his left, swiveling at the hips as he constantly shifted his body weight to maximize the impact of each punch. Finally the man could bear the pain no more and was forced to drop his arms to his sides for protection, leaving his face and the cut exposed. Instantly he sensed the man’s mistake, his body slightly straightening and rising as he channeled every ounce of power into his left fist that hooked and flashed through the air, tearing into the cut above the man’s brow. Heavy droplets of maroon blood danced into the sky before splashing on a group of drunken, baying men standing nearby, making them curse and cheer together. A savage right fist parted the man’s elbows and hands as it travelled towards his exposed chin, crashing into the jawbone and rocking his head backwards and at last he collapsed to the floor, blood from his ruptured brow seeping to the surface and pooling under the side of his head. A man in black trousers and a bloodstained white shirt, adorned with an oversized bowtie stepped in front of the stricken man, protecting him from his assailant, furiously waving his arms to warn everyone that the fight was over.
The victor was ordered into a neutral corner of the boxing-ring, forcing himself to retreat from the man lying at his feet, fighting his instinct to finish his adversary once and for all, to eliminate him as a possible risk forever, cursing the padded gloves that cramped his hands and lessened the impact of his blows – deprived him of the pleasure of feeling the man’s skin breaking over his knuckles – blood staining his hands in victory. The rules of the ring had given him some control over the ugly demons that beat in his chest, but when he was in a fight and had his quarry run to ground he cursed their restrictions and confinement. ‘Get up,’ he muttered through his gum-shield. ‘Get up.’ He wasn’t finished with the man on the floor – wasn’t finished punishing him for crimes he hadn’t committed – wasn’t finished beating the man in the same way he’d beaten his own father in his dreams – wasn’t finished seeking redemption and revenge for his own tortured childhood. But the man in the shirt and bowtie waving his arms told him the fight was indeed over – at least the one in the ring.
He headed back to his own corner where his trainers and team waited with water bottles and towels, only to be intercepted by a man in a suit carrying a microphone who’d stepped under the ropes, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling his gloved fist aloft. He tried to pull away, but was held firm, the man’s beaming face contrasting starkly with his own grimace, the white gum-shield making his mouth appear swollen and ape-like as he peered through his head-guard into the crowd of hundreds of people who’d packed in to the York Hall, Battersea to watch their own kind fighting each other while they drank heavily; some to forget, some for enjoyment and some to escape from the realities of the job they all shared, even if just for a short time. The booze made them brave, almost every member of the crowd now convinced they too could climb into the ring and fight as mercilessly and efficiently as he had.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the suited man sang into the microphone, ‘the winner of this year’s Metropolitan Police Lafone Cup, for the middle-weight category – representing ‘3’ Area – a round of applause please for PC Sean Corrigan.’ Cheering mixed with boos, and hand clapping with the sound of stomping feet as Sean scanned the crowd – confused by the faces surrounding him – some smiling joyously while others were twisted with hate and anger, until he remembered where he was and that the fight had only been a boxing match – not like the fights he’d had on the streets of East Dulwich before he’d joined the police, where the right to live in peace, to walk to and from school without losing what little he’d had to the other near-feral children had to be earned with his fists and whatever else it was necessary to use to vanquish any would-be assailant. He wrenched his arm free from the man in the suit and paced back to his corner, continually scanning the faces in the crowd, recognizing a few of them, pushing past the men who waited for him with water and towels, their faces confused by the lack of joy in his as he ducked under the ropes and pushed his way through their small crowd.
‘Sean?’ the head trainer asked, only to be ignored. ‘Sean?’ he shouted above the sound of the crowd, at last making him look around, his eyes red and glassy as if he’d just spent days in armed combat. ‘You alright, son?’ Still no answer, just the coldest of stares from Sean’s deep blue eyes. ‘What the fuck’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing,’ he finally replied. ‘Just get me out of here.’ The trainer nodded as if he understood, even though he didn’t. He draped a wet towel over Sean’s head and began to lead him through the crowd towards the changing room, oblivious to the two men sat at the back of the hall watching them – studying them.
* * *
‘He did well – your boy,’ Detective Chief Superintendent Charlie Bannan told the stocky, muscular man sitting next to him. ‘Is he as good an Old Bill as he is a boxer?’
‘He is that,’ Detective Sergeant Dave Donnelly answered. ‘One of our rising stars, you might say. He’s only been out of uniform a few months, but he’s certainly getting himself noticed. He was dragged up in East Dulwich, so he already knows the streets. He’s going to make a fine detective one day, so long as he can keep his nose clean.’
‘A trouble causer?’
‘Not really, but he has a bit of a temper – from time to time.’
‘Don’t we all,’ Bannan dismissed it, missing the deeper look of concern in Donnelly’s eyes.
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Donnelly told him, ‘he’s instinctive. I mean the boy’s really fucking unbelievable – like he just seems to know. I’ve seen him identify suspects for residential burglaries without a shred of evidence just by flicking through intelligence records. He has some talent – I’ll tell you that.’
‘One of those?’
‘Excuse me?’ Donnelly questioned.
‘Nothing,’ Bannan told him.
‘You know what I’m working on at the moment?’
‘Aye. The Parkside rapes.’
‘It’s a big old enquiry and it’s going to get bigger before it’s over. Do you think your boy would benefit from an attachment? I could use an extra body.’
‘Sure,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘I’ll send him over tomorrow. But remember he’s still very green. Don’t over expose him – nothing too heavy.’
‘Of course. I’ll keep him away from the front line – door-to-door and canvassing only. He’ll be bored, but he needs to learn his trade somewhere.’
‘That he does.’
Bannan smoothed his golden-blond bushy moustache and then pushed his longer than normal hair back from his eyes before pulling a packet of tobacco and rolling paper from his jacket pocket. He nimbly constructed a thin cigarette and lit up, inhaling deeply into his chest. Despite only being five-foot-eight-inches tall he always seemed much bigger – his deep London accent, intelligent eyes and standing amongst other detectives made him appear twice his size. ‘What about you,’ he asked as he blew a plume of smoke into the hall that was already heavy with man-made smog, ‘fancy an attachment to the enquiry? I could use a DS I can trust.’
‘No thanks, guv’nor. As soon as I’ve served my time on division I’ll be looking to get back on the Flying Squad.’
‘Fair enough,’ Bannan told him. ‘And how is life as a DS, by the way?’
‘Grand. Certainly beats being a DC and getting all the shit jobs.’
‘Well, you know what they say about shit? It always rolls down hill. DS – best rank in the Met. Think
