He closes the door and as I stand looking up and down the street it starts to rain.

‘Shit,’ I cry, huddling into a doorway. ‘I just wanted a night in.’

I take out my phone and call Connor’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. Then I see a group of men outside a grey building on the other side of the street. They are dressed in gym gear and one of them is holding a kitbag. I dash across the street, almost slipping on the wet pavement.

‘Excuse me,’ I shout as I draw level with them. ‘I’m looking for the boxing event. Have I got the right place?’

One of them, a young black guy with cropped hair, smirks as he looks at my sodden trouser suit.

‘Yep,’ he says, gesturing to the door behind me. ‘Down those stairs.’

I follow some of the men inside and find myself in a dark corridor. The air smells of sweat and cheap deodorant and the walls are covered in graffiti and torn posters.

‘Through there,’ says a voice behind me.

I turn. It’s the young guy from outside. He gestures ahead of him.

‘Thanks,’ I say as I make my way into the gloom.

The corridor opens into a small, square room, with a large boxing ring in the centre. It’s already heaving with people and as I squeeze through I see Connor standing with two men at the edge of the ring. He looks up as I approach and starts to laugh.

‘Oh dear, what happened to you?’ he says, pulling me towards him and kissing my cheek. ‘This is Hanif and Bobby, by the way,’ he says, gesturing to the two men standing next to him.

‘It started to rain,’ I say, smiling politely at the two men, who look more interested in the ring. I start to sway on my feet. The heat of the room is making me feel light-headed. ‘And I got lost. You said it was a black building but it’s grey.’

‘Sorry about that,’ he says, looking around the room distractedly. ‘Anyway, you’re here now and the fight’s just about to start.’

‘What?’ I say, but my voice is drowned out by the sound of Rag’n’Bone Man’s ‘Human’ blasting at full volume.

The lights go down and then a solitary spotlight falls on the entrance. I watch as a dark, hooded figure enters the room, bouncing on his feet like a springbok.

‘That’s Mark Fahey, the champion,’ whispers Connor in my ear. His breath smells of stale beer. It makes me feel nauseous. ‘The guy in the ring is Julius Morris, the contender.’

I look at the ripped guy standing in the centre of the ring. His eyes are blazing as he smashes his gloved fists together. There’s a strange energy in the room that unsettles me, the prelude to something nasty.