Bow Street Butcher!’
Rather more nimbly, Syd stripped off his shirt, bounced to his feet and bowed to acknowledge the applause. His hair looked very pale against his flushed cheeks.
‘Go for him, Crusher!’ yelled a man on the far side.
‘Let’s hear it for the brave butcher!’ shouted another.
The crowd cheered Syd again, but rather, I felt, as a crowd for a public execution would comfort a popular criminal with their voices. Everyone was expecting him to be well and truly crushed by the boy from Camden.
‘You can do it, Syd!’ I cried.
Hearing my high voice over the others, Syd turned in my direction to give me a special smile and a nod.
‘Now, you know the rules, gents,’ said the referee in a voice that commanded silence. ‘Nothing below the belt. If you’re down, you have half a minute to return to set-to at the scratch. If you fail to come up to scratch, then your opponent wins. Are you ready, gents?’
Syd grunted his agreement and raised his fists to chest height. The Crusher nodded, giving Syd a mocking smile.
‘You’re dead,’ he mouthed.
‘Then . . .’ said the referee, moving back, ‘set to!’
The fight began. The Crusher piled forward and grabbed Syd in a wrestling hold, pushing him back against the rails. Syd took small, quick jabs at his opponent’s stomach . . . one, two, three, four, five . . . until he collided painfully with the wooden bar. There they stayed, the Crusher grinding down Syd’s resistance with a flurry of punches that left great red welts on his skin. Once it was clear that the pair were caught on the rails, the referee rushed forward with the seconds to part the fighters. The seconds led their boys back to the scratch, both hissing encouragement and advice. The boxers set to again, this time exchanging body blows. Head down, arms pumping like pistons, Syd grazed his knuckles as his fist caught the side of the Crusher’s ribs. Blood dripped from the Crusher’s nose as a second jab caught him in the face. When the fighters circled round, I could see that Syd too was bleeding, in his case from a cut to his temple. Blows rained down fast and furious, bone smacking into flesh, red sweat dripping down their backs. I could hardly bear to watch and was reduced to covering my eyes with my hands. The more bloodyand vicious the fight became, the more the crowd cheered. Peeking through my fingers, I could see money changing hands as the gentlemen at the ringside placed new bets. Syd was holding his own. I guessed the odds on him were shortening.
Then disaster struck: the Crusher landed a powerful blow to Syd’s jaw, knocking him backwards to the floor. Syd rolled over with a groan, his eyes now at a level with our heads only a few feet away.
‘One! Two! Three . . .!’ chanted the crowd.
Syd’s dad rushed over to help him to his feet but he was not moving.
‘Come on, son!’ he bellowed. ‘Get up!’
‘Fifteen! Sixteen! Seventeen . . .!’
‘Come on, Syd!’ I screamed above the jeers and hoots. ‘Keep going!’
Perhaps Syd heard me for his eyes locked on mine and, through the trickles of blood running down his face, I thought I could see him smile. Slowly, he heaved himself to his knees, then to his feet. Swaying like a drunken man, he let his father lead him to the chalk square.
‘Twenty-eight! Twenty-nine . . .!’
He had come up to scratch just in time.
‘Set-to!’ shouted the referee.
Some in the crowd groaned . . . an easy victory snatched from the Crusher’s grasp. Those of us backing the outsider cheered lustily.
Battle recommenced, now slower as the toll of all those blows began to tell on the combatants. Syd was moving heavily as if he had weights tied to his legs, but the Crusher seemed barely to be moving at all as he stood defending himself in the middle of the scratch. I began to think that maybe, just maybe, Syd could win this one. I stopped peeking through my fingers and joined in with the chant of ‘Butcher! Butcher!’ that
Rather more nimbly, Syd stripped off his shirt, bounced to his feet and bowed to acknowledge the applause. His hair looked very pale against his flushed cheeks.
‘Go for him, Crusher!’ yelled a man on the far side.
‘Let’s hear it for the brave butcher!’ shouted another.
The crowd cheered Syd again, but rather, I felt, as a crowd for a public execution would comfort a popular criminal with their voices. Everyone was expecting him to be well and truly crushed by the boy from Camden.
‘You can do it, Syd!’ I cried.
Hearing my high voice over the others, Syd turned in my direction to give me a special smile and a nod.
‘Now, you know the rules, gents,’ said the referee in a voice that commanded silence. ‘Nothing below the belt. If you’re down, you have half a minute to return to set-to at the scratch. If you fail to come up to scratch, then your opponent wins. Are you ready, gents?’
Syd grunted his agreement and raised his fists to chest height. The Crusher nodded, giving Syd a mocking smile.
‘You’re dead,’ he mouthed.
‘Then . . .’ said the referee, moving back, ‘set to!’
The fight began. The Crusher piled forward and grabbed Syd in a wrestling hold, pushing him back against the rails. Syd took small, quick jabs at his opponent’s stomach . . . one, two, three, four, five . . . until he collided painfully with the wooden bar. There they stayed, the Crusher grinding down Syd’s resistance with a flurry of punches that left great red welts on his skin. Once it was clear that the pair were caught on the rails, the referee rushed forward with the seconds to part the fighters. The seconds led their boys back to the scratch, both hissing encouragement and advice. The boxers set to again, this time exchanging body blows. Head down, arms pumping like pistons, Syd grazed his knuckles as his fist caught the side of the Crusher’s ribs. Blood dripped from the Crusher’s nose as a second jab caught him in the face. When the fighters circled round, I could see that Syd too was bleeding, in his case from a cut to his temple. Blows rained down fast and furious, bone smacking into flesh, red sweat dripping down their backs. I could hardly bear to watch and was reduced to covering my eyes with my hands. The more bloodyand vicious the fight became, the more the crowd cheered. Peeking through my fingers, I could see money changing hands as the gentlemen at the ringside placed new bets. Syd was holding his own. I guessed the odds on him were shortening.
Then disaster struck: the Crusher landed a powerful blow to Syd’s jaw, knocking him backwards to the floor. Syd rolled over with a groan, his eyes now at a level with our heads only a few feet away.
‘One! Two! Three . . .!’ chanted the crowd.
Syd’s dad rushed over to help him to his feet but he was not moving.
‘Come on, son!’ he bellowed. ‘Get up!’
‘Fifteen! Sixteen! Seventeen . . .!’
‘Come on, Syd!’ I screamed above the jeers and hoots. ‘Keep going!’
Perhaps Syd heard me for his eyes locked on mine and, through the trickles of blood running down his face, I thought I could see him smile. Slowly, he heaved himself to his knees, then to his feet. Swaying like a drunken man, he let his father lead him to the chalk square.
‘Twenty-eight! Twenty-nine . . .!’
He had come up to scratch just in time.
‘Set-to!’ shouted the referee.
Some in the crowd groaned . . . an easy victory snatched from the Crusher’s grasp. Those of us backing the outsider cheered lustily.
Battle recommenced, now slower as the toll of all those blows began to tell on the combatants. Syd was moving heavily as if he had weights tied to his legs, but the Crusher seemed barely to be moving at all as he stood defending himself in the middle of the scratch. I began to think that maybe, just maybe, Syd could win this one. I stopped peeking through my fingers and joined in with the chant of ‘Butcher! Butcher!’ that
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