Safa wakes the same as before too. Grunting and rolling over to stop the light burning her eyes. She remembers instantly where she is and what happened. She rises too fast, dizziness surges through her mind, but she staggers to the door to grab the handle and hold on for a second.

Ben groans on the floor.

Harry rubs his beard.

Safa sways.

Ben gets to his feet and yanks his door open as Harry opens his. They both stop on sight of the other and stand swaying and silent for a few seconds. Ben looks to the third door that’s still closed.

‘Safa?’ Ben lurches to the next door and lurches in as she lurches out, making him lurch back. She sags into his arms that are too feeble to hold her, and they both sink down into one bigger crumpled, groaning heap. A big hairy hand grips an arm of each and up they go as the blood drains from Harry’s face from the exertion of pulling them both up. They stagger apart, separating and aiming for the blue chairs, which they sink into with much more moaning and groaning.

In silence they sit. Heads feeling heavy and light at the same time. Eyes not quite working properly or sending the right signals to their brains.

‘Sorry.’ A low voice, distinct and deep, but Ben and Safa still have to look over to check it’s Harry speaking and not someone else. The big man lifts a hand an inch from his lap then lets it fall back down. ‘Sorry,’ he says again.

‘Ah,’ Ben says for lack of anything else to say. He squints at Safa. ‘You okay?’

She shrugs and immediately winces. ‘How do I look?’ she asks, and Ben pauses while trying to find the sarcasm where there isn’t any.

‘Yeah,’ Ben says slowly, looking at the bruising on her face.

‘That bad?’

‘Yeah.’

They both look at Harry and wince at the sight of the bruises and welts on his cheeks and forehead, his swollen lips and black eyes. He just shrugs.

‘Had worse,’ he says in a voice like an old bear.

‘Worse?’ Safa asks, still squinting from the harsh lighting.

‘Forty-two. Portsmouth . . . Canadians . . .’

‘Oh,’ she says, as though that explains everything.

‘Fight like bastards they do,’ he muses quietly.

In silence they sit again with bruised faces, staring down at cut knuckles.

‘Well,’ Safa says with an almost reflective tone. ‘That went well.’

Ben snorts a dry laugh from his sore nose. ‘You think?’

She smiles, suppressing a laugh. ‘Maybe.’

‘Nah, it’s fine,’ Ben says. ‘Love getting the shit kicked out of me . . .’ She snorts her own dry laugh as Harry tuts then chuckles with a groan.

‘Don’t,’ he says.

‘What?’ Ben asks, turning to look at him and wincing at the pain in his neck, which makes Harry chuckle again, which in turn makes Ben snort again.