Joe went back to the corner, spitting and washing. His eye had been cut and was swelling fast. Pierre wet the towel with the water, dabbed at the cut. Joe winced.

‘Weber! Weber!’

‘Get the referee to shut them up,’ Joe said. ‘It’s not fair.’

Joe’d been pushed against the ropes, made to look a fool, a bumbling novice. But Joe had learned too that Wilhelm Weber had no technique, only the advantage of his left hand. He was a low fellow with an easy fist. Joe had met his type in Dublin. He had to wear him out. Rattle him. Go in for the slam.

The bell rang.

Joe had his foot on the outside now, keep it there, jabbed and punched with both of his hands, crosses, hooks, before Weber slipped around and they danced, sparring, jabbing. Footwork. Position. Joe backed him onto the ropes with a forearm crush, covered his head to soften Weber’s overarm, right hook to Weber’s head, square on the nose which exploded in blood, ducking and weaving round his left while Joe hammered him with his right until the referee pulled them apart and they began to dance again in the centre.

Blood was running from Joe’s nose too and his left eye was beginning to close, but Weber’s face was swelling, eyes bloody and blackening, a livid red mark on his cheekbone, and the look of fury. Joe was hot, slippery with sweat, but not tired, too fired for that. Joe had to win. He lunged with a fast one-two, pulled back his head to slip Weber’s cross counter, then slammed into him again with his right hand. Weber staggered back as the bell went and the crowd stopped baying.

‘If I were you,’ Pierre said, mopping Joe’s bloodied face with the towel, ‘I’d let the bastard win.’

‘Never,’ Joe said, spitting blood into the bucket at Pierre’s feet. ‘Not now.’

Gumshield in, Joe danced to the centre. He looked round as the bell rang again, and Weber charged towards him. Joe made sure of his foot position, used both hands to lay into Weber, who was throwing his left cross, his right hand in front of his head. Go for the temple. Joe aimed a right hook, slammed into the side of Weber’s head, watched him crumple and fall while the referee counted out the seconds.

The crowd fell silent. Joe panted in the centre of the ring, raised his arm above his head. A nurse was standing to the side with a man in a white coat. Then the jeers began, the whistles. Weber struggled to his feet and the audience cheered, stamped their feet, hammered on the chairs.

The nurse and doctor climbed into the ring, went over to Weber, helped him into a chair in his corner.

‘I hope the fuck he’s all right,’ Pierre said. ‘Because God help you otherwise.’