Luke, Alejo could have been hurt badly tonight, and I'm not talking about

spending a night in the

hospital just to make sure kind of hurt

," Jimmy said as he paced up and down the linoleum floor of the tiny room.

"But he wasn't, Jimmy, and what I don't understand is why you're so upset. We won, didn't we?"

"We won?

If the ref hadn't stopped the fight and disqualified Tamayo, Alejo would've lost... or worse."

"Jimmy, this is boxing, injuries happen all the time; I know that, Alejo knows that – and you, of all people – should know that. The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward, remember?"

The old trainer sat on the battered chair behind the equally battered desk.

"There's a big difference between risk and foolhardiness, Luke, and there's an even bigger difference between reward... and greed. I told you what I thought about this fight from the start, but you took it, anyway. I can't go on being your trainer if you won't listen to what I have to say."

"Are you threatening to quit on us, Jimmy?"

"I'm saying that as Alejo's trainer, his safety is my first concern."

"It's mine, too."

"Is it, Luke?"

"What do you mean?"

Jimmy Riordan ran his hands over what little hair he had left.

"I know about the little side bets you've been taking on Alejo's last four fights. I understand that the prize money goes way down after taxes, but you're playing a dangerous game."

"We have bills and people to pay."

"Does Alejo know?"

"He doesn't need to know because I don't want him to worry about anything else, all he needs to do is to concentrate on the fight. So, are you with us or not?"

"Are you going to listen to what I have to say about taking fights I don't approve of?"

Luke nodded.

"And will you stop taking side bets?"

Again, Luke nodded.

"Do I have your word on that, Luke, as one Irishman to another?" Jimmy said, offering a hand.

Luke did not hesitate, he took Jimmy's hand.

"You have my word."

"I guess I'm still in, then."

"Hmm, but you didn't keep your word, did you, Luke?" Stephen was suddenly there beside him.

"I did what I thought was best for Alejo's career, Jimmy was just holding us back." He turned to Stephen, "I didn't expect to see you back so soon."

Stephen smiled.

"Don't worry, you will see very little of me from now on. You are going to like the next place you're going to," he said and vanished.

Luke extended his arm to the boxer.

"I'm all yours, buddy," he said as he felt the now familiar coldness grip his wrist. The bell rang and the gym turned dark.

When the mist receded, Luke knew exactly when and where he was: it was the night of September 13, 2006, the night Alejo Baquiran was crowned the IBF World Middleweight champion, after knocking out Tyrone Lees in the eighth round, and this was the MGM Grand Arena in Las Vegas where the bout was held; well, not exactly the Arena, of course, it was already after the fight because he was back in his hotel suite, and a naked Caitlin was on top of him, bucking wildly cow-girl style. Rivulets of sweat coursed down her breasts as she rode him hard.

"You like that, Luke? Tell me you like it, baby," she groaned as Luke's hands roughly palmed her breasts over and over.

Caitlin reached for her ankles, she arced her body back as Luke's hands moved down and grabbed her hips, holding her immobile as he lunged up and deep inside her.

One, two, three, four deep strokes and Caitlin started writhing as she climaxed. It took a while before she slumped forward, spent and gasping for air, her long blond tresses spilling over their still joined bodies. Luke eased himself out of her and moved, he grasped Caitlin's shoulders and pushed her down on the king-sized bed. He straddled her thighs, bent down and looked into her green eyes, shaking his head at her questioning look.

Luke gave a small laugh then he placed his hands under her knees, parted them and lifted them over his shoulders one at a time.

"I thought we were... celebrating together... but you just can't wait, can you, baby?" he said and thrust himself deep inside her.

A gasp was her only answer.

Luke watched the scene without saying a word. Caitlin may not have turned out to be his idea of a perfect wife... but she was always a good lay.