2 The Imposter by Mark Dawson Page B

on his face. Edward decided there was something about him that he definitely did not like. He was a hot one alright, this boy, that much was obvious.
    “Did you bring your kit?” Joseph asked.
    Edward hefted his duffel bag. “I did.”
    “Billy’s done for now. Need to keep his strength. But we could have a bit of a run-around?”
    “Capital idea.”
    Joseph showed Edward through into the changing room. He changed into the same fusty singlet and shorts that he had worn in the army and wrapped bandages around his hands. He returned to the gym and picked up a pair of battered old mitts. He pulled them on. “Let’s see what you can do, then,” he said.
    They went through a couple of three-minute sessions. Joseph showed off, giving it much more than he needed to, firing shot after shot into Edward’s mitts, trying to knock him backwards. By the end of the third session he was gasping and his right shoulder was hanging dead from throwing countless jabs. Joseph was more of a boxer than Edward was, but Edward was clever. He knew Joseph would try to impress and would work harder than he needed to. He guessed he wouldn’t be able to say no to the offer of more, and so he suggested a fourth session on the mitts and then one on the bag. By the time that was finished Joseph was just about out on his feet.
    “Right, then––shall we spar for a few rounds? See if you’re as good as you say you are?”
    “I’m bushed, Doc.”
    “Come on. You said you’d give me the run-around. You’re here, I’m here, we’re ready to have a go––you can’t back out now.”
    Joseph was gassed. Edward leaned on the ropes and flexed his knees a couple of times and then dragged his shoes in the box of rosin.
    “Ready?” he said.
    “Go on then.”
    Billy rang the bell and Joseph turned quick and came out towards him. They met in the middle of the ring and touched gloves and as soon as he dropped his hands Edward thrust his left into his face twice. Joseph stumbled back and Edward went after him, going forward all the time with his chin on his chest. Their tactics were obverse: Edward was a dancer, jumping in and out of range, firing out his jab. Joseph was a hooker, a brawler, closing off the ring and slugging, crowding Edward into the ropes so he could do his work in close. All he knew was how to get in there and scrap, and every time Edward stepped into range he had his left hand in his face. Three or four times Joseph brought the right over but Edward managed to take it on the shoulder or high up on the head. Other times he tied him up, getting one hand loose and uppercutting him. When Joseph got his hands free he would belt Edward in the body so hard they could hear it in the street outside.
    This went on for three rounds. They didn’t talk. They just worked. By the end of the fourth Edward’s arm was heavy and his legs were starting to go bad. Sweat ran freely across Joseph’s face. Eventually, Edward tied Joseph up, got his right hand loose, turned it, and came up with an uppercut that got his nose with the heel of the glove. Joseph started to bleed instantly. He tried to get away but Edward had him tied up tight, but then, his blood splashing onto both of them, Joseph measured him and then socked a right into his body as hard as he could, as low as he could get it, five inches below the belt. Edward’s mouth fell open and his gum shield dropped out. He staggered around as if his insides were going to fall out. He tried to protest, his guard dropping to his waist automatically, and that was that: Joseph feinted with his left and then stepped into a right cross that caught him flush on the jaw.
    Edward was out cold for a couple of seconds. When he came around his nose was streaming with blood.
    “You alright, Doc?”
    Joseph’s face swam above him as if heat haze separated them. He couldn’t speak. It felt like he was going to be sick.
    “Sorry––think I fouled you.”
    Still he couldn’t speak. The ring was