Chapter 3 – The Fighter
I was going to walk out. I fully intended to walk out. Here I was, trying to prove myself, desperately needing the money and I was going to be made a fool. Not needed or respected, and I won't even get paid.
Shezza took a sip of water, then dropped the bottle onto the canvas where it tipped over, then rolled from the ring. The rest period ended and Shezza stood, slowly making his way back to the centre.
I found myself moving forward and removing the stool from the corner. I then stooped to retrieve the water bottle from the ground. I stood back into position, my eyes drawn to the ring. I couldn't leave, not yet. I had to know why this was the preferred option for Shezza. He could easily have beaten Andy. What had he been offered that was better than ten thousand quid?
Round three commenced with the fighters wearily circling again. But this time Shezza instigated the first punch with a hard right hand shot. The Lad staggered, but immediately counter-acted with a swift combo. Shezza blocked them both, then ducked as Andy took a swipe to his head.
The dubious-sounding official had said, Give us a bit of a proper fight, and now Shezza was obliging.
I clenched my fists. I was fuming. The crowd loved it. They were getting their money's worth, but as long as The Liverpool Lad came up trumps, right? At what point would Shezza give in? Was there a signal, a particular round? There were only five rounds in the bout, so perhaps they were going to go all the way to the final bell before he threw it.
Shezza was dominating and Andy hadn't landed anything worthwhile up top. Then Shezza dropped his left, giving Andy the perfect opening to take a jab at Shezza's injured eye. And again, another quick jab. Andy had worked the eye until a cut had appeared. Shezza reeled backwards, a thick line of deep red appearing on his brow. He shook his head as if to clear his vision and that's when Andy took him down with a combination of left hook, then a right upper cut to the jaw.
Shezza met the canvas with a resounding thud. Blood pooled above his eyelid as he lay flattened on his stomach, with his face turned toward me.
The crowd was baying for blood. A promoter had once proudly boasted that bare-knuckle boxing was the ultimate in gladiatorial sports. It definitely sounded like it right now. The noise of the crowd swelled and roared in excitement. My own blood felt heated and adrenalin coursed through my veins.
Get up, I thought. I could see Shezza's one good eye was fixed on me. "Get up," I said through gritted teeth. The ref was counting, the spectators were yelling. I stepped toward the ring, and bent a little so that my face was almost at canvas level. "Get up!" I yelled. Even I could feel the desperation mounting in my voice. The noise of the crowd swelled, reaching a frenzied pitch. The count continued. I was at the side of the ring.
"Get up!"
There was a spark of recognition in Shezza's good eye, but I was suddenly yanked backwards. It was the leering, jeering drunken lout who had a hold on the back of my hoodie, and he then shoved me hard against his equally intoxicated mate. I lost balance, and they laughed as I fell against another group of spectators. White hot fury surged through me. I recovered, clenched my fists by my side and snarled, "Back off!" This brought a fresh round of laughter from the two gentlemen.
I turned back to the ring. Shezza had pushed up onto his hands and was just about to bring himself to his knees when Andy left his corner and, with one almighty kick, booted Shezza in the stomach. The ref saw too late and bundled Andy back to his corner to giving him a stern shouting to. Shezza curled up again and rocked to his side, his back to me. I suppose the only good thing to come out of that, was the ref's decision to start the count again.
Some of the spectators objected fiercely to this and a few of them surged forward toward the ring, yelling obscenities at both the downed Londoner and the referee. Only I seemed to remain silent in an ocean of baying, hungry fight fans.
Shezza rolled to his hands and knees again, his head bowed, his back muscles glistening with sweat and rippling as he worked to push himself upwards. He was upright, but on one knee when the ref was halfway through his count. He brought his second leg forward, planting his foot unsteadily then rose on two feet. Not a popular move with the crowd, but my chest heaved as I allowed myself to breathe again.
I regarded his face as Shezza continued to steady himself and the ref stood in front of him to assess his capacity to continue. The ref stretched out an arm to Andy's corner as a signal that the Liverpuddlian should stay put. A stream of blood coursed slowly along Shezza's left eye socket and out to the corner of his eye. It wasn't bleeding into his eye yet, but it was now an outlined target to which Andy's fists would be drawn.
Shezza nodded to the ref, bringing his hands up and planting his feet along the centre line. As the Liverpuddlian swaggered from his corner before putting his own fists in the air, I quickly removed from my wristband the cotton tips I'd prepared earlier. I had to get a fresh lot ready and dipped in the adrenaline solution. Sod this. I had a job to do.
At the ref's call to fight, Shezza danced forward and pounded Andy's unguarded smarmy grin in a quick combination of left and right jabs. Andy wasn't smiling now. He lashed out with a right hook but Shezza ducked before slamming his right fist into The Lad's solar plexus, sending him backward toward the edge of the ring.
The round bell sounded and the crowd booed their objections. Shezza's shoulders slumped as he returned to his corner where I'd already hastily shoved his stool.
I knew it took me five seconds to enter the ring and five seconds to exit, leaving me fifty seconds in which to tend to a fighter's lacerations. I was prepared.
I poured water first over Shezza's head and shoulders, then held the bottle for him while he weakly sipped from it. At the same time I wiped away the smears of blood from his brow and cheek. Once Shezza had finished drinking, I dropped the water bottle and held gauze to his brow, applying pressure to either side of the cut. When he tried to slump forward, I pushed him back onto the corner post and tilted his head as I stood over him.
"Not this time," I said forcefully, of his intention to hang his head in defeat.
I removed the gauze then swiftly drew out the cotton tips that had been soaked in the adrenalin solution. I held two of them to the cut above his brow.
"I…" he began, his voice like gravel.
"Don't speak," I said, applying more pressure to his brow to squeeze every last drop of epinephrine into the cut.
"I didn't think," he began again with great effort. I shushed him fiercely, but he continued despite this. "I didn't think… you'd be… competent."
I drew my lips into a thin line before making eye contact with him.
"I have a strong stomach and I can remain cool under pressure," I said. "And some of us take pride in our work. It's all about self-respect."
I knew there were ten seconds to go, so I removed the cotton tips, noting that I'd staunched the flow for now. I then coated the gash with more petroleum jelly before gathering up my kit and slipping out of the ring just in time as the call came to end the break.
Shezza shook himself to lose his grogginess as I removed the stool from the ring. He bounced on his feet and tilted his head from side to side again. Andy approached, fixing Shezza with an arrogant sneer. The ref said a few stern words of warning, mostly directed at Andy, then called to them to fight. Round four had begun.
Shezza's right hand shot out in an instant, connecting with a loud thwack to Andy's nose. Andy reeled backwards. Shezza then danced forward, delivering a three punch combination to The Lad's chest, following by a hard right cross to the head. The noise of the crowd swelled in anger. Other spectators jostled me forward.
"'e's gunna burn 'imself out," one man commented beside me. I didn't agree.
The Liverpool Lad had staggered backwards toward the ropes. A dark red stream slowly snaked its way underneath his nose toward his upper lip. Shezza was bouncing on his feet again, and had lowered his hands, taunting Andy to strike out at him.
Andy's mouth curved downwards in a determined grimace. He rocked unsteadily, then jabbed unconvincingly with his right. Shezza took the blow but remained solid in his stance. A tiny smile played at the corners of his lips. He bounced lightly in front of Andy again, with his paws lowered. Andy struck out again hitting air as Shezza tilted his head to one side. Shezza retaliated with a couple of blows to The Lad's chest, driving him back to the ropes.
A few spectators gravitated toward the ring, calling to Andy to get in there.
Shezza kept his hands down, a confident, almost arrogant gesture as he rocked in front of Andy. He moved backwards, giving Andy sufficient space to recover and move forward to the centre of the ring. Shezza let Andy's punches connect again, but the Londoner made no indication that the blows caused him any grief. I could see what he was doing. He was establishing a psychological dominance over Andy. The Liverpool Lad's punches continued to be weak and ineffective. He was tiring. Shezza only had to dodge the punches that came close to hitting his left eye.
Intermittently Shezza would stretch out with a jab that hit home with pinpoint accuracy. Andy's nosebleed was a steady stream now, and there was an air of desperation to his punches. Shezza remained up on his toes, looking fresh and sharp as if he had just entered a brand new fight. Now and again he seemed to grow bored with The Lad not landing a clean shot, and he would drop his defences hoping that Andy would reassert himself.
Suddenly the Liverpuddlian advanced forward, catching Shezza off-guard and landing a left hook to the Londoner's temple. Shezza staggered, dizzy with the force of the blow, which Andy used to his advantage to a roaring crowd. The Lad unleashed a flurry of punches to the body that Shezza was slow to block.
Shezza's superior footwork in this instance, enabled him to put distance between the two, giving him a few seconds recovery time. He dummied with a right jab that Andy immediately went to block, but Shezza swiftly pulled back and with lightning speed he crossed around and behind Andy's block, smashing the Lad in the side of the head. As the force of the blow caused Andy to drop forward, Shezza used his left in a clean uppercut to the Lad's jaw. Andy dropped backward to the canvas, where he lay, immobile.
The crowd appeared to gasp in unison, before shouts of descent covered the almost silence.
It was a knockout. Shezza was the victor. The ref's count appeared unnecessary; Andy was not getting up, despite a moan or two. Shezza moved to his corner during the count, as per the rules, and as he turned to face the centre of the ring, he shot me a look. I had no idea what that look meant.
Not immediately anyway. But a cold hand began to creep along my heart and I found myself moving backward as the crowd pushed ever-eagerly forward to witness the final call. When I reached the back wall of the tyre warehouse, the ref called it, striding over to Shezza and raising his arm in victory. Surprisingly there came quite a few jubilant shouts and cheers over the boos of dissent. Nice to know a handful of people had bet against the Liverpuddlian.
I quickly took off my latex gloves and dropped them into my bag. I gripped it just a bit tighter as Shezza made to leave the ring. I hastened to narrow the gap between me and the side door. I could feel an uncomfortable prickling in the air. But it appeared that the organisers wanted to keep things moving along, with the MC immediately announcing the next bout, speaking his usual preamble as Andy's cornermen strived to remove their fighter from the ring.
Over the heads, I caught sight of Shezza moving through the crowd. Suddenly he was blocked by the drunken lout and his mate. They appeared to be giving him their usual poignant thoughts on life. I'm sure Shezza had little time for their thuggish comments, but I wasn't prepared for him to suddenly lunge forward and deliver a brutal headbutt to the main offender. The crowd parted around them as the drunken lout collapsed to the ground.
Shezza made a beeline for the door as bouncers closed in to remove the intoxicated pair. Thankfully they ignored Shezza. He saw me and in spite of the swelling on his brow, his eyes seemed to dance with the prospect of something far more exciting. He gave me a lopsided grin, grabbed the sleeve of my hoody, and dragged me out through the door.
"I'm glad you understood the message," he said, with a determined stride. "But I really hope you can run."
.
A/N: I hope that was a satisfying win for you! I had so much fun choreographing the bout. Only one chapter left.
Next up: The Flight
Review? :D