A Fistful of Knuckles by Tom Graham Page A

ballistic. But still, Patsy just stood there, his fists raised and unmoving, his eyes open and unblinking. It was like watching a young man fighting a statue.
    Suddenly, Sam caught a familiar face amid the crush of onlookers. It was Chris. He had managed to worm his way right up to the side of the ring and was trying to gauge the width of Patsy’s knuckles from a distance. He kept holding out his finger, trying to estimate how it compared to Patsy’s fists. He looked frankly ridiculous.
    ‘Chris, don’t be a bloody idiot …’ Sam muttered.
    But in the next moment, there was a sudden shift in the ring. Stu was rushing forward, throwing fast, blind punches, but this time Patsy sprang into life. With breathtaking speed he fired out his left fist, then his right, in quick succession, like pistons.
Bash-bash!
The first blow flung the boy’s head sharply to the side, the second lifted him clear off his feet. He landed flat on his back and lay motionless. A single tooth bounced to a stop on the canvas a few feet from him.
    Patsy turned away and rolled his shoulders. It wasn’t a victory – it had been a warm-up session, nothing more – a little light sparring to wake up his muscles. He glowered about at the yelling crowd, searching for a more worthy opponent.
    Stu’s mates clambered into the ring, but not to fight. They grabbed Stu’s senseless body and started dragging it away. As they did, Chris dived into the ring and pawed at Stu’s face, trying to measure his finger against the swelling bruises on the boy’s cheek and jaw.
    For God’s sake, Chris, don’t draw attention to yourself!
Sam willed him silently.
    But it was too late.
    Patsy had spotted Chris and was striding towards him. As Stu’s mates hauled their fallen friend out of the ring, Chris tried to crawl away with them, but all at once he found his way blocked by a massive, tattooed leg. Chris’s nose bumped against Patsy’s kneecap; he slowly raised his eyes, looked up at Patsy’s thigh, his boxing shorts, the decorated bullet holes across his stomach, the devil face leering from his chest, until finally he made eye contact with Patsy himself.
    Very meekly, Chris said: ‘We could be friends.’
    Sam felt Annie tug at his arm.
    ‘Let’s get him out of there,’ she urged.
    ‘We mustn’t draw attention to ourselves,’ Sam replied, stopping her from rushing forward. ‘We’re supposed to be undercover.’
    ‘Sam, that monster’ll
kill
him!’
    ‘Chris isn’t up there to fight. He’ll jump out of the ring and run a mile, you’ll see.’
    Sam watched as Patsy grasped Chris by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet.
    ‘My next opponent, is it?’ Patsy growled.
    ‘Who?
Me
?’ said Chris. And with exaggerated nonchalance he said: ‘Nah, I’m just some little fella.’
    ‘Ain’tcha man enough?’
    ‘For what?’
    ‘To face Hammer Hands O’Riordan.’
    An encouraging cheer went up from the crowd. Chris looked anxiously about, then seemed to take courage from the onlookers’ support. He shrugged Patsy’s hands away from his shoulder, straightened his knitted tank top, and said: ‘I can look after meself.’
    ‘Oh, Christ …’ muttered Sam.
    ‘Last one round, win ten pound,’ said Patsy. ‘Fink you can manage that?’
    ‘I wouldn’t say no to ten quid,’ said Chris, cockily. ‘But … you know, I’m doing okay. I don’t need a tenner. And I’d hate to cause you an injury.’
    Sam covered his face with his hands. Was Chris fearless? Was he suicidal? Or was he just a berk?
    Patsy brought his ugly, tattooed face close to Chris’s and sniffed him, first one side, then the other, like a lion. Chris took a nervous step back. Patsy turned to the crowd, raised his voice and cried out: ‘He’s agreed to fight!’
    A roar went up. Chris’s face went white.
    ‘I never agreed to nuffing,’ he whined, and he appealed to the baying mob for support. ‘I’m good for a tenner, I don’t need the money!’
    But the crowd had taken