Slight overkill with the final ten-count thing, but effective enough as threats went. He’d looked Mickey up and down with the expert eye of a butcher considering a side of beef. Cleaver in hand. Seeing, Mickey knew all too well, a slightly creased and dog-eared former copper in his forties. Gym toned, minimal body fat, bullet-hole pucker in his right abdominals. Muscles, poise, and the scar to match. Fit, and known to be double-hard. But still well past his sell-by for the ring. Ready to be battered, likely to be deep-fried, by the right fighter. Kid gave Mickey one last disparaging look, then turned and walked back to his corner. Kid was this year’s bright prospect, a potential super-star in the making. Not wholesome like Joshua. Not a dancing joker like Fury. A wild-eyed animal of a fighter, known to idolise Connor McGregor and his ilk. And a product of the club Mickey had been exercising at for the last three decades. Already tipped to be at least a finalist in his weight class at Amateur level inside the year, despite only being seventeen. Runner up for the National Youth championships a month before. Unlucky to have lost to a split decision that still had the fight fraternity exchanging knowing glances. And champion at Junior and Youth levels for the past three years. A red-hot prospect with fast feet, a granite jaw and the full deck of offensive options. A potential world champion, with the right management. Which management was sitting ringside, accompanied by suitably hench minders. Watching his new boy work out against a disappointingly thin succession of mobile punch-bags. With the kid’s da sitting next to him, looking daggers at Mickey. Who didn’t know him from Adam. But then he’d decked a few lairy geezers on the High Street in the nineties, so go figure. And now the kid was intent on reducing his da’s one-time persecutor to a lumpy paste.

Grizzler had wandered across, raising an eyebrow. Good instincts, Grizzler. Probably picking up the vibe from the kid’s father.

‘You owight, Mickey son? Was good of you to offer up when he put his last partner to sleep early, but the little bastard’s like a junkyard dog when he gets started. No shame in changing your mind, eh?’

Last chance to bail on the whole stupid idea. Make his excuses and climb back out through the ropes. Rather than be carried out through them.

‘I’m fine mate. Happy to help the kid out.’ Mickey almost unable to believe his own bravado. Other descriptive nouns being available. Grinned at the gnarled old trainer through his gum shield. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’

‘D’you want a list?’ A shrug. ‘Your funeral son. Just don’t say you wasn’t warned. And watch his left. He uses the right to intimidate, but the left hook’s the killer.’