Mickey looked up at the ancient trainer. Who’d already been middle-aged when Mickey’s stepdad Terry had brought him in to the gym for something to do. And delivered him into the arms of redemption. Grizzler, named for a one-off shedding of tears. Prompted by an alumni of the gym’s brief success on the pro circuit in the early 80s. Before Mickey’s time, but still the stuff of legends. And Mickey, still breathing hard, knew exactly what he had left in his locker.

‘Thought I might run away for the rest of the fight. Give him some practice unpicking locks.’

A grim headshake.

‘You ain’t got the wind. He ain’t got the patience. Think again son. Take another three minutes, eh?’

Thanks, Mickey thought, nodding and standing back up. The usual Grizzler opinion, terse, pithy, invariably correct. It was a quirk of fate that the old man had never had a Lewis or a Benn walk through his doors. Leaving the club under-regarded by the cognoscenti. But like Arsene, Grizzler knew.

Kid came out under full sail. Look on his face that said he was minded to close out the fight quick. Telling Mickey that he’d have to offer more than being a bag on legs to survive the next one hundred and eighty seconds. So Mickey fell back on the endless repetitions of his youth. Moving up from running away to moving sideways. Not exactly dancing, not at his age. But up on his toes, taking random lateral steps to throw the kid’s aim off. And taking his blocking game up a notch. No longer just letting the kid smack his hands to a pulp, but actually parrying. And trying the odd shoulder-roll, smiling inwardly as the kid’s impatience started to show. Took another shot to his face when he rolled instead of parrying and the kid second-guessed him. But found himself able to grin back, giving it the old ‘that all you got?’ eyebrows. If round one had been a straight beating, round two was still a points loss. But better. Grizzler held the bucket up, grimacing at the blood washing around against the white plastic.

‘He’s gonna have you this round. Come out with the big one ready to throw. You be ready, eh?’

And walked away. Mickey shook his head in dark amusement. Gnomic being a word specifically invented for Grizzler, he reckoned. But he knew exactly what the old man was telling him. Time to die, so to speak, unless he had something more to offer.