clinkers. Air whooshed from my lungs.
He hauled me upright. Grabbed me by the throat and testicles and lifted me above his head like I was a sack of flour. The pain was excruciating, but nowhere near as agonising as when he threw me into the post of the ring.
I feared he’d broken my back and was still working out how injured I was when he reached down for my wrist.
I snatched it away and rolled into the ring.
Brannigan ducked the rope.
I got to my knees.
He kicked a boot at my head.
I caught it and twisted hard.
He spun and fell.
I was on my feet before he was. But only just.
He rose in a crouch and ran at me with his head down.
I hit him with an uppercut that would have felled an elephant.
It didn’t even rock him. He ploughed into me, barged me across the ring.
When we hit the ropes on the other side he stamped his foot, shifted his weight and slammed my entire body into the ground.
I made an involuntary noise that fell pitifully short of the agony I felt.
Brannigan dragged me upright, locked his arms behind my back and squeezed. That’s all he did. But he squeezed so powerfully that I was unable to breathe. He hoisted me further up. Got a better grip. Increased the pressure and pain.
I pulled my elbows free and smashed them on the top of his skull.
He dropped me.
I doubled up. Sucked in air, while I could. The blow to the skull should have knocked him out, but it hadn’t.
Brannigan came running.
I dodged this time. Focused.
He turned, sighted me.
I stepped forward and snapped a punch into his face.
His jaw was like granite; he rubbed his chin and grinned.
I bounced to the right, smashed a left into his temple.
Pain barely registered on his face.
My right whipped out two more jabs, then came a rock-breaker of a left. His lips bust like a dropped tomato, but still he didn’t go down.
Brannigan spread his arms wide. Spat blood through busted teeth.
I bounced on my feet, kept moving.
He lunged.
I circled him.
He grabbed at me, missed.
I drove a fist into his face.
A second punch hit his temple. A third, the bloody mass of lips and teeth.
The old wrestler closed the space between us.
I spun away, dodging a grabbing hand, and smashed my left into his cheek.
He grabbed and held me. Butted my nose. Giant hands locked again behind my back.
My arms were trapped. My eyes streamed. Blood snotted from my nostrils.
The hurt that followed was unbearable. The best I could do was hold my breath and hope he quickly ran out of strength.
He didn’t.
Pain tingled through my arms and chest. I blew precious air from my mouth and he shut off the last space in my lungs.
‘Should I choke you to death?’ he whispered into my ear. ‘Or bite through your neck and have you bleed out like a slaughtered chicken?’
I struggled. Kicked.
‘Choke, I think. Choking is always more certain.’
My lungs were on fire. Flames scorched my throat. The back of my eyelids blackened and I lost consciousness.
My limp body hit the ground and I was aware of nothing until a bucket of cold water brought me spluttering back to life. I raised my head and saw it had been thrown by Mr Gunn. Another followed from Miss Breed.
I gasped. Covered my face. Spluttered some more.
When I removed my hands, Brannigan was standing by my feet, urinating over my legs. ‘You owe me your life, you little bastard. Your life and your respect.’
I made no attempt to pull away. He was right. I deserved to be pissed on. The fat, old man emptying his bladder had soaked up the best of my blows. He had swallowed pain like it was naught more than sugar and could have killed me without breaking sweat.
‘You have it,’ I managed, my voice raw with hurt. And then I added the word he had wanted to hear. ‘Sir.’
He shook the last drops of his steaming urine on me, fastened up and stepped back. ‘Get out of my sight and clean yourself up. You’re a disgrace.’
Getting up was easier said than done. My ribs felt as though they had been
He hauled me upright. Grabbed me by the throat and testicles and lifted me above his head like I was a sack of flour. The pain was excruciating, but nowhere near as agonising as when he threw me into the post of the ring.
I feared he’d broken my back and was still working out how injured I was when he reached down for my wrist.
I snatched it away and rolled into the ring.
Brannigan ducked the rope.
I got to my knees.
He kicked a boot at my head.
I caught it and twisted hard.
He spun and fell.
I was on my feet before he was. But only just.
He rose in a crouch and ran at me with his head down.
I hit him with an uppercut that would have felled an elephant.
It didn’t even rock him. He ploughed into me, barged me across the ring.
When we hit the ropes on the other side he stamped his foot, shifted his weight and slammed my entire body into the ground.
I made an involuntary noise that fell pitifully short of the agony I felt.
Brannigan dragged me upright, locked his arms behind my back and squeezed. That’s all he did. But he squeezed so powerfully that I was unable to breathe. He hoisted me further up. Got a better grip. Increased the pressure and pain.
I pulled my elbows free and smashed them on the top of his skull.
He dropped me.
I doubled up. Sucked in air, while I could. The blow to the skull should have knocked him out, but it hadn’t.
Brannigan came running.
I dodged this time. Focused.
He turned, sighted me.
I stepped forward and snapped a punch into his face.
His jaw was like granite; he rubbed his chin and grinned.
I bounced to the right, smashed a left into his temple.
Pain barely registered on his face.
My right whipped out two more jabs, then came a rock-breaker of a left. His lips bust like a dropped tomato, but still he didn’t go down.
Brannigan spread his arms wide. Spat blood through busted teeth.
I bounced on my feet, kept moving.
He lunged.
I circled him.
He grabbed at me, missed.
I drove a fist into his face.
A second punch hit his temple. A third, the bloody mass of lips and teeth.
The old wrestler closed the space between us.
I spun away, dodging a grabbing hand, and smashed my left into his cheek.
He grabbed and held me. Butted my nose. Giant hands locked again behind my back.
My arms were trapped. My eyes streamed. Blood snotted from my nostrils.
The hurt that followed was unbearable. The best I could do was hold my breath and hope he quickly ran out of strength.
He didn’t.
Pain tingled through my arms and chest. I blew precious air from my mouth and he shut off the last space in my lungs.
‘Should I choke you to death?’ he whispered into my ear. ‘Or bite through your neck and have you bleed out like a slaughtered chicken?’
I struggled. Kicked.
‘Choke, I think. Choking is always more certain.’
My lungs were on fire. Flames scorched my throat. The back of my eyelids blackened and I lost consciousness.
My limp body hit the ground and I was aware of nothing until a bucket of cold water brought me spluttering back to life. I raised my head and saw it had been thrown by Mr Gunn. Another followed from Miss Breed.
I gasped. Covered my face. Spluttered some more.
When I removed my hands, Brannigan was standing by my feet, urinating over my legs. ‘You owe me your life, you little bastard. Your life and your respect.’
I made no attempt to pull away. He was right. I deserved to be pissed on. The fat, old man emptying his bladder had soaked up the best of my blows. He had swallowed pain like it was naught more than sugar and could have killed me without breaking sweat.
‘You have it,’ I managed, my voice raw with hurt. And then I added the word he had wanted to hear. ‘Sir.’
He shook the last drops of his steaming urine on me, fastened up and stepped back. ‘Get out of my sight and clean yourself up. You’re a disgrace.’
Getting up was easier said than done. My ribs felt as though they had been
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