by Mark Dawson
“Ziggy,” he said.
“Go ahead.”
“I’m sending you a photo of a woman I want you to check out. I’m sending it now.”
He selected the best picture and messaged it to Ziggy’s number.
“Got it,” he said. “She’s pretty. What do you need?”
“Anything you can find.”
“Will do.”
The door to Connolly’s dressing room opened, and Milton heard the sound of music thundering from inside. The fighter came out dressed in a cream robe, the hood pulled up to cover his face. He shadow-boxed, his blood-red gloves flashing as he threw out lefts and rights. His entourage came next and, once they were ready, a woman with an earpiece and a microphone ushered them towards the large door that would lead to the walkway between the seating to the ring.
It was time to fight.
38
E lijah was ready.
This was it. The moment everything changed. He stood behind the curtain, feeling the weight of the gloves on his hands, the comforting familiarity of routine. He was at the edge of his moment, feeling the energy from the crowd inside the arena as he waited for his music to kick in.
His entourage were gathered around him, but they were forgotten now. He was focused.
The first beat of Stormzy’s ‘Big for Your Boots’ rumbled out of the venue’s PA. Elijah bumped his gloves together and started to box, firing out a flurry of lefts and rights, sharp jabs and hooks, left and right, taking his weight on the balls of his feet and bouncing in time. He clenched his jaw.
McCauley looked at him, staring right into his eyes. “Ready?”
There was no need to speak. Elijah nodded. McCauley pulled the curtain aside, and Elijah looked into the arena. It was full, with spotlights swinging across a sea of expectant faces. A walkway extended from the open door to the ring. A scaffold of lights had been suspended over it, bathing it in harsh white. Connolly was there, dancing across the canvas.
The crowd was noisy and, as they saw Elijah, the volume rose. He stepped up and raised his hands. He shadow-boxed as smoke billowed from a dry ice machine, felt hands on his shoulders, and started walking to the ring.
He barely heard the cheers and the boos. There was only one thing in his mind now. Had to be. This was his moment. All the work he had put in had been leading to this. He was live on television, before thousands of people, everyone waiting to see if he could back up his talent.
There was just one person standing in his way.
He reached the ring, clambered up onto the apron, and put his hands on the top rope. He took a breath, feeling the strength in his legs, and sprang up and forward, somersaulting inside and landing smoothly on the canvas. The crowd roared its approval.
“This is it,” McCauley said, slipping the white robe off his shoulders and smearing Vaseline across his face. “We’ve trained hard for this. You have it inside you—just let it out. He can’t handle your power or your speed. You know that. Box smart.”
McCauley continued talking, but Elijah had heard it all before. It was a reminder. McCauley knew that. It was a familiar voice to calm him down enough so that he could do what he needed to do.
Elijah bounced up and down, waiting and waiting for the bell to ring. The announcer took over.
“In the blue corner, the challenger, weighing in at twelve stones seven pounds even. He boasts a record of nine fights, nine wins by KO. He is the fighting pride of Sheffield—Mustafa ‘Boom Boom’ Muhammad.”
The crowd went crazy, screaming and cheering. Elijah could hear nothing but noise now as he lifted his arms in the air and acknowledged the crowd.
“And in the red corner, weighing in at twelve stones six pounds and three ounces, with a perfect record of eighteen fights, no defeats and fourteen wins by KO. He is the British and Commonwealth champion, the Tottenham Terminator, Samuel ‘Lights Out’ Connolly.”
Elijah stared across the ring as Connolly raised his arms in the air. He looked bigger than he had at the weigh-in, but Elijah knew that he was the larger of the pair. He carried more power, too, even if he was six years younger.
Elijah knew it. He was a freak. A nineteen-year-old kid in a man’s body.
Fast.
Powerful.
He was the man.
And he was going to win.
They were ushered to the centre of the ring by their trainers, and the referee delivered his final instructions. Elijah nodded that he understood what he had been told, even if all that he had heard was a faint buzzing, an incoherence lost amid the growing clamour of the spectators. McCauley slapped him on the cheek, pushed in his mouthguard, squeezed his shoulders, and left him alone.
It was him, Connolly and the referee.
That was it.
It was easy to feel alone, and Elijah welcomed it.
Everything else was forgotten. Every detail of his life leading to that moment. All the hurt and pain he had suffered. All the bad, all the good. His family, his friends. They all faded away until there was only a single point of focus.
Samuel Connolly.
The bell rang.
39
M ilton found his way to the press box. It was part of the balcony, a closed box fronted by a wide picture window. There were two rows of seats, one raised above the other, and each seat came with a small retractable desk. The print journalists were there, their laptops out, already tapping out their thoughts as they waited for the bell. Milton looked to the right and saw a second box that had been given over to the television coverage, with a small studio and, next to it, a space for the commentator and the colour man.
All the seats were taken. Milton stayed at the back of the room and looked down through the window to the ring below.
The bell rang.
“Here we go,” someone muttered. “Let’s see what he’s got.”
Milton watched. Elijah moved to the centre of the ring and flicked out a jab as Connolly met him there. He caught a jab from Connolly on his right glove, countered with another of his own. He moved around, firing out the jab and finding his range. Connolly was rangier than Milton had expected. He had long arms and his fists moved quickly, but Elijah had started well. He was concentrating on the movement in front of him, wary of incoming artillery even as he landed his own punches.
Milton found that he had clenched his own fists, and that he was twitchy with nerves. Elijah stepped back, too slow, and caught a jab flush in the face. He stumbled, just a little, then came back with a three-shot combination that sent Connolly back to the ropes.
Come on, Milton thought. Go get him.
The bell rang before Elijah could follow up.
* * *
Elijah made his way back to the corner, sitting down on the stool and opening his mouth so that his mouthguard could be removed. His heart was beating faster than it normally did after one round.
“Boxing well, Mustafa,” McCauley said, talking fast. “Keep finding your range and don’t forget the jab to the body. He’s moving well, but you can move better, you hear me?”
Elijah nodded, glancing at ringside and seeing the blurred faces gawping back at him. He blinked and saw them all in focus again. Men in suits. Women in dresses. Money .
“One down,” McCauley continued, tipping a water bottle into his mouth and wiping his face down. “You’ve got him. He’s good, but you’re better. When you land, he won’t be able to handle it. You’ve just got to find the opening. Be smart.”
Elijah nodded, opened his mouth for the mouthguard, and got to his feet. The bell rang and he moved to the centre again.
* * *
Hicks was in the first row, three metres away from the corner where the young man was being worked on by his trainer. His skin was slick with a light sweat, but, apart from that, there was no indication that he had been in a fight.
He had an excellent view and could see nothing that gave him any reason to think that something bad was about to happen. Ziggy had forwarded him pictures of the men who M
ilton had suggested might cause trouble, but he hadn’t seen any of them, and they certainly were not sitting near the ring. He had shot a short video that showed the occupants of the first couple of rows and had forwarded that to Ziggy. He had explained that he would be able to run it through image-recognition software and compare it to the photographs that he had extracted from the phone Milton had stolen. No reports yet.
He heard Milton’s voice in his ear. “Anything?”
“No,” Hicks replied. “Looks normal.”
“Same here,” Ziggy reported. “No positive hits.”
The referee signalled and the two fighters got to their feet. The bell rang, the referee stepped out of the way, and the two young men met in the middle of the ring.
Elijah jabbed and caught Connolly against the side of his chin, then jabbed again. He ducked and moved to his right, opened up the space between them again, then stepped forward and landed a leading right hook to the side of Connolly’s head.
Hicks heard Connolly make a sound and knew that Elijah had hurt him. Connolly shook off the effects of the punch and came on to Elijah, grabbing hold and landing short hooks into his body and around the sides of his head. Elijah tried to shake him off, but his arm was caught in Connolly’s. The referee came between them, but Connolly only stepped away a couple of paces and then he was on him again.
* * *
Ziggy was in Hicks’s Range Rover, parked in the car park near the venue. He had taken out his laptop and set it up on the dashboard, patching it into his phone and a strong 4G signal. The laptop was showing an illegal stream of the fight while also running Ziggy’s image-recognition software. The feed was processed and compared with the photographs that Ziggy had pulled from the phone that Milton had stolen. The footage concentrated on the action in the ring, but there had been several pans across the crowd before the fight had begun and during the intervals between the rounds. Hicks had also provided video from his position at the front of the crowd. There had been no hits so far, but Ziggy kept looking.
Ziggy had no interest in sport, apart from those occasions when he had broken into the websites of betting operations and manipulated the code so as to pay out to the dummy accounts he had set up. He had certainly never boxed in his life, but even he could tell that Elijah Warriner had skill.
The second round came to an end. Ziggy leaned forward, ready for the camera to cut to a wide shot, and, as it did, he heard the laptop fan spin up as the processor began to work.
There had been no hits yet, but Ziggy had worked with Milton enough to know when he was nervous, and he was nervous now. There would be a reason for that; operators like him did not scare easily.
40
M cCauley squirted a jet of water over Elijah’s face. Elijah blinked it out of his eyes.
“He’s doing exactly as we thought,” McCauley said. “He’s going to try to win rounds by making it look like he’s got you against the ropes and landing.”
“He’s not getting anything through,” Elijah said breathlessly.
“Doesn’t matter,” McCauley replied, a smile creeping across his face. “He can’t hurt you. Box with your brain. Move and throw the check hook. All right? Throw the check. He won’t see it coming. You’re too quick.”
Elijah was up and the third round began. He walked to the centre of the ring. Connolly was into his stride, pushing him back with short punches that Elijah caught on his arms. It still forced him backwards, absorbing blows on his shoulders and forearms and gloves as he covered up on the ropes.
He was calm. He couldn’t hear the noise. He was focused on Connolly and nothing else.
Connolly locked up again, then separated just enough to uncork an uppercut that blasted between Elijah’s gloves and detonated on the tip of his chin. The world blurred a little and he staggered backwards. His legs felt like they weren’t attached to him, and the noise around him was replaced by a high-pitched ring. He lifted his gloves up in response, an automatic reaction drilled into him by all the hours he had spent in the ring. Connolly unloaded punch after punch onto his gloves.
Elijah’s senses cleared, but he was against the ropes and couldn’t remember how he got there.
And then something changed.
Connolly had him in a clinch, rabbit-punching him in the kidneys. The referee left them to brawl for a moment, and then the strength seemed to ebb out of Connolly’s arms. Elijah slipped the hold and saw that Connolly’s guard was still down. That was strange—he had been fastidious about guarding against Elijah’s power shots—but Elijah wasn’t going to question the opportunity. He moved away from the ropes in one pivot and landed a check left hook as Connolly moved forward towards him again.
It stopped him in his tracks.
Elijah didn’t pause to admire his work. He stepped forward and landed a double-jab, then threw a right hook that landed half on Connolly’s glove and half on his chin.
Connolly staggered and Elijah pounced. He threw another right hand, then landed a left hook to the top of Connolly’s jaw. He was wobbling now, sweat spraying out with every fresh impact, splashing back into Elijah’s face.
Elijah came forward again, forcing Connolly against the ropes.
He landed another right hand, and suddenly Connolly was down on one knee.
Elijah was too caught up to notice, drawing back his arm to land another punch, before the referee caught him by the bicep and moved him backwards to the neutral corner.
The noise swept over him, a barrage so abrupt it was as if someone had just turned up the volume. Elijah heard individual voices—hoarse shouts of his name, whoops of pleasure, groans of anguish—before they coalesced into one omnipresent, deafening thrum.
And it was all there in front of him. His future, his life.
Knock him down and that would be it.
The referee counted eight and let Connolly continue.
He came out to the middle of the ring. Elijah saw: Connolly couldn’t focus his eyes.
Elijah unleashed a right-handed uppercut. He knew it was over as soon as it landed. He could feel the hit all the way down his arm, into his shoulder, shuddering through every single muscle along the way.
He could hear the voices again. Every noise. Every cheer.
Connolly went down as if someone had chopped him at the knees. The referee started the count. He could’ve gone all the way to a hundred; it wouldn’t have made any difference.
Connolly was out.
Part XII
The First Day
41
“H appy Christmas!”
Elijah was in the shower, standing under the hot jet and letting the water sluice off the sweat that had started to dry on his skin. McCauley had put his head around the door, and Elijah guessed that the clock must have ticked over to midnight.
He looked down to his feet and saw a reddening in the water, looked at his hands and saw how the knuckles had cracked and bled. He turned off the water, wrapped his towel around his waist, and went back into the dressing room.
McCauley was there, gathering up the bloody wraps and dumping them in a black bin liner with the rest of their rubbish. Elijah’s shorts and boots were on the seat where he had left them. McCauley had laid out his jeans and shirt, both freshly laundered and pressed. Elijah went to the sink and looked at his reflection in the mirror.
“There’s not a mark on you,” McCauley observed.
“He nailed me once,” Elijah disagreed, probing the side of his face.
“Don’t worry. You’re still pretty.”
Elijah towelled himself off. His arms were sore from where Connolly had hammered at his guard, and his kidneys ached as he bent down to pull on his jeans, but that was all to be expected.
He winced as he pulled on his shirt. “What you make of Connolly?”
“Tough. We knew he would be.”
“I know. But the way he went down.”
“You hammered him, Mustafa.”
“Yeah. Maybe. But there’s something that’s both
ering me.”
“What?”
“He had me in a clinch, right? Third round, just before I dropped him. He was bombing me inside, big hits; then he just let go. The ref didn’t split us up; he just let me out.”
“Maybe he thought he’d softened you up enough?”
“I don’t think so. He just stood there, his guard down, like he wanted me to tag him.”
McCauley reached his hand up and rested it against Elijah’s cheek. “You’re overthinking,” he said. “You’d already tagged him—two, three big shots. I doubt he was all there by the time you put him down. Forget about it. It looked good from where I was standing.”
Elijah shrugged. McCauley was probably right. There was no point in second-guessing himself. He’d done what he needed to do. He’d won the fight, sealed it with another KO that cemented his reputation as a fighter with dynamite in his fists. Elijah knew he would have looked good out there. Tommy Porter had already put his head in the door to congratulate him and to say that he needed to make sure he was at the party afterwards. He had said that there was business to discuss.
There was a knock at the door now. McCauley went over and opened it, then stepped aside.
Elijah turned. It was Alesha. He had given her a backstage pass, an embossed sticker that she was wearing on the leg of her jeans.
“Hey,” she said, a smile beaming out. “You okay?”
“I’m good,” Elijah said.
