After a few minutes, the girl standing on the table announced the end of the round by ringing a large bronze bell with a hardwood handle that stood on the table at her side. After that she stopped taking bets. The two fighters struck gloves in a gesture of mutual respect, and backed away into their corners. I was pleased at the sign; the lack of real enmity seemed to excuse my enjoyment of the violence. Jonny was immediately surrounded by two or three men who clenched their fists in excitement, poured words of encouragement into his ears and cleaned the blood from his face with a towel. I could see, however, that he hung his head, and he shook it a couple of times as if in bewilderment. The man who seemed to be his trainer pulled his head back and placed the plastic tip of a bottle in his mouth, squeezing the middle to pump fluid down his throat. The shouting had died down to an uneasy murmur, and the sounds of laughter and greeting could be heard around the ring. Francis sat down on his seat, a high-backed wooden chair that I guessed had come from the head of the dinner table. He spat blood into a silver tureen with sea-shell mouldings that was offered to him by a girl in a simple black cocktail dress. Her blonde hair was held up by a long silver needle, disclosing her high forehead and delicate ears. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and she leant down to kiss him on the cheek. When she came back up, her own high white cheek was stained with blood. It looked like a smear of lipstick. The sight of her tall, elegant figure poised by the chair and his muscular naked body covered in blood and sweat thrilled me. One of the men broke away from Jonny’s camp and went to speak to the dark girl standing on the table. He looked older than the others, and ominously sober. Her brow furrowed. She asked him a question, and he shook his head emphatically, as if driven to reiterate a denial. She shrugged, and stood up straight. Some of the more astute spectators, and those who had handed up particularly large sums of cash, broke away from their conversations to look at her, then the music was turned down and a domino hush spread out through the ranks.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, our medic on call has told me Jonny Woods ain’t in a fit state to finish the fight.’ She opened her mouth to say more, but mouthed inaudibly as a great shout went up from the crowd. She held her hands up, palms down, and stood for a few seconds in the attitude of a Christian martyr, her feet planted firmly apart, her chin high in calm defiance. Though her cheap clothes were out of place, she radiated control. ‘I therefore declare Francis Manley the winner!’ This time the bellowing was less equivocal, as all the crowd, winners and losers, acknowledged the bravery of the victory. She beckoned Francis over from his corner. He came with the blonde woman holding his hand. The dark girl held up his arm by the wrist, still standing on the table, so that her own hand was only raised to her shoulder. There was something faintly ridiculous about seeing this girl standing with her feet level with Francis’s waist, but the heroism of the moment engulfed it and washed it away. The tall blonde girl embraced him. Her dress and hair were pristine, and I loved her disregard for the blood and sweat running off Francis’s skin. He went over to congratulate his opponent. He lifted the other man’s hand into the air, and that seemed to break the warding spell around the ring. The surface tension broken, the edges poured in to the middle. I wanted to share my joy, the spoils of victory, with somebody else, but I did not know anyone else in the room. I could not see Michael. Unwilling to be visibly alone, I went back through the library to find the toilets.