Devonshire Squires Chapter Seventeen
Simon Waterman flinched as he watched the Devonshire fighter take yet another body blow. His lip was already cut and bleeding from an earlier right jab. The new man taking the place of the Dervish this week had managed three take-downs so far of his Cunningham challenger, but he'd paid a price each time with punishment meted out first before he was able to use the bigger man's momentum against him. Oddly, it seemed to be the Devonshire Devil's style- lure the guy into a closer clinch, fooling him into thinking that it would be the decisive manoeuvre. In the process he willingly suffered an initial blow that might have felled a lesser opponent, before turning it to his advantage by taking the man down in a dramatic throw. It had worked very well for the first three times, but now the weight differential was beginning to tell on the slighter man. The bald-headed Cunningham Crusher had a neck like a tree-trunk and a torso of highly developed muscle that just seemed to absorb every well aimed blow and kick that the Devil delivered. It would be a race to see if he could manage two more take-downs before the toll on his own body made it impossible.
Another Cunningham fist found its target. This time it was the cheekbone of the new fighter, who staggered back, dark hair falling over his eyes for a moment. But even so, he managed to evade the grapple of his opponent, who certainly lived up to his name. 'Crusher' was a bear of a man, at least three inches taller than the Devonshire Devil- and more than twenty pounds heavier. When one of his big fists connected with bone, muscle or flesh, the sound carried to the audience surrounding the make-shift arena. And each body blow brought another raucous cheer from the Cunningham fans.
This was their home turf, after all. They were in a building just off Fenchurch Street, still under construction. It helped that the office block was being built to house the new UK offices of Cunningham Lindsey, a global loss adjustment company specialising in cargo, commodities, fraud investigations and liability issues. Simon's firm, RGL Forensics, was often in competition with Cunningham Lindsey, so this was something of a grudge match. After losing the Fort Street venue to the demolition teams, they'd been struggling to find a safe place. Access to the nearly completed building had been finally arranged only yesterday.
The fight ring was on the floor of what would be a reception atrium; the audience was ranged above in the first floor corridors opening onto the atrium. Unlike the old Font Street venue, this building had the advantage of power, so temporary lights ensured that the spectators could see the action below. Even with no heat, it was a damn sight more comfortable premises than the Font Street car park.
The first fight had seen a novice from the Finsbury Fighters get eaten alive by one of the Acton Aces. The bout was stopped after three and a half minutes, when the fifth take-down dumped the newbie jiu-jitsu man in a heap. There was no interest in claiming him for any of the four teams present, and he scuttled off.
The next fight pitted a regular Acton man against a Cunningham fighter, called 'The Clash'. He was inordinately fond of head-butting, which did manage in the eighth minute to KO his opponent. Feeling his own headache, Simon fretted at the absence of Doctor George Hayter. He'd been saved from his own fractured skull because of the quick thinking doctor. Fortunately, this Acton fighter was out for just over the count of ten. He got to his feet and bowed to the audience and the victor. The crowd seemed unimpressed.
That changed as soon as this current bout was announced. By-passing the whole novice entry system and the bidding process that normally followed, the newly-christened 'Devil' had been signed directly to the Devonshire Team. So, he must be good, or the promoters and coach wouldn't have taken such a risk. Yet, when he walked into the arena to face the Cunningham Crusher, the whole audience could see that he was heavily out-gunned in terms of weight, height and reach.
The contrast between the sheer muscled bulk of the Crusher compared to the rather nondescript form of the challenger intrigued the punters. The odds of him winning lengthened, but this was a City crowd, used to betting a bank's money on a tiny shift of a single basis point. Give them a chance to bet on real long shots, and the lure of a big return meant that the money piled into the kitty.
A bummer to draw Crusher as your first proper fight. A little voice in the back of his mind whispered, there but for the grace of God… If he hadn't been ruled out himself through the injury that put him into hospital with the fractured skull over a month ago, he'd be the one facing this monster. The Cunningham Chancers were a dangerous team- the most feared in the City shootfighters league. Tonight's fighters were drawn from their string of twelve, and this guy was their second-best fighter. Simon's bout had been taken by the new man on the Devonshire team, put into place as a late substitution by the coach when the Devonshire Dervish had been injured in a training bout. Simon never met this unimpressive chap; his headaches had kept him away from the team practices until tonight.
Simon was still on the Devonshire Team- for another week. Whatever doubts he had about getting into the ring again after his injury had been confirmed by the death last week of his friend and work colleague, Alexander Robbs. He hadn't been there to see it, thank God. His injury kept him away from practice until the all-clear was pronounced by the doctors two days ago. But, he was still officially on the team – and earning a percentage of the return- until he gave his final answer next week. So the promoters put him to work tonight collecting the bets. He moved through the crowd, enjoying the banter greeting him on his return. Given his four draws and three wins record, Simon was a fighter respected by the audience.
Once the fight with the new guy got underway, betting was ferocious. The club audiences always liked new blood- liberally spilt, by preference, but unlike a one-sided novice bout, this one was shaping up to be a real duel. He stopped to chat and entice a few more bets, all of which he entered on an iPad. The betting was carefully linked to credit lines pre-authorised before the audience was invited. As the bookies' odds changed with each minute of the bout, bets kept coming in. His pad was already showing over a quarter of a million wagered. Bonus machismo was in full flow; as the calendar year end approached, the traders could tell what was likely to be coming their way in February.
Waterman worked his way through the crowd, seeing whether there was any more appetite now that the new man had proved he could last the first five of the ten minute bout. He came up to a banker he recognised, who had just snorted a line of coke off his sleeve.
"Wilkes- fancy a bet now? You seemed to think that the Devil wouldn't last when I first came around, but he's proved you wrong. You can still hedge your bet with an each way."
Wilkes had his arm around a rent-a-babe- just the sort of arm candy that Simon would expect from the Shad Sanderson banker. The man sniffed extravagantly. "Nope. I know this guy, and he's not got the staying power to last much longer."
The blonde giggled, and teased her date. "But Sebby dear, you said he managed to fight off half a rugby team once when you were at Uni together."
With a cocaine-fuelled grin, Wilkes shook his head. "You weren't listening, Gloria. I said the team took him to pieces. The poor guy ended up in hospital.*"
There was a roar from the crowd. Simon spun around to see the Crusher finally get his first throw, arm locking the Devil and flipping the slighter man onto the canvas. Before he could recover his footing, the Crusher dropped onto the man, trying to pin him into an elbow lock and get his arm around his opponent's throat. If he could secure the choke hold, then he'd be only one submission down.
But, somehow, the Devil managed to wiggle out from the attempted throat hold and started to get to his feet. From a prone position, Crusher lashed out with the side of his right foot, catching the Devil hard on his back, just where his kidney would take the full brunt of the strike.
The Devil staggered, and then collapsed onto his knees. As he fell, Crusher tried to get his legs around the man's waist in a scissor lock- his trade-mark move that had earned him his name. Now the Cunningham team members on the ring-side level started baying for blood.
Simon leaned over the balcony with Wilkes and the blonde, drawn by the spectacle. This was the first time the Cunningham fighter had managed to get the Devonshire man on the floor. He was renowned for his wrestling skills, and the teams sensed this was a turning point.
But, the Devil was not down and out. He started a twisting rotation, moving his body weight to the left and drawing the heavier man around with him until he was facing his opponent. He reached up just as the Crusher began to squeeze his legs together, and put his left hand behind the bald man's head and the fingers of his right hand in an odd position against the left side of that thick neck. The Devil then leaned to the right pulling the Crusher's own body weight into the choke hold.
It was a waist lock hold that compromised the Devil's breathing against a blood choke hold against the neck of the Crusher. Which would win? The crowd went wild, shouting and stamping their approval.
It took less than twenty seconds before blood proved more vulnerable than breath. The Crusher's legs weakened as he started to lose consciousness, and the Devil snapped the points of his elbows into the man's huge thigh muscles, paralysing them. He then pushed himself free and scrambled to his feet. Now the score was four to two in his favour; he only needed one more take-down to cause the biggest upset of the season. But he was gasping for breath and unable to immediately build on the success of his escape manoeuvre with a fresh attack.
The bald man took advantage of the breather to sit up and then climb to his own feet, shaking his head. Facing him, his opponent then bent over a bit, as if feeling the effects of the crushing that his waist had endured.
Encouraged by the sight, Crusher leap onto the slighter man, to use his body weight to bring the Devil down again. Even as he grabbed hold of the guy's bony shoulders and locked his beefy thighs around the Devil's waist, the man bent his knees, shifting his centre of gravity and using his long arms to reach over the Crusher's back, grabbing under the shoulders of the heavier man and using his forward momentum to pull him over his own head. The Devil's feet went out from under him and he landed on his back, but the rotating force of the manoeuvre and the Crusher's own weight flipped him high and away, so the smaller man was no longer under him. It all happened so quickly; tipped upside down and unable to get his arms between him and the canvas to protect his neck, the bald man fell heavily on the back of his head and right shoulder.
The slighter man had turned to watch his opponent's fall, and he was on his knees beside the prone figure in an instant. Simon thought that he would now finish the man off, especially as Crusher seemed dazed and unresponsive. The Devil placed his hands almost gently behind his beaten opponent's neck. The crowd went silent, waiting for the coup de grace.
"Don't move." The baritone command was firm. "Are you feeling an electric shock from your right shoulder down to your fingertips?"
The Crusher's eyes went wide, and he croaked a "Yes."
"You may have broken your neck- or it's a stinger syndrome; damaged the C5 cervical vertebrae, and it's pinching the brachial plexus. Keep your head absolutely still. Can you clench your right fist?"
Even from where he was standing, Simon could hear Crusher's whispered, "no."
"What about the left?"
Simon couldn't hear the response, because the crowd had already started to shift rather anxiously. He leaned over the balcony to catch the next words.
"If you're lucky, it's just a ligament thing or a bruised nerve so there won't be permanent damage; but it could be an acute disc rupture, compression fracture or a hyperextension dislocation." The Devonshire fighter looked out of the ring, seeking the coach, as he asked, "Where's your medical man?"
The East Ender was getting into the ring but shook his head. "Haven't got one tonight." The Cunningham coach was also clambering onto the ring, alongside their Promoter, both with grim looks on their faces. "We didn't arrange for one, thinking you'd bring yours."
The Devil then called out to the silent crowd. "Someone call 999 and get an ambulance here. It's not safe to move him unless you want to risk permanent damage to his spine. Let's not have a repeat of the Fort Street fiasco."
His request fell on at least one set of deaf ears. Sebastian Wilkes was already half way to the stairs to escape, his blonde trailing behind him, as he pushed his way through the milling throng of shocked fight fans.
Simon snorted, realising that no one in the audience was going to risk having their phone number identified as being on the scene. He pulled out his Blackberry. No way was he going to let the promoters sweep this injury under the carpet. He owed that much to Alex.
"What service, please?"
"Ambulance."
The call was picked up on the third ring and Simon launched in, "I'd like to report a serious injury- a suspected broken neck at 15 Fenchurch Street, EC3M."
"Is the patient conscious?"
"Yes, but he's experiencing paralysis- definitely in his arms; not sure about the legs."
"Are you with him now?"
"Uh- I'm about fifty feet away, but I'm on my way to him now." He started heading over to the stairs, trying to push his way through the people now hurrying down. Simon kept the phone up to his ear, and hoped the signal would hold.
"Don't move him at all, keep him absolutely still and warm. An ambulance will be with you in less than ten minutes. Please give us your name and keep this line open. A medical professional will want to talk to you."
The Devonshire promoter was shouting over the noise of escaping crowd, "I regret to say this is the end of this evening's event. Your bets have been recorded and your wagers will be honoured."
Once down on the ground floor, Simon pocketed the phone so he could use both arms to fight his way against the tide of retreating audience. By the time he reached the ring, the crowd was already thinning out. The fighters and support teams from the Acton Aces and the Finsbury Fighters were nowhere to be seen. He sat on the edge of the elevated ring and slipped under the rope, before heading over to the two fighters. A towelling robe was spread over the Crusher, to keep him warm. Other towels had been rolled and were being used to hold the downed fighter's head and neck immobile. The Devil kept pushing his dark greased hair back as he bent over the fallen man. He was speaking too quietly for the words to be heard, but Simon caught the reassuring tone.
In sharp contrast, the two teams of promoters were having a right old barney of an argument. "This just sucks; he's got to be moved. We can't risk it, or the Cunninghams are going to be compromised. We need this venue for a couple of weeks."
The East Ender growled back. "I don' give a monkey's uncle about yer precious venue. The fighter's what counts. You'd think you would care more 'bout one of your own boys."
"Calm down, coach; e's not dead yet." The Devonshire Promoter was a big man; his sharp suit seemed incongruous when you spotted the size of his hands at the end of crisp white French cuffs and gold cufflinks. He sniffed. "I says, we all just beat it. You heard the guy. Ambulance is on the way. None of us can be here when they arrive, 'cos the filth won't be far behind. The venue's done for anyways. We jus buy a new ring and set up elsewheres next week."
Two of the Cunningham team of three were nodding. The coach looked down at his stricken fighter. "Hey, Crusher, You'll be okay. Just remember the code. No names, no blame. Just keep your mouth shut and you'll be looked after." Then he turned away, following the other men out.
Simon knelt down beside the dark-haired man, and looked into the face of the big fighter lying on the floor. For the first time that night, he saw real fear in the man's eyes. "They're bastards, but don't worry. I'll get you sorted out."
There was a quiet baritone "Thank you" from the man kneeling beside him. The Devil's lip was bleeding freely now, and the bright red trail ended at his chin, dripping onto the canvas. Close up, Simon could see the damage to his cheek, and the purple bruising already starting to come out around his eye. The pale skin of his chest was criss-crossed with angry red patches. He must be hurting like hell.
"Do you need to see a doctor?"
"No. I'm fine. Did the ambulance service say they'd put a professional on the line?"
"Oh, God! I forgot." Simon dragged the phone out and held it up to his ear. "Are you still there?"
A new voice answered, "Yes. Are you with the patient now? Is he conscious?"
He nodded his relief at the Devonshire fighter. "Yeah, he's immobile and being kept warm."
"The ambulance is about two minutes away."
Simon relayed this information, and then said quietly, "why don't you leave now? No need for you to hang about. They'll be too many questions."
"So, why are you staying?"
Simon Westgate's smile was sad. "Because I was Alex Robbs' best friend. Because I'd been injured in an earlier fight, I wasn't there for him. I'll see this through- you should go now."
The dark haired fighter looked down at Crusher. "You okay with that?"
A whisper came back. "Piss off. I'll see you at the re-match."
All three men could hear the siren approaching. The Devil stood up, nodded, and then was over the side of the ring and slipping away into the darkness.
Simon looked back down at the Crusher. "You'll be okay. I promise." He pulled up the phone to his ear again and said, "Okay- anything else I should do before they get here?"
Author's Note: *The story behind that little episode will be revealed as Ex Files: Extubate; look out for it in 2015