Thanks to: Jolinnn, write that wrong, P.S. Sword, Readergirl99, Guest, Sana Lama Samaha, Steinbock, HolidayBoredom and Alchemechanist for the reviews - it was great to hear how much you all enjoyed that last fight scene and how much you're looking forward to the next! Please realise that right now typing this I'm just sat here grinning at my computer screen at all the amazing compliments on them. I really enjoy writing them, so hearing just how much you all enjoy them is epic. Really epic. So a really big thank-you for letting me know :)
And just look - you fabulous, awesome, epic people - you've got me to 100 reviews!
One Hundred.
I don't think I've ever got this many reviews so quickly, so an extra thanks for the 100 quirky little smirks I did when the email notification buzzed my phone and I saw the line "Review: Just Reckoning". If you don't write, you won't really know, but trust me; it really is the best to hear how much people actually enjoy your work :)
USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.
EXTRA WARNINGS: I know you're all chomping the bit for a Paul showdown, but take this as your breather chapter. Slightly shorter, contains some important stuff, though. Low on the action, high on the swearing and offensive language. Warning heeded? Good. Continue.
Onwards!
CHAPTER ELEVEN - Friendly Fire
1) Weapon fire from an allied force, distinguished from that of an enemy
2) An attack on one's own allies, usually caused by a misjudgement or error
Eddie O'Connell's 'Fighting Talk' Gym, Dublin, Ireland - New Year's Eve
Paul's jaw dropped and for one glorious second he gaped like a hooked fish – Dom committed the sight to memory to laugh at later – before switching on his bravado and pumping his fists to the sky.
"Coming out of retirement for one night only!" he roared, to the delight of the crowd.
Dom was very, very glad it hadn't been him to pick out Paul's name. It was bad enough he'd 'picked out' the opponent. Kendrew... he recognised the name, he was sure of it. It itched at his rather tender cranium, but he had had one too many knocks to the head to work out where he had heard it before tonight. Nevertheless, he sensed a set up here. If Paul lost… But then again, Paul wouldn't lose. He was a vicious fighter in the cage, from what Dom had heard. The other guy, as big as he was, had probably never fought in a cage in his life. Dom felt some sympathy for him, having been on the end of Paul Grant's knuckles more times than he cared to count. At least this man had, presumably, willingly volunteered for the treatment in one form or another.
"Alright boys, off you go to the dressing rooms. Meet back here in fifteen for the big fight of the evening! And I gotta say ladies and gents, you think Flex is good... Well, let's just say the student ain't got nothing on the master!" Eddie babbled, before turning off his mic and chucking it onto the desk next to the abandoned paper slips.
He gave Paul a decidedly nervous acknowledgement as the man beckoned him over, all bared teeth and false joviality. Dom knew that look and decided that the best place for him to be right now was well away from his wannabe step father. He would not be paid good money to be Eddie O'Connell right now...
Dom followed the other winners back to the dressing rooms, merging into the flow of people, head down and intent on putting as many walls and doors as possible between himself and Paul Grant, before the man somehow decided this was his fault and came looking for him... Which was why he almost bumped into a fully-conscious Vinco.
"Hey – you," the fellow fighter said, grabbing Dom by the shoulder.
"Back off!" the young Butler barked, although the reaction would have been far more explosive had he not felt like he'd just finished a couple of rounds with a gorilla in a cement mixer. As it was, he still threw up his hands in defence, knocking away the hand, feet planting instinctively and eyes narrowing to take in the assessed threat level of his latest attacker.
"Woah – chill! Just wanted to say; good fight, man. Real good fight."
Dom relaxed somewhat, dropping his head and shrugging. "Same to you. Sorry I knocked you out."
"Sorry? Nah – don't apologise for a good hit," Vinco said sincerely. "And a very good hit at that! Well, from what my coach tells me! I never saw it coming! How's your arm?"
"Fucked, I think," Dom admitted amicably. "For a couple of weeks or so at least, I'd reckon."
"Jeeze, I'm sorry, man. I had to do it - seemed like the only way to have you! You shoulda tapped, though."
"Had to win," Dom shrugged. "Not your fault."
"And how's your head?" Vinco gestured.
"Oh that?" Dom said, brushing a hand over the 'superficial' wound. "Fine."
"The doc told me he wants to see you for it again."
"Yeah, I guessed he would."
There was a moment of silence where the older boy seemed to be working up to asking a question and the younger let him do so.
"That coach of yours… he's fighting next, right? He teach you everything you know?" Vinco asked, curiously.
"No," Dom growled, prickled by the inference. "I mean yeah, that's my… coach, I guess. Corner man or whatever. But no. He didn't teach me shit."
"That's not what he says."
Dom shrugged again, unwilling to get into a conversation about it. "He says a lot, to be honest."
"You don't seem to like him much."
Dom said nothing.
Vinco nodded.
"I get it. You don't want to talk about it. I'll shut up. My Dad called me Vinco, my Mam reckons Garulla would have been a better one," he laughed. "But you probably don't get why that's funny. That's not an insult, by the way. Pops just thinks he's clever using fancy words no normal people have ever heard of."
"I think Vinco's alright," Dom told him. "Better than Flex, anyway."
"Maybe," he admitted. "But it's pretty ironic today..."
"You mean 'cause it means 'winner' or something, doesn't it? 'Conqueror'? Something like that."
"Yeah!" Vinco exclaimed, surprised. "I mean, my Dad chose it because 'Vince' is my actual name and because I win a lot. Well, usually! What's yours – Felix or something? Alex?"
"No," the young Butler almost smiled. His grandfather's name was Alexandr, after all – although he had only ever heard his grandmother call him 'Xandr' or 'Xan' or even 'Xandi', when she wasn't referring to him in fond expletives. "It's Dom."
"Oh. Well hey, Dom. I'm Vince, please for the love of God; don't call me Vinco when we aren't fighting," he requested with a shudder.
"Only if you don't call me Flex," Dom replied with a cringe.
"Deal," Vince said, offering his hand.
The junior cage-fighters shook hands, both smiling slightly with the air of a budding friendship – or at the very least a truce.
"Who do you know that knows Latin these days, anyway?" Vince asked as they set off down the corridor towards the dressing-rooms.
"A couple of my mates do," Dom shrugged. "I'm guessing 'Garulla' means something like 'talkative', right?"
"Along those lines. Who the hell do you hang around with?" Vinco asked with a laugh.
Dom almost returned the chuckle. Would the boy believe him if he named a crime-lord billionaire's son, a devout Christian Australian and the son of one of the only female mob-bosses in Italy as his regular, Latin-speaking cohorts? Doubtful.
He shrugged instead. "You know. Smart folks."
"Well whoever they are, I…"
But Dom never found out what exactly Vinco thought of the people he consorted with with, for at that moment, the corridor became considerably more crowded as a dressing-room door opened and from it emerged Redwood, accompanied by three of his apparent cronies.
"Oi you!"
"Oh hey - erm... Redwood, isn't it?" Vinco asked sociably. "Good fight earlier. You've got a really nice kick on you, you know? Need to work on your blocks, mind you. But hey, I can't talk. Flex here took me down too - you probably saw. Were you watching the fight? I'm hoping we can get some footage of it so I can laugh at it back home. Must have looked aweso…"
"Shut it, dickhead! I'm not talking to you – I'm talking to that piece of shit," Redwood snarled, jabbing a finger at the shorter of the pair facing him in the corridor.
"Careful who you're calling shit," Dom said, coolly. "I just beat you, remember?"
"With some dirty fucking moves that shithead Grant taught you," Redwood spat at him.
"Great. My corner man is a shithead. There's something we can both agree on," Dom said bluntly. "Now can we put this behind us? I'm done with fighting for tonight."
"Oh hear that, boys? The famous Flex is fed up of fighting. Well guess what? I'm not."
And with that he surged forward.
The Butler boy countered the first punch purely on instinct, but Redwood wasn't alone this time and with his elbow was only semi-functional, Dom pre-empted problems if friend on the left decided to jump in. Luckily for Dom, Vinco decided to intervene. He downed the new fighter easily, leaving Dom to deal with Redwood. It would be one of the last times Domovoi Butler would ever have to jump to headbutt anyone, but he did so, catching Redwood full in the nose. It exploded with a crack. It also hurt like hell for the instigator, for his eyebrow split open again spectacularly. Dom continued the manoeuvre regardless as he landed and trod down heavily on the taller boy's foot, simultaneously shoving him in the chest. Hard. Redwood pin-wheeled comically, but unable to rebalance with his foot pinned, landed solidly on his coccyx on the concrete floor. He rolled sideways, groaning in pain and covering his face. His friend on the right took one look at them and scarpered. The boy Vinco had dealt with scooted backwards until he hit a wall, then scrambled to his feet and went running after the other, stumbling as he went.
"Fucking cowards," Dom spat on the floor, raising his foot as though to kick the still prone and groaning Redwood in the ribs. He was sorely tempted.
Restraint is an important characteristic of a Blue Diamond. There are many situations where you will be lured by temptation and you must resist. A Blue Diamond does not fold to the pressures of rage or lust.
Domovoi stepped lithely over his fallen foe and continued his way down the corridor at a swift stride before he changed his mind.
"Nice headbutt, Flex," Vinco said, skirting Redwood and raising his eyebrows, impressed.
"Cheers for not letting those dickheads join in, Vinco."
Vince grinned.
"My pleasure."
From whence they'd came, loud voices suddenly started echoing through the barren passageways.
"Best split," Dom warned. "Someone's going to hear about this soon enough."
"I'll back you up if you want?" Vinco said, almost jogging alongside him as they headed for the medical room. "Totally self-defence. That prick was gunning for you."
"Thanks, but I don't want to get you into any trouble."
"Nah, it's reet. Trust me. No-one's going to lay a finger on me. My father would flip his lid."
Dom felt a strange pang of jealousy at that, but shrugged.
"He wanted to see you too, actually."
"Well, you know," Dom said, unwilling to meet any more new people this evening. "Gotta get post-checked by the doc, like you said. Maybe later."
"Your head's split again," Vinco pointed out. "Gonna need that stitched."
Dom wiped at it absently. "Maybe. Gotta go anyway. Anyone who wins has to get a drugs test and all that."
"What? They do that for our age group?!"
Dom side-eyed him. "Welcome to the backstreets of Dublin, Vince."
Vinco laughed again. "Would you mind if my Pops came and chatted to you, though?"
Dom chewed his lip. He should be keeping a low profile about these extra-curricular activities. If Ko heard he was making himself known in the cage-fighting world, she would not be pleased.
You are wasting your talent picking up bad habits and risking your physical integrity playing games with children? Are you so conceited you think that fame in a meaningless circle will further your progress? Is this how I taught you, boy? I think not! If you want to become infamous you should train harder! If you must fight in your downtime, train with your family! Heaven knows you are the luckiest student in my Academy for that!
That last part she had said once before, upon hearing from his martial arts instructor, Charley Van Penrose, the opinion that he was over-training himself during rest periods. It was the closest she'd ever got to verbally complimenting his uncle. He supposed he should tell the man when he next saw him...
As for meeting Vince's father, he supposed the other teen would talk to his dad anyway. And speaking to him was unlikely to do any more harm than he already had this evening…
"Sure," he said after a second. "So long as he doesn't want to kill me for knocking you out."
Vinco grinned. "Nah - 'course he won't. He thinks you're pretty awesome, actually. I'll bring him to the doc's room then, shall I?"
"Fine by me," Dom shrugged once more.
"Cool," said Vinco, turning to jog back to the ringside. "Oh – and you're covered in Redwood's claret, by the way. Might wanna fix that before the doc sees."
"Oh. Yeah. Thanks," Dom said, wiping his shirt futilely. He'd have to handwash it to avoid his mother worrying. Luckily, 'getting blood out of clothing' had been covered in a lesson he'd been taught back in Tier Two. "Hopefully he'll just think it's mine."
He stole a towel from a nearby changing room and cleaned himself up best he could as he walked, but anything left he would have to explain away as his eyebrow and hope Billy was too eager to go watch the fight to question him too deeply.
"How did this happen?" he demanded in a low hiss. "What the fuck is going on, Eddie? Is this a set-up? Do you think this is fucking funny?!"
"Alright, alright. Calm it down, me old mucker," Eddie O'Connell said nervously. "I know this looks bad..."
"Bad? Bad? Oh no, Eddie - this is all fucking rosy!" Grant snapped, pacing the changing room like a caged lion. "I'll show you bad!"
"Now come on, Paul. You was the one that you put your name in..."
"Did I fuck put my name in! You were supposed to leave it out, you stupid bastard!"
"Well the chances o' your name comin' up was..."
"I ain't trained in years!" Paul continued, ragingly. "What were you playing at reading my name out? You could have said any fucker in the room!"
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry - I just... I just panicked!" the gym owner said, wringing his hands together. "And I thought, well..."
"Oh g'won, g'won, Eddie," Paul snorted scornfully, crushing his half-empty beer can in one hand and throwing it viscously at the small waste-paper basket in the corner of the room. "What the fuck was you thinking in that fucking thick-as-pig-shit skull of yours?! I got a reputation to keep! What if this fucker turns out to be good and I end up looking a fool, eh? Did you think of that, dipshit?"
"Well, this guy is a utter naybody," Eddie appealed helplessly. "Ain't nobody heard of 'im ever."
"So where the fuck'de come from, then?! He didn't just feckin' materialise outta the feckin' air!"
"I dunno! 'E be saying he's local - but I sure as shit in a pan ain't seen 'im abouts..."
"And you say nobody knows him?" Paul said, contemplating as he strode.
"Nope," O'Connell swallowed nervously, eyes flitting left and right as the man passed him.
"So what do we know about this Kendrick feller?"
"Kendrew..."
"I couldn't give a toss if 'e said 'is name is Elvis fecking Presley - tell me what he can do before I beat it out of you!"
"Well he's a pretty big feller, so..."
"Oh really? Oh feckin' really? Well fuck me backwards with a barge pole, Eddie!" Paul exclaimed in mock-awe. "I hadn't so much as thought of that!"
"Well he's about six ten and..."
"I was being sarcastic, you fucking idiot!" Paul all-but roared. "What do you know about the goddamn guy?!"
Eddie felt a bead of sweat run down his forehead.
"Well..."
"Well?" Paul snapped. "Spit it out, man! We haven't got all night - thanks to you, you feckin' cloth-headed cunt!"
"He said he was only here tonight as a favour for a mate of 'is and thought he'd put 'is name in for a laugh," Eddie said hurriedly.
"Mate?" Paul paused his pacing and leered suspiciously. "What 'mate'? Who the fuck brought 'im 'ere?"
Eddie shrugged. "Didn't say... Ah... I didn't ask, to be honest..."
"Well ain't you a regular fecking Sherlock? Jaysus H Christ, Eddie - I told you to find out summit about the sucker when you dropped off his feckin' fight kecks! Not drop his feckin' civvy kecks and suck 'im off!"
"W...what?" Eddie stuttered, highly offended. "I wasn't... What the feck are you on about, Paul?"
"Well what the fuck were you doing in there for ten minutes if you weren't finding sweet-FA out about him other than he's a 'pretty big feller', dickhead?"
Eddie grimaced. "Well I dunno 'e's all elusavive and that, innit? I didn't right notice 'e hadn't told me much 'til you jus' aksed!"
"Elu- what? Talk straight, man! Dammit Eddie - you know I ain't got the patience for bullshit when I've 'ad a drink!"
Eddie would vouch the man didn't have much patience when he was sober, either.
"Erm... well..."
Paul lost his temper.
Which although was not a rare occurrence, Eddie being on the receiving end of his wrath certainly was. He lurched forward, grabbing the gym owner by the lapels of his self-branded jacket and slamming him against the nearest solid surface.
"Tell me who the fuck this guy is before I put you through this feckin' wall, I swear to God!"
"There ain't owt to tell!" Eddie yelped, cowering. "I'm tellin' ya - he's a nobody! And well - I think you'll be reet fightin' 'im! What with you bein' pretty damn good when you was in your prime an' all an'..."
"Pretty damn good? You cheeky fucking shite I was the best! The goddamn, motherfuckin' 'King of the Cage'!" Paul scoffed, dropping his friend and storming away again. "Fuckin' good, indeed..."
"Well exactly... so I went to thinkin' that since you..." Eddie almost whimpered.
"Was!" Paul reiterated savagely. "Was the best! Before I buggered up my knee, went into retirement and spent five years o' me feckin' life training that little cunt out there to earn me some damn cash as payback for putting up with 'is ungrateful arse!"
"Well you's trained him damn well judgin' by tonight so..."
"That ain't the fucking point!" Paul bellowed, frothy spittle launching from his mouth. "I already said I've been on the beers! Do I look ready to fight? I'm half-cut and dog-tired from workin' and shit!"
Eddie knew that last part was a lie and he was not surprised about the first. Paul had been out of work for some weeks now and, as a borderline alcoholic, hardly a day went by where he didn't function at a perfectly average level of his personal performance with a keg of ale in his belly.
"I thought ya said you was always ready to fight Pau..." he risked quietly, cringing when the man spun to face him, eyes glaring from the enraged face.
"Shut your fucking trap, Eddie!" he spat. "And go get me some damn kit!"
Dom knocked on the door marked in red paint with the word 'MEDIC' for that second time that evening.
"Yeah, come in!"
Dom entered, crossing paths with 'The Brickie' who was on his way out.
"Oh, hey Flex. I'll be with you in a tic," Billy said, putting away whatever he'd used on the older man.
"I meant what I said about your fighting today, kid," Brick said with a smile as they sidestepped eachother in the narrow doorway. "You're really fecking good. A natural."
"Cheers," Dom nodded slowly. "Maybe you'll see where some of my moves come from in this next fight."
Brick snorted, zipping up his post-fight hoodie. "Doubt it. I used to fight with Paul Grant. Yours ain't his style. Dunno where you got it from, but it wa'nt Paul."
"What about the other guy – Kendrew, wasn't it? You know him?" Dom fished.
"Nope," Brick shook his head. "Never seen him before in my life. Hell of a big feller, though. Should be a good match. You watching it?"
Either the man was a good liar, or he genuinely had had no idea what name had been on the slip he had planted in Dom's hand.
"Wouldn't miss it," the boy said honestly.
"I'll buy you a drink if I see you – I had some coins on you tonight and you came good for us all."
"Cheers. You're welcome," Dom said, a little self-consciously. It made him feel strange that his action either earnt or cost other people money. But if they wanted to bet their hard-earned cash on him, it wasn't his place to tell them not to.
"See you later then, Flex-kid," Brick said, closing the door behind him.
Dom listened to his footfalls down the corridor, half-tempted to follow him and quiz the man in private about the slip of paper he had folded into his hand…
"Come on, hurry up would ya? I gotta sort that head of yours," Billy grouched. "And I'm as keen as anyone to see if Paul's still got it."
Dom jumped up on the table, wincing as his elbow more than just twinged at the second of weight-bearing he'd asked of it.
Billy handed him another cold compress for his head and noted that he chose his opposite hand to hold the cloth to his head, despite the awkward angle.
"Hmm. Shoulda tapped out on that arm-bar, kid," Billy nodded, taking hold of his free arm and extending it carefully.
"Maybe. But then I wouldn't have won," Dom said nonchalantly, pressing harder to distract himself from the pain in his arm-joint.
"I'll wrap this for you, shall I?" the medic said, seeing straight through the bravado.
He shot both sleeves and procured a bandage from a box.
"You missed Christmas," Dom remarked, allowing him to bind his arm anyway. He could always take it off when he got home and allow gentle use to keep the joint moving.
"Smart arse," Billy said, flicking him on the ear.
Once he'd bound his elbow, Billy gently pried his hand off his eyebrow and hissed through his teeth again.
"Right. I'm going to steri-strip it," he said. "Looks like you'll get away without real stitches, but if it looks like it's going manky, you pop yourself down to A&E, alright? And don't let Paul tell you otherwise. Say you fell and hit on a climbing frame or something. It'll look about right for an impact split like that. You shouldn't get asked any questions."
Dom muttered an affirmative as Billy began to press thin strips of material over his wound, suturing it shut. When he was done, Billy checked Dom's eyes again, prodding a finger at his forehead suspiciously. He would have noticed a further head injury, even in the heat of the fight. This was a new one.
"Don't remember seeing you butt anyone today," he said doubtfully, eyeing the bloodstained hoodie. That was a lot of blood for a congealing wound to spill... "Been doing some extracurricular in the corridors?"
"Not unless someone has proof," Dom said with a slight smirk.
"Trouble, you are, kid – you know that?" Billy chuckled.
"Would rather be it than be in it," Dom quipped.
"Alright. You're good to go. You wanna sit with me in the medic box to watch this?"
"Really?" Dom asked, surprised.
"'Course. Just tell Paul you wanted to watch him fight up-close to pick up some moves," Billy said with a grin. "I'll just lock up here before some nob thinks it's a swell idea to nick off with my painkiller supply…"
Dom slid his sleeve back down and headed for the door. There was a knock as he reached it and so the man behind it was startled by the immediate response.
"Oh. Hello," he said, instantly thrusting his hand in Dom's direction the moment he opened the door. "My name is Francis Devlin – you've met my son, Vincent."
Vinco rolled his eyes from behind his father and Dom took the offered handshake.
"You could say that, sir," Dom said, well-used to conversing with the higher classes, which he now saw the Devlins clearly were. "He's got quite a punch on him. Must have a good trainer."
"Well, he should the amount I pay for it!" Francis Devlin laughed, but although Dom had meant it as a compliment to him, it turned out that it had been too quick an assumption to think that Vince was also trained by a father-figure.
Dom raised his eyebrows slightly. He had already picked Vince as better-off than himself, but that was not exactly hard. He wondered briefly if he'd just beaten the son of the Fowl-equivalent of the cage-fighting world.
"Pops pays for me to have the best trainer in the country," Vince shrugged as though this was no big deal. "And since you beat me, he wanted to talk to you about employing yours alongside mine to see what he could learn."
"So this Paul Grant feller – he trains you, right? Best be quick – I want to see him in action. Great fortune him being picked, right?" Francis chattered.
Dom's stomach dropped. He wasn't sure if the Devlins had somehow fixed it that Paul would be fighting and wondered briefly if the Kendrew guy was Vince's trainer. He didn't know. But what he did know, was that he did not want to get involved in some sort of 'my trainer is better than yours' situation. For in reality, Paul had taught him nothing - except maybe how to take a drunken hit. And should that be found out, the training of 'Domonic Brady' might be looked into a little more closely than he would like. It would not be good for his future – or indeed his present – if it he was found out to be student of an elite Academy from one of the most infamous bodyguarding families in the world.
"Yeah. Something like that. But sir, I've got to warn you, that… erm... Paul's been out of action for a few years now. He probably won't be on top form anymore," he said, trying to think of a way to put Mr Devlin off.
"I'm sure you're just defending him. The way you fight boy… Well, whoever taught you that is a genius."
"Not a genius, sir. They're just very good at what they do."
"Wait - 'they' as in multiple people?" Devlin jumped on the pronoun. "Who else trains you?"
"Well it's not just Paul. I… I train at different clubs for all my disciplines," he lied quickly. "So really, I'm only this good because of a combination of people. Paul just makes sure I keep up with my training."
"Oh. I see," Vince's father said, obviously contemplating whether it was something 'money couldn't buy' that was the reason this understated teen in front of him was so good at what he did. Raw talent couldn't be bought, after all. "Nevertheless, I'd like to see this Grant fellow in action."
"Me too, I haven't seen him fight..." Dom realised what he'd said, adding quickly; "...for years. Should be a good show."
Fully aware that he might just have talked Paul out of an expensive contract, whilst simultaneously talking himself out of trouble, Dom ran a hand over his head and maintained his outward composure.
"So I'll tell Paul you asked after him, shall I, sir?" he said smoothly, intending to wrap up the conversation with that.
"That would be excellent ah... sorry – what did you say your name was?" the man said, flicking through a small pad of paper he procured from his pocket. "Dom Grant?"
"Brady," the Butler boy corrected him. "Domonic Brady."
"Oh – my apologies I thought your surname was Grant," Mr Devlin said, taking out a pen and making an amendment to his scribbled notes.
"My mother's name," Dom said, by way of explanation.
"Oh I see – and you didn't take your step-father's name?"
"He's not my step-father," Dom said swiftly.
"Really? He said he was when I spoke to him briefly earlier…"
"He's not my step-father yet," Dom amended, trying hard to keep the resentment from his voice at the suggestion he someday would have to stop correcting people on that front.
"Ah I see! Well, it's been excellent talking to you, Domonic."
"Just Dom, please - no-one calls me Domonic," he said truthfully.
"Ah I see!" Mr Devlin said for the umpteenth time. He seemed to be rather fond of the phrase. "You're more like Vincent here than I thought! You boys always shortening your names. You'd think with a name like Francis I'd join in!"
Dom smiled respectfully as the man tittered at his own joke and his son rolled his eyes.
The slam of the door interrupted them and Billy joined them with a first-aid bag slung over one shoulder.
"Alright, everyone? Nobody needs anything before I lock up, do they?"
"No – we were just going to watch the fight," Francis said, offering his hand again and shaking the medic's free one heartily. "Although of course, I cannot possibly pass up the opportunity to thank you for treating Vinco here. The nature of the game means men like you are much appreciated. Priceless, even. I mean, it's getting safer these days – and that's a fact Missus Devlin and I are grateful for, believe me – but boys will be boy, eh? And especially with ones like this tyke in the ring!"
He chuckled the last bit and Dom managed to laugh off the light punch he dealt to his shoulder.
Muffled by the walls, there was a roar from the crowd and Billy swore under his breath.
"The buggers have started without us, it seems," he said. "I've told them they ain't supposed to start swinging without a medic onsite, but will they listen? You coming, Dom?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Well, I'm sure we'll meet again, young Flex!" Vinco's father called over his shoulder as he led the way down the corridor.
"Sure. It's been nice to meet you, Mr Devlin," Dom said, which wasn't exactly a lie. The man seemed one of life's good guys, on the whole. And he was rarely wrong in his judgement of people.
Except Paul, his subconscious reminded him. You used to think he was one of the good guys too.
He silenced it with the image of the man's shocked face not half an hour earlier.
"Likewise," Mr Devlin replied, tipping an imaginary hat and heading for the ring-side.
"Enjoy the fight," Vince said as a parting comment, before following his father to the main crowd standing.
"Yeah you too."
And as Dom followed Billy to the medic's box, he very much hoped he would.
OK, OK, so I apologise for that not being the chapter with the fight between one Paul Grant and a Mister Mick Kendrew. Absolutely top points to anyone who thinks they recognise the name from one of my other fics. If not, I'm pretty sure you're gonna love him. In fact, from the response to the proximity of his showdown with Paul, I'm willing to bet most of you already do ;)
And if you found Paul's rant in this offensive - good. You ain't supposed to like the bastard!
Next chapter: The Just Reckoning.
Oh and Happy Pancake Day if you celebrate it!
Wolfy
ooo
O
09/02/2016
