After the fight, a weekday morning bled the club dry. It was half past midnight. The crowd had eaten and drunk well, and with the momentum of the fight spent they rolled to a dead stop. The losing boxer emerged walking unaided, with an overcoat draped around his shoulders, and a woman I took to be his girlfriend following behind, trying to conceal the tears in her eyes. I could feel pity for him, now that he was no longer a threat to my chosen champion. I thought about going up and congratulating him, but decided against it. To give myself something to do I took out my cigar and attempted to bite off the end as I had seen people do on television, accidentally filling my mouth with foul-tasting tobacco leaves. I spat discreetly into my hand. I sat in one of the deep leather armchairs in the library, and watched the crowd file past, waiting for Michael to come out. In accordance with his intentions I envied him his life, his connection to this strange building and to the people I had seen next door. I was filled with the need to belong. He came out with his arm around the hero of the hour, leaning in towards him and whispering something in his ear. Francis had put on DJ trousers and a dress shirt, unbuttoned to the waist, stained with blood and wine. His bowtie hung around his neck like misplaced laurels. He was carrying his jacket over his shoulder, and limping slightly on his right leg. But for the bruising on his face I could not have guessed he had just been fighting. He looked like a rakish model emerging from an epic party. The two girls, the beautiful one in the evening dress and the shorter mistress of ceremonies in her tracksuit and vest came out behind them. The latter was holding a small black box of the type used to store money at outside events. She swung her arm with each step, and I could hear the tidal roar of change sliding backwards and forwards as she walked. She set the box down on the table by the fireside and opened it. I felt a little unseemly peeking at the contents, as if through a lit window at a woman changing, but I could not help myself, and was amazed at the mess of notes that sprung up like a pile of autumn leaves from the metal interior. To my unpractised eye it looked like a couple of thousand pounds. Without a flicker of wonder she took a handful of notes, tapped it quickly down to straighten it out in her hands, and began to deal in piles from fives to fifties. Her apparent indifference to the quantity of money awed me more than the money itself. Michael gestured to me, and said some words to the remaining couple, at which the other girl broke off and came over to me.

‘Don’t get up. I’m Jessica,’ she said, taking my hand in a firm shake. I took her hand at the level of her groin. The curve of her hip bones was visible through the black material of her dress, which opened at the side to disclose a sliver of thigh. She had a little dried blood on her shoulder, a rusty stain from where she had embraced Francis, and I could smell his fresh sweat under her perfume.