She turned at the door of the small café.

‘It all went to hell,’ she said.

Chapter 12

12

PC BILLY GREENE lifted the twelve-ounce gloves in front of his face and marched slowly across the ring in a totally straight line. Fred was waiting for him. My heart sank as I watched from ringside.

It was the Charge of the Light Brigade in there.

Fred stuck out a jab and Greene, looking heavier after long days on desk duty, blocked it high on his gloves. There wasn’t much force behind the blow but it was hard enough to slap Greene’s gloves back against his face.

Above the gloves and inside the thick leather headguard, I saw Greene’s eyes blink with surprise, the bridge of his nose grazed red. Fred danced sideways, light and springy as a dancer on the balls of his feet, arms dangling loosely by his side. Greene plodded after him.

Fred fired a flurry of jabs. They all detonated harmlessly on Greene’s tight, high guard. Emboldened, he stuck out a shy jab of his own. Fred’s head seemed to whip sideways as if on a string and the punch sailed harmlessly over his shoulder.

Now Fred was in the corner. He waved Greene forward, grinning, the blue mouthguard showing. Flat-footed, Greene accepted the invitation. He threw another jab. When he wanted to, Fred had a guard as cosy as a nuclear bunker – hands held high and close together, elbows tucked into his ribcage, chin down. He bounced against the ropes, inviting Greene to hit him. And he did. Jab. Hook. Jab. All of it unanswered by Fred.

Greene’s confidence visibly rose.

He unloaded a right, as slow as a fat man leaving a buffet. Fred slipped the punch and, more from instinct than malice, dug a short left hook into Greene’s ribcage. The air came out of him with a whoosh and he sank to one knee, his head hanging down, his elbow tucked into his side, as if trying to understand the source of this sudden and terrible pain.

Fred was immediately kneeling by the bigger man’s side, a protective arm around his shoulder.

‘I know I should be able to hit a bit harder,’ Greene said, his face contorted with pain. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s not about how hard you can hit,’ Fred said. ‘It’s about how hard you can get hit and then keep going.’

At this hour the gym was almost empty. They went on the pads, Fred holding up the worn leather mitts for Greene to hit, all the while giving him instructions.

‘Get that jab out faster. Don’t let the punch fade away. Harder, faster, sharper. Keep your guard up. You’re so lucky to be training!’

And behind it all, there was the secret knowledge that boxing gives you. There is good stuff inside you. You are better than you know.