Josh started pounding lefts into the Icelander’s midriff, then the Icelander shot out a perfect right cross to the chin that sent Josh skidding back on his heels into the ropes. Josh shook his head to clear it and then he stormed back in, throwing six, seven, eight jabs. The blond Icelander retaliated with another right cross that clunked against Josh’s skull like a sledgehammer.

‘Jesus!’ muttered Claire, Suki on one side of her, Vicky on the other. They all held hands and watched with bated breath.

‘He barely felt it,’ Vicky told Claire over the roaring noise of the crowd.

‘How can you say that?’ Claire shot back. ‘Christ, I felt it.’ She was getting flashbacks to that night when Josh had fought Matty O’Connor. This was horrible.

But Josh was ducking and weaving his way back in again, landing punch after punch, sending a brisk middle-knuckle shot into the Icelander between his lips and his nose. The man staggered back, blood dripping. He shook his head like a wounded ox, but charged in again and was met by a bull-hammer blow between the eyes from Josh’s left hand.

The Icelander reeled back and went down. A massive roar went up from the watching crowd. Josh was the favourite, everyone wanted him to win, and this looked like it.

But the Icelander was tough, just like Spiro had promised. He pulled himself back on to his feet and came storming in at Josh again, landing wild punches, holding on to Josh when his own feet went wobbly beneath him, pounding away at Josh’s torso.

The referee pulled the Icelander back.

‘No holding!’ he bellowed.

As the referee yanked the Icelander back again he took another swing, landing a right punch to the bone behind Josh’s ear before he could get his guard up.

‘Dirty bastard!’ shouted Spiro, leaping from his chair.

Josh was staggering on his feet all of a sudden. The Icelander came in fast, punched Josh hard on the left cheek and then the right. Josh stepped back, unsteady, and swung a right but missed and overbalanced. He went crashing on to the mat.

‘Josh!’ Claire was on her feet.

A roar went up. The favourite was down. The referee held the blond giant back and started the countdown.

‘One! Two! Three!’

Josh wasn’t moving.

‘Get up. Get up!’ Vicky was yelling in Claire’s ear.

‘Four! Five! Six!’

Jesus, he’s out for the count, thought Claire, hugging herself with anguish, watching Josh laid out there. Everyone in the room was shocked. The favourite was down!

‘Seven! Eight! Nine!’

‘Get up, Josh, you bloody fool!’ roared Spiro.

‘TEN!’

The referee grabbed the Icelander’s arm and yanked it into the air.