Page 160

“His knee was down!” Imran yells at me over the din. “If your knee’s on the canvas, you’re a downed fighter. You cannae knee a downed man in the head.”

The referee waves the doctor in, and the sight of a doctor inside the cage turns my stomach.

Ryan is standing near the fence, one hand pressed to the side of his head. The doctor shines a light in his eyes, asks him a question or two. I can’t hear his answers, but I see him nod.

The doctor steps away. The referee takes Vale by the wrist and walks him to the centre, then raises one finger towards the judges.

“He’s taken a point off him,” Imran says. “Comes straight off his score for the round. In a fight this tight, that could be the difference.”

The crowd cheers. Liam bellows, “About fucking time!”

It all adds up in my head. The eye poke. The fence grab. And now this.

The rules are what make this a sport, what distinguish it from a brawl outside a pub. Ryan fights by them. Vale treats them as optional.

I have never hated anybody in my whole life. Not properly. But right now I loathe Marcus Vale.

The referee turns back to Ryan and says something to him. Ryan nods, and he’s straight back into his stance.

“That’s it?” I say. “He has to go straight back in?”

“The doctor says he’s fit to continue,” Imran explains. “So he either fights on or calls it a night.”

“Don’t they get five minutes or something?”

“That’s for a kick to the baws,” Liam says. “No for a knee to the head.”

The referee waves them together, and the fight resumes.

A minute later, Vale catches Ryan full in the mouth, and suddenly there’s blood pouring down his chin.

I look away.

No, Briony. Don’t be a coward.

I make myself look back.

I promised I’d be here for him. Being here doesn’t mean sitting in an arena with my eyes shut whenever it gets too much. So I watch, even though it’s painful.

Vale throws a high kick. Ryan gets an arm up, but it only partially blocks the blow, and Vale’s shin still cracks into the side of his jaw. Ryan staggers but stays on his feet.

The horn goes.

On the stool, Ryan looks terrible. His right eye is swelling fast. His lip is bleeding. Angry red welts mark his ribs, stomach, and thighs. The doctor comes in again to look at the eye, holds up some fingers, asks him something. For a few seconds, I think they’re going to stop it, and I wonder if that’s maybe not a bad thing. But the doctor nods and climbs back out.

My heart is going so hard I can feel it in my throat.

“Vale’s,” I say.

Liam and Imran look at me.

“That round. It was Vale’s, wasn’t it?”

“Aye,” Liam says. “It was.”

“Two each,” Imran says. “That point Vale lost might’ve put Ryan ahead, but it’s too close to call.”

So it comes down to the fifth.