had taken direct hits. The evidence of slum clearance and the presence of mechanical machinery suggested Herr Göring had presented the local authorities with the chance to sweep away the old, cramped streets. A row of buildings had been levelled. Barriers had been erected at the end of the road. A sign reading CAUTION – UXB was fixed there. Bomb disposal officers were examining the old wreckage of a house. A hole had bored into the muddy ground, the bomb sunk somewhere at the bottom of it, undisturbed since the end of the war.
Locals passed on bicycles and in horse-drawn carts, thick-wristed men pushing brightly-decorated ice cream carts and mobile barrel organs. The day was warm and the street was busy with pedestrians, Irish and Italian accents merging amidst the clamour. Edward turned onto Saffron Hill and the cobbles became muddy, scattered with ordure from dogs, horses and mules. Small shops offered empty shelves and feral children congregated on corners, eyeing him greedily. The smells grew more pungent and, as he crossed Eyre Street Hill, he had to traverse a plank that had been placed on the stones so he could avoid sewage from blocked drains.
The gym was on Greville Street, situated in one corner of an old bathhouse. It had three full-size rings fitted somewhat haphazardly into the interior. The walls of the gym were covered in chipped, beige tiles plastered over with handbills from ancient fights. There were all sorts there, from bantams to heavies. In one corner, a group of boys were lifting weights, while in the main hall there was a confusion of punch bags and skipping ropes. In one of the rings, two heavily protected youngsters followed each other menacingly, firing out the odd jab and grunt. It was stifling hot and noisy, too: the machine-gun racket of speed bags, the slap of skipping ropes on the hardwood floor, leather gloves thumping into rib cages and sand-filled heavy bags.
Joseph was in a second ring, sparring with a second man: a skinny featherweight. Edward watched him for a moment as they exchanged blows, clouds of dust puffing up from the canvas as they moved, muffled exhalations as they absorbed each other’s punches on their gloves. His muscles were taut and prominent and well-defined. Joseph’s partner was quick and agile, darting in and out of range effortlessly, his punching speed better than Joseph, too. He feinted with his left to draw Joseph’s guard that way and then followed up with a straight right, through the gate and into his mouth. Joseph spat out his bloody mouth guard. “Bugger!” he yelled, frustrated with himself.
Edward collected his duffel bag from the floor and went across to them both. “Joseph,” he called out.
Joseph turned. “Doc!” He stepped through the ropes and jumped down from the apron, giving him a firm, sweaty hug. “How are you?”
“Very good. And you?”
“Never better.”
“You looked sharp.”
“Feel sharp, too.”
The second man rested his elbows against the ropes. “Joe? Who’s this?”
“My bloody manners––Billy Stavropoulos, this is Edward Fabian. Doc––Billy.”
“Pleased to meet you, Billy.”
He had a narrow face and teeth that protruded a little over his bottom lip when he smiled. It was rather an unfortunate feature that put Edward in mind of an anxious rabbit. He said, “Likewise,” and regarded Edward with what he took to be a lazy ambivalence, a quick up-and-down that said he wasn’t going to be an easy fellow to impress.
“Billy’s pretty handy in the ring.”
“I saw,” Edward said. “You’re good on your feet. Fast.”
Billy shrugged.
“Good?” Joseph said. “He’s like greased lightning. Used to be ABA champ.”
“What weight?”
“Bantam,” Billy said truculently.
“He’s got a fight tonight at York Hall. Just giving him a final tune-up. Everyone reckons if he wins he’s a dead cert to go professional. Bloody close to making it, aren’t you?”
Billy shrugged again, a half-sneer
Locals passed on bicycles and in horse-drawn carts, thick-wristed men pushing brightly-decorated ice cream carts and mobile barrel organs. The day was warm and the street was busy with pedestrians, Irish and Italian accents merging amidst the clamour. Edward turned onto Saffron Hill and the cobbles became muddy, scattered with ordure from dogs, horses and mules. Small shops offered empty shelves and feral children congregated on corners, eyeing him greedily. The smells grew more pungent and, as he crossed Eyre Street Hill, he had to traverse a plank that had been placed on the stones so he could avoid sewage from blocked drains.
The gym was on Greville Street, situated in one corner of an old bathhouse. It had three full-size rings fitted somewhat haphazardly into the interior. The walls of the gym were covered in chipped, beige tiles plastered over with handbills from ancient fights. There were all sorts there, from bantams to heavies. In one corner, a group of boys were lifting weights, while in the main hall there was a confusion of punch bags and skipping ropes. In one of the rings, two heavily protected youngsters followed each other menacingly, firing out the odd jab and grunt. It was stifling hot and noisy, too: the machine-gun racket of speed bags, the slap of skipping ropes on the hardwood floor, leather gloves thumping into rib cages and sand-filled heavy bags.
Joseph was in a second ring, sparring with a second man: a skinny featherweight. Edward watched him for a moment as they exchanged blows, clouds of dust puffing up from the canvas as they moved, muffled exhalations as they absorbed each other’s punches on their gloves. His muscles were taut and prominent and well-defined. Joseph’s partner was quick and agile, darting in and out of range effortlessly, his punching speed better than Joseph, too. He feinted with his left to draw Joseph’s guard that way and then followed up with a straight right, through the gate and into his mouth. Joseph spat out his bloody mouth guard. “Bugger!” he yelled, frustrated with himself.
Edward collected his duffel bag from the floor and went across to them both. “Joseph,” he called out.
Joseph turned. “Doc!” He stepped through the ropes and jumped down from the apron, giving him a firm, sweaty hug. “How are you?”
“Very good. And you?”
“Never better.”
“You looked sharp.”
“Feel sharp, too.”
The second man rested his elbows against the ropes. “Joe? Who’s this?”
“My bloody manners––Billy Stavropoulos, this is Edward Fabian. Doc––Billy.”
“Pleased to meet you, Billy.”
He had a narrow face and teeth that protruded a little over his bottom lip when he smiled. It was rather an unfortunate feature that put Edward in mind of an anxious rabbit. He said, “Likewise,” and regarded Edward with what he took to be a lazy ambivalence, a quick up-and-down that said he wasn’t going to be an easy fellow to impress.
“Billy’s pretty handy in the ring.”
“I saw,” Edward said. “You’re good on your feet. Fast.”
Billy shrugged.
“Good?” Joseph said. “He’s like greased lightning. Used to be ABA champ.”
“What weight?”
“Bantam,” Billy said truculently.
“He’s got a fight tonight at York Hall. Just giving him a final tune-up. Everyone reckons if he wins he’s a dead cert to go professional. Bloody close to making it, aren’t you?”
Billy shrugged again, a half-sneer
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