The inside of Cloudy’s big Morecambe trailer was like a palace, crammed full of rugs and sofas, large hand-painted plates lined up all along the walls. There was a black fat-bellied stove in there, cold now, but it chugged out massive heat in the winter. After the fight in which he had taken down the reigning champion, Josh was standing before the cold stove like a schoolboy getting a carpeting.

‘You effing little cunt,’ said Cloudy, pacing the rug so hard he was nearly wearing a trench in it.

‘Cloudy—’ started Josh.

‘Shut it.’ Cloudy stopped his pacing in front of Josh and held up a pudgy gold-ringed hand. ‘You were meant to lose that bloody fight. You knew that. You agreed to it. What the fuck you playing at, boy?’

‘I agreed to it because you pushed me into agreeing with it, as per usual. I didn’t want to,’ said Josh.

‘Oh, you didn’t want to?’ Cloudy came up close, right in Josh’s face. Josh could see beads of sweat standing out on his flushed red skin. ‘That’s a fucking comfort, that is. I’ll think of that when the Cleavers are breaking my legs. And yours.’

The day had started out good, Josh thought. Big protein-packed breakfast, a short run, a bit of cardio. And then he’d won the fight. But now, this. For too long it had been playing on his mind that nothing about the fight game was honest or straightforward. That you won or lost according to whoever had the most clout and the biggest wedge riding on the outcome. And he’d had enough.

Usually, it was the Cleaver mob who dictated who won and who lost, and they wouldn’t think twice about coming down heavy on anyone who crossed them.

And Cloudy, who Josh had once – long ago – respected, looked up to, Cloudy was deep in their pocket. Fact was, with Cloudy’s nose so far up the Cleavers’ arses, Josh would never win matches like he wanted to.

He’d known he could take men before, hard men that he’d met on the way up, he knew it and yet he’d caved in to Cloudy’s demands. He’d been doing that for a good five years now, accepting hefty payments to throw fights, even when he knew he could take down anyone he came across. Even Matty O’Connor, who was the hardest of them all. A legend. Josh knew he could do it.

And, tonight, despite all the pre-match chat from Cloudy, despite the bungs and the whisperings and the pats on the back – Good boy, that’s my Josh, you’re a star – he knew that this time he was playing the game his way. Fuck the money, he wanted to win.

And tonight, at last, he had.

Now here was Cloudy, bawling him out like he was a schoolkid.

Well, fuck that.