‘Katie?’ He raised his eyebrows a fraction and Kate looked away. Flowers now had his hand halfway up the bimbo’s skirt. Patrick followed her gaze. Kate saw him grin and felt a tightening around her heart. He looked at her again.

‘He’s a right old slag is Freddie. That’s not his bird as such, Kate. She charges about two ton a night. She’s on the bash.’

His eyes went back to the ring. Another girl, black this time, was walking around the ring swinging her skinny hips, holding a piece of cardboard with ‘Round 2’ written on it. The Irishman grabbed her as she passed and put her over his shoulder, pretending to bite her buttocks. The girl squealed with delight, loving all the extra attention.

Kate watched the Rasta put his whole head into a bucket of water and come up shaking his hair like a shaggy dog, sending droplets of water everywhere.

Patrick lit two cigarettes and passed one to Kate. She took it gratefully.

‘Patrick . . .’

She was going to tell him she wanted to leave but the bell had gone again and it was too late. His whole attention was on the ring.

Kate watched, sickened, as the hammering and pounding started again, even harder this time. About two minutes into the round the atmosphere changed again, becoming charged with malice. The black man was different somehow. His punches were landing heavily on the Irishman’s face. Kate saw the lumps form around his eyes and mouth. Then the crowd surged forward in their seats. The Irishman was down on one knee. The black fighter saw his chance and took it. Swinging back his enormous arm he began pounding it into the other man’s face and head.

The crowd were ecstatic. Women as well as men were screaming out advice to the two fighters. Kate watched terrified as the black man dragged the Irishman up from the floor and, holding him up, began to pummel his face and body. The Irishman was out on his feet and still the merciless hammering went on. Finally, after what seemed an age, the Rasta threw the man on to the canvas, delivering a swift kick to the groin as his last shot.

The Irishman lay there as if crucified, his arms spread out on either side of him.

The crowd were going wild. In the back small fights had broken out among rival fans. In the ring the Rasta was walking round, arms held up in the air like a conquering hero. His dreadlocks had freed themselves and now flew this way and that around his face as he moved. A tall, good-looking white woman of about thirty climbed into the ring and threw herself into his arms, landing a smacking kiss on his swollen and bruised lips.