Chapter 2: The Pretender

"Can you prevent a simple laceration from getting worse?"

I turned to Shezza, thrown by his sudden question out of the blue as he stared fixedly on the master of ceremonies who was announcing the next bout: Shezza from London versus Andy, The Liverpool Lad.

"Um… Ye—"

"Can you recognise when a contusion is going to swell?"

I opened my mouth to respond but Shezza continued speaking at a manic pace while watching the ring.

"I don't want you to offer words of encouragement or tips on how to fight. I expect water in between rounds and a bucket in which to spit. Don't knead away any swelling with the eye iron, keep it in one place, and do refrain from holding the cotton tips in your mouth. That's… all you need to know."

My mouth opened and closed uselessly. This wasn't a normal fighter-cornerman relationship, I concluded. But I did have one question.

"Do you get upset at the sight of your own blood?"

Shezza slowly turned his head toward me. Creases appeared between his brows, but he didn't respond. Suddenly he was away from me and climbing into the ring as the MC called his name. I took his answer as a 'No.'

It had been a valid question. I've seen fighters panicking once back in their corners when they see how much blood appears on the towels or gauze that their cornerman has wiped from their faces. Worse still for these kinds of fighters is when blood drips into an eye from a laceration across their brow or eyelid.

Yes, definitely a valid question.

As I returned my focus to the ring, I gathered that there was a lot more support for The Liverpool Lad, than my boy from London.

The Liverpuddlian wore red shorts, with what I initially thought was a white logo of a small eagle at the bottom edge, until it dawned on me that he was wearing the shorts from the Liverpool Football Club, and the 'eagle' was a Liver bird. Shezza wore simple black boxer shorts that hung almost loosely from his narrow hips and flat abdomen. In contrast to stocky Andy, Shezza cut a very sleight figure. His shoulders were broad enough, his biceps and triceps were sleek and well-cut, but overall his body mass was a lot less than Andy's. I could almost count the Londoner's ribs. I hoped, that with Shezza being the lighter of the two, though half a head taller, that he would also be the most agile.

The referee had a quiet word to both fighters; I caught the words "respect" and "no malice outside the ring." Tell that to the promoters, I thought uneasily.

At the ding of the round bell, my stomach dropped an inch. With each of the rounds being ninety seconds in length, with a one minute rest period between rounds, this could quite possibly be the longest eleven and a half minutes of my life, unless there was a knockout, or either fighter couldn't continue for all five rounds for whatever reason.

The fighters started from the centre lines, paws up, warily eyeing each other and moving in a slow circle. There was a blazing intensity to Shezza's eyes, focussed and calculating, I thought.

"How about a beer, love," said a voice next to me. I knew it was the 'cigarette' girl. She also sold beverages and carried her wares in a cardboard box held in front of her, supported by a strap that ran around the back of her neck. Without looking at her, I knew that she was not wearing much more than a bikini. "You're not gonna do much good up there," she added, laughing. She continued on her way, obviously wanting to make a point about me, and not actually sell me anything.

I gritted my teeth and held my breath when Shezza took a right-handed jab at Andy, which The Liverpool Lad blocked easily. A test jab. A warm up, I thought. Andy returned with a swift combination to the body that Shezza successfully blocked.

There were several calls of, "Come on, Andy," and even one of, "Knock that London tosser on his arse."

Andy lashed out with a right to Shezza's head that he blocked, but it was followed by a flurry of blows to Shezza's body. He blocked some, but enough landed inside which sent him staggering backward toward the ropes. The crowd roared its approval and my heart began hammering in my chest. The first sounds of bare knuckles against flesh always startled me. It wasn't like boxing with gloves on, with the sound almost a pleasant thwack. In gloved boxing the hits are almost constant, but bare-knuckle boxers tend to deliver less punches. Any punch could break bones in their hand, and every punch had to count.

Shezza remained on the defensive, trying to block Andy's multiple body shots, and I found myself muttering, "Get off the ropes," repeatedly. As if he had heard me, Shezza jabbed with his right, then wrapped his left around Andy's torso, which gave the Londoner purchase and a point around which he could pivot. He was now away from the ropes and he delivered a combination of jabs to Andy's body, some of which hit home.

I exhaled.

But my relief was short-lived. Andy drove Shezza back again with a sweeping left hand. The Liverpool Lad continued his assault, throwing three and four punch combinations that Shezza mostly blocked but would retaliate with only one punch at a time. He was on the ropes again. There was something wrong here, I thought. But the round bell sounded and I suddenly had somewhere to be.

I stepped forward, grabbed the stool and shoved it up between the ropes and onto the canvas. Then I mounted the steps two at a time as Shezza sank onto the stool in our corner. His chest was heaving but he held his head up. I thrust the water bottle at him, which he was able to hold himself, thankfully, giving me an opportunity to duck between the ropes myself, and not have to minister to Shezza's needs with my arse sticking out of the ring.

Shezza sat with his knees apart, his elbows resting on his thighs as he sipped water. I stood in front of him and dragged the towel from around my neck to wipe his face. When he stopped drinking I reached for the water bottle, which he willingly gave up, and I used it to squirt water onto the top of his head and down his back. I used the towel again to wipe water across his brow to cool him down.

"Shut up," he said abruptly.

"What?"

"You were about to say something. Don't."

I had no response to that. Perhaps I was thinking of saying something like, Fantastic blocking, but why don't you get on the offensive? but I wasn't allowed to offer words of encouragement nor words of advice.

Shezza's chest was still heaving. Obviously Andy's constant assault this round had worn Shezza down.

One of the spectators poked his head into the ring and yelled a stream of obscenities at us, which we both ignored. One of his mates clapped a hand on the drunken lout's back and they both took off, laughing.

Unshaken, I dabbed at the petroleum jelly on the back of my gloved hand and swiped some more grease across Shezza's brow.

"Move," he said, pushing me slightly to one side. He was trying to get a look at his opponent's corner.

I glanced back. Andy had three people in his corner, which was perfectly legit for this comp—a trainer who was bent in front of him, talking non-stop, and two seconds who were leaning in from outside the ring. It hardly seemed fair, and I was thankful that I didn't have to tend to any gushing lacerations as well as holding the water bottle and delivering sage advice simultaneously. Well, the sage advice had been cut from my job description, so that was one less task.

"Leave," Shezza commanded me, and he suddenly stood up.

The round bell hadn't sounded yet, and my own internal count told me we had about twenty seconds to go. But I slipped between the ropes with my kit, then grabbed the stool from the canvas once I was back on the ground.

Shezza bounced around on his feet a little, shook his arms loose, then tilted his head from side to side. He seemed okay for now.

The round bell sounded and both fighters squared up in the centre once more. At the ref's call to "Fight", they both began circling again. This time Andy immediately opened up with a combination upstairs. One jab hit Shezza smack on his left cheek. Shezza's head jerked sideways, but he otherwise held his ground. Shezza retaliated with a left hook that didn't hold any real power. Andy's counter-punch was swift and unforgiving, sending Shezza flailing backwards.

The fight continued on the ropes once more, if you could call it a fight. Shezza was taking a pounding to his body, but for some unknown reason, Andy caught him in a headlock. The ref called, "Break," which gave Shezza the opportunity to move off the ropes.

Shezza let fly a couple of jabs, but he didn't seem to be committing to his punches. He stepped back, putting a bit of distance between them both, and this is when I witnessed something that disturbed me greatly.

I had already pegged Shezza for being light on his feet, quick of eye and reflex. So when The Liverpool Lad pulled back for a powerful right cross, turning his head with his hand, I saw Shezza wind back for a high counter punch. His blow would've had double the impact because Andy was going to bring his head around with his own punch, thus connecting with Shezza's fist hurtling at it from the opposite direction. This would've been a knockout and a win to Shezza, of this I was sure. But Shezza's bicep twitched, he didn't follow through and in the blink of an eye he was out on the canvas.

Shezza arched his back with bent knees, digging his heels into the canvas, then twisted to his side. I could see he was holding one side of his face and writhing in pain. The count had begun. The crowd was ecstatic by this stage, and all I could do was to look on helplessly.

Andy, who was meant to be confined to his corner, took two great strides toward his downed opponent. Fortunately, the ref was upon him and pushed him back to his corner before he could inflict any further damage to Shezza while he was on the canvas—not an uncommon occurrence in illegal bouts.

Shezza had righted himself and pushed up onto one knee, then shakily stood. The ref stopped in front of him, seeking confirmation that Shezza could continue. I held my breath. Shezza gave an imperceptible nod, then slowly raised his fists. I pushed out a shaky breath. It seems I was alone in my relief.

As Andy met him in the centre of the ring, I searched Shezza's face for contusions and lacerations. A blow to the eye would almost certainly result in swelling, and if Andy had hit his mark dead on, Shezza's eye could swell above and below it, effectively sealing it shut. A contusion above the eye also posed a problem. Repeated blows to a swollen area could cause the skin to split. And then we'd have a bleed above the eye.

But that wasn't the issue Shezza had right now. The Liverpool Lad was upon him once more, and the number of blows Andy was able to get inside Shezza's defences told me that the blow to his eye was causing problems with his vision. Andy threw another big punch, and Shezza lost his balance. He caught himself on the ropes, but as he held on, he had nothing to block with, allowing Andy to pile on the punches. Fortunately the bell rang and Shezza was able to stumble over to our corner.

He slumped onto the stool as I hastily slipped into the ring. I poured water over his head, neck and shoulders with one hand while I used the other to wipe his face with the towel. I had already retrieved the eye iron from the ice and it was hooked around my index finger. I dropped the towel over one of my shoulders, then I pressed the iron to his brow, using my other hand to hold the water bottle in front of Shezza so he could drink. Shezza wasn't able to hold the bottle himself at this time.

"Don't bother," he said eventually, after sucking on some water and trying to move his head away from the eye iron.

I placed the water bottle onto the canvas, giving me a free hand to hold the back of his head so he couldn't move it away again.

"You have severe swelling over your left eye," I said. "This is my cold compress, and I'm applying it to the contusion to make the swelling go down."

I knew that Shezza would hate me talking to him, but he had specifically stated that I was not to offer words of encouragement or give advice. This was neither. This was me doing my job.

"Swelling is caused by cell fluid—"

"Don't… speak."

Talking obviously caused him a great deal of pain, so I abruptly stopped my information sharing, realising he would try to voice his objections. Since he was basically slumped forward on the stool, I was kneeling in front of him, which resulted in the usual derogatory comments from the rogues gallery. But another figure stood just outside the ring, by Shezza's corner. It was the official who had spoken quietly to him just before his bout. The man said, in a kind, supportive voice, "Just give us a bit of a proper fight, yeah?"

And he disappeared into the crowd.

I thought it was an odd sort of comment—not a threat, but a request, as if Shezza could somehow fulfil it.

Then suddenly my stomach lurched and a heated flush spread across my face. Everything had become perfectly clear to me. A proper fight. I clenched my jaw before bowing my head toward Shezza.

I kept my voice even, although I was seething internally.

"Are you getting paid to throw this fight?"

Shezza gave no indication that he heard my query, but his silence was guilt enough for me. I stopped applying pressure to his brow, dropped my gear into my kit bag, and stood. I was conflicted.

This was an illegal competition, fraught with dodgy dealings and even dodgier characters. Why should it surprise me that fights were fixed? Was it because I had been unwittingly made a player in the pantomime? That I had been allocated to a fighter who was guaranteed to lose? Did anyone really care how much effort I put in? Did Shezza?

The churning in my gut intensified. I demanded respect, and this was not it.

I regarded Shezza for the briefest of seconds before I slipped out of the ring, leaving him with his head bowed, sitting on the stool, the water bottle at his feet.

.


A/N: Hope that read okay! Writing this type of extended sequence is new to me. Please review! I'd love to hear your thoughts :)

Next up: The Fighter. It's already written, and will be posted in a day or two.