Page 20 of Knox

“The day I came to the house, I went back to where we used to crash. He was there; I wanted him to come back with me. I knew Pops would have him. He told me he’d found a good way to make money, so he’d be all right, and he didn’t want me hanging around, to leave and go back to the fancy house. Something like that anyway. It was a long time ago.”

I don’t tell them he’d got involved with a gang, and he was shifting drugs. Or how much I missed him and the temptation I’d faced to go, to find him. I leave out the parts that had him saving me from the abuse I had in the foster system. That he taught me how to survive on the streets after we’d run away together. Or how Pops found me.

I notice that Roman hasn’t touched his drink either; he’s watching me too intently to take a sip. “What triggered you tonight? Something about that photograph brought us to here.” It’s a gentle question, no accusatory tone—he’s worried about me.

Is this something I’m ready to share? The only other people that know my past name are Dad and Pops. I had to disclose it when I was adopted. I doubt they even think about it now. I’m not Ellis; I haven’t been that poor, broken wreck of a kid for so long that I doubt if I even have a clear memory of him now. I don’t have to say the name, just explain my reaction to it. “There’s a tattoo that I think may refer to me. But I don’t know why he’d have it, and he’s now seen my tattoo, so I’m guessing Saint will have told him about it, and I expect he used my name.”

It’s Finn who speaks next. “Isn’t it a good thing? He’s an old friend, right?”

“Didn’t you hear the part where he’s dead? He was stabbed by an opposing gang. He was dealing drugs.”

Drake is still deep in thought, his brow furrowed when he looks to me. “You know me, right? You know where I worked. There’s an alternative option. What if he was an informant, that he wasn’t really killed?”

I’m already shaking my head; the whole thing sounds like some movie that would have Tom Hardy in. “Shit like that doesn’t really happen, Drake. He was in some gang, and he met the wrong person at the wrong time. Or what’s more likely is he was playing both gangs and got out of his depth. He was always pushing his luck. It ran out.”

“You’ve gotta trust me on this, brother. This shit happens.”

So, what do I do about Knox? I’ve had the same question running around my head for a month now. I’d brush it off as a coincidence: there must be plenty of men called Knox. But a quick search says fewer than one thousand. Which covers kids as well as adults. The stupid part is I know it’s him; there are too many factors that point it out. Geography, age range, and a gut instinct that’s never wrong. The next question is what to do about it. Should I ask Saint more questions? No, he’s not going to give away anything. He’s not going to break any confidences.

I wish I’d been quick enough on the uptake and asked more about him when I was in the chair. I haven’t even got time to go and get more ink. My fight is coming up at the weekend, and it’s full-on training now, with hours in the gym. I know how easy it is to lose focus and drop your guard. I’ve lost fights for that very reason, and the bollocking I get from Dougie is not one I want to repeat.

“Okay, that’s it for today. Go get showered and then get to the physio for a massage. I don’t want those muscles locking up because you’re too lazy to get through the cool down procedure.” Dougie hands me a water bottle and a hand towel.

“I’m not going to lose this fight. I’m focused and ready.” It’s the first fight since I won the second championship. The crowds will want to see a show. Some will want to see me fail, to be on the canvas. Others will want a taste of what got me the title. I obviously want to be the winner, although my opponent is a tough bastard with a wicked kick and a fast punch.

It’s fight night, and I’m hyped up and ready. My fight is the last one of the night. It gives me time to watch other fighters, read the crowd, and see how the judges are scoring. It helps to have an idea on the methods. Of course, it also gives my opponent the same cues.

It’s a full house tonight. I can’t see any vacant seats as I gaze around the audience. Then I halt, staring at a row of men. I recognise two of them, Saint and Noah are laughing and joking with the other men. Then I see him. There’s no doubt in my mind that the man on Saint’s right is Knox. He’s a grown-up version of the boy I used to know, one I used to call Ellis. He’s sitting and holding hands with a very cute twink. In fact, they all seem to be in partnerships with men. I think its brave of them to be here and openly gay. Maybe it’s the fact that four of them are built like brick shithouses. I haven’t given any indication of my sexuality; I don’t think it would be received well. Not that I’ve seen too much blatant homophobia, but it’s a heavy testosterone fuelled event.

The first two fights go the whole five rounds, with all fighters coming out a bruised and bloody mess. The judges are fair and doing a good job with the scores and the eventual winner. I’m not planning to get through five rounds; I want Raoul Diego on the ground. He’s a vicious fighter, known to play dirty. He’s likely to risk a dodgy punch, hoping it doesn’t get penalised for. If he gets a penalty for it, he’ll still think it’s worth it to hurt his opponent. That’s why I have to be in and out, a couple of solid jabs, followed by an uppercut and head kick to bring him down. That should do the trick.

“You up in fifteen, boyo. Time to get warmed up again.” Dougie goes on to list the kicks and punches Raoul likes to start with. He does this every time I fight. We both know that I know everything he’s saying, but it works to keep me focused.

The crowd is being hyped up by the announcer. He’s calling out our statistics and laying the odds on who’ll win. I’m glad he’s bigging me up as the winner.

I enter the octagon, a place that had become my own. It’s where I learnt how to conquer my fears, to fight my demons, and ultimately find myself. Raoul is dancing foot to foot, his eyes fixed on mine as his trainer gives him the final pointers. He nods but stays looking at me. If he’s going for intimidation, he’s got no fucking chance. There’s not much to scare me anymore—I’ve already survived that.

The referee calls us forward, and in words I’ve heard a hundred times over, tells us the rules. Which basically means don’t play dirty or kill each other. When I reach out my hands to bump fists with Raoul, he turns away. The prick.

If that’s how he wants to play this, then fine. I know he’s going to play dirty, and I can work with that. He’s going to be too busy looking for a spot on me to deliver his kick or punch that I can bring him down before he’s realised.

His first punch comes fast, but I’m faster and dodge it with ease. As we circle each other, the crowd start to get loud, egging us on to fight. I suppose I should; it’s the reason I’m here after all. I throw a jab at his jaw and follow with a cross punch. The impact is hard, and his head whips back, and his arms drop. With his head still reeling from the punch, I kick him low.

The rest of the first round is more of the same: he tries to get close, but I’m getting more contact, and he’s hardly grazed my skin. When the bell rings, we retreat to our corners. Dougie is ready with a water bottle and his opinion. I’m listening but also looking out for Ellis. He’s in his seat still but is watching me intently, bent forward with his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped together. He’s a beautiful man and as ripped as fuck; he could be up here fighting.

I see the moment he notices me watching him, and he stiffens, changing his position and sitting upright again. The cute twink says something, and he nods and smiles, then leans in and kisses him. It’s brief kiss, but jealousy rears up in my body. Whoa! What’s that all about?

Dougie gets my attention again, and my focus is back on the fight. I want this over with now. I need to get to Ellis. I have to speak to him, to tell him I’m sorry. Not that he needs it; he looks like he’s made a man of himself.

This time, it’s me bouncing on my toes, adrenaline rushing through me like molten lava. I don’t give him time to think. Without giving him any ground, I’m in. A fluid motion of jabs and a low kick, then the punches roll from me, along with a kick to his thigh. As Raoul drops his hands just a little, I have room for a high kick to the head, and he’s down and out for the count.

Fight over.

I feel amazing. He hardly touched me, but he’s got bruises already blooming on his thigh, a split eye, and a bloody nose. As I raise my hands in the air, I roar.

With the fight over, I look to the stands again. The eight men are still here. Can I get a message up to them?

As I reach the exit of the octagon, Dougie is there with a towel and a huge grin. “Awesome job. No messing around.”