Knockout (Sequel to Dark)

Chapter 7

"Who's Harry?"

James doesn't turn, just continues to stir whatever's on the hob. My mind is running away with geopolitical jargon, sifting through terms and phrases to use in a particularly tedious essay. With my feet propped up on the opposite chair and laptop gently warming my legs I'm comfortable in the studying stupor I've become immersed in. My name is called twice before I look up from marked pages.

"Huh?"

My laptop beeps for a third time, begging for a charge. It's as I'm searching for the cable James speaks again.

"Harry. You have a text from him."

There's nothing graceful about the way I extract myself from my essay clogged corner. Reflexes fail me as books fall cover up and open on the floor. I clumsily navigate the furniture between myself and my phone. James adds more ingredients for dinner as I open the message. He's subtle in his intrigue, but his fascination doesn't go unnoticed.

From Harry:

I've got another fight on Saturday. Will you be there?

My thumbs tap out a speedy reply, ensuring my attendance. I spend a silly amount of time determining whether it's appropriate to end the message with an 'x'. Sod it. I wait for the sending bar to run across the top of the screen before shoving my phone into my pocket.

"Everything alright?" James questions.

There's a look of concern spiralling in his eyes, coupled with a firm press of pursed lips.

"Yeah, it's fine."

"You don't answer my texts that fast," he jokes without his normal jovial laugh.

My stomach plummets.

I'm not cheating.

***

I bustle up outside the club, breathless and exhausted. There was an accident on the journey here, a motorbike, scuffed and on its side. With the police only allowing one stream of traffic past the collision, it's taken longer than I would have liked to get here. There's a queue which I forgo, much to the complaints of others waiting outside, before making my way past the bouncer to within the stifling warmth.

Mack's waiting for me with an anxious crease to his brow whilst he picks at his fingernails. His head shoots up when I take his arm, nerves coiled like a spring.

"I'm late. I'm sor-"

"He's already on," he interrupts.

"How's he doing?" I almost shout whilst he helps me wrestle out of my coat.

"He's on the ropes. You should get down there, Bo."

Mack takes my things to secure in his office. The air is polluted with alcohol on the tongue and breath of people that object to my pushing. My shirt is damp with overspills from glasses by the time I get down to the frontline of the fight, and I'm saddened by what I see.

He's in a bad way, barely ducking to avoid what could have been a lethal blow to the face. I shove forward, elbowing a path right to the front, close enough to cling to the edge of the ring. Harry's slumped against the ropes, a cut on the bridge of his nose and just above his eyebrow gives the harrowing image of him crying crimson tears.

"Get up," I beg.

He looks utterly exhausted, chest heaving with the effort of physical performance. The inky images and scripts upon his skin appear darker with perspiration. His egotistic challenger is swanning around the fighting platform, too busy providing a sickening show for the audience to notice our interaction.