Knockout (Sequel to Dark)

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.
"Harry."
He blinks as if he's seeing me properly for the first time. I lay a hand on his right that's curled tight around the rope.
"Please, get up."
The ref won't interfere. If he doesn't move, his competitor will continue until he's unconscious. A dirty fight with no morals, no human decency.
"You're here," he wheezes.
Harry just about manages a smile.
"Yes, and you need to get up for me."
Before Harry can think to comply he's dragged away and slammed into the middle of the ring. Energy that once seemed lost now pumps through him, boosting his motivation and gifting him with the drive to put up a fight. He's still spent, but manages to just about roll away before he's hammered into the floor by a swinging fist. I wince as he valiantly takes a kick to his right side only to struggle to his knees and land a solid hit to his opponent's middle.
The guy is clearly more or a boxer, looking awkward and off kilter when trying to work a jabbing knee or foot into his attack routine. He's more top heavy than Harry, who's comfortable in using his whole body to achieve a dynamic mix of onslaught. It's also alarmingly clear the hits Harry's taken to his face earlier on in the fight have become a nuisance to his already impaired vision. The time it takes to wipe blood from his eyes makes him vulnerable to deadly right hooks. He won't last much longer.
Mack's nowhere to be seen and flagging down the ref proves harder in practise than theory. He's not looking out for demanding girls on the side-lines; he's more concerned about dodging the fight he's overseeing in the ring. Flailing my arms doesn't do the trick. I shove my fingers into the mouth to produce the loudest whistle I can. It attracts the attention I so desperately want. The ref shifts over, crouching down to give me an ear.
"Give him a time out!" I order over the noise.
"It doesn't work like that."
I grapple the ropes, leaning further up.
"He can't see properly out of one eye, with all the blood he's basically blind. Just let me sort that out and you can put him back in the ring," I grit.
He sighs heavily, shaking his head before I'm given a stiff answer.
"Fine, you have two minutes."
There's hostile complaint from the crowd as the fight is broken up. The ref encourages a dazed Harry into my corner where I'm waiting, stood on the edge of the raised ring the other side of the ropes. I steady him as he stumbles.
"What happened?"
"I can't see," he heatedly says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "You're here, I thought you weren't coming."
"Well, I didn't come to see you get your arse beat."
Mack dumps a bottle of water over Harry's head, which ultimately puts an end to our conversation with undignified splutters. I'm handed an old t-shirt to wipe Harry's face, concentrating on the cuts and applying pressure before Mack hurriedly applies sticky bandages.
"Don't let him hit you in the face again, Harry."
I scramble for the band on my wrist. Harry bows his head towards me as I take handfuls of his hair and tie it out of his face. It's a haphazard bun, but it'll have to do because we're out of time.
"Don't give up. Go kick his fucking arse!"
Mack helps me down into the audience a second before Harry's barrelled into. He's got conviction in the punches he throws but I worry it's not enough. I hopelessly watch as he's hit, again and again. The impacts he'd taken early on have rendered him weaker, unable to recover and more susceptible to violent assaults that follow.
"Come on, baby," I hush to myself.
He's using everything he's got, slamming elbows and knees to extinguish any counter attack. And the crowd love it, elated to have some worthy competition back into what was starting to look like a one-sided fight.
My shoulder is bumped, a hand taking my upper arm and a mouth to my ear.
"I don't think your boy's got it in him to come back from this one."
His breath is rancid with alcohol as I wrench my body away from his. The cold, crooked smile he exhibits has my blood run cold.
"Oh, piss off," I spit.
But it's almost as though his words have flipped a switch because when I return to the 'entertainment', Harry's pinned on his back with a knee to his chest. There's nothing I can do but watch in horror as he helplessly tries to block any inbound fists to the face. The other competitor is bigger in statue and presence, a hard line to his jaw and a wild look in his eyes as he anchors Harry's right arm to the ring floor.
"Come on, Harry! Get up!"
There's other bellowing to match my tone of support, people backing the underdog. Mack's with me, calling out to the ref to do his job properly, despite the "no rules apply" policy. Then suddenly, Harry is freed; the man laying waste to him is up and sauntering over, pressing to the ropes in front of me. He sneers my way before throwing his arms up in celebration and soaking in applause. There's a weighty level of booing aimed his way, but he doesn't seem to care.
It's not until I shimmy around the ring's perimeter that I see Harry rolling on to his side. He's hurt, quite badly, defying the odds and getting to his feet. There are bruises forming on his body, cuts that will heal and scar. The brute still jests with the crowd, oblivious to what's happening behind him.
Harry looks to me and I give him a simple nod.
You can almost hear the crack as Harry's fist crunches into the man's side, ribs fracturing and breaking. He lets out a cry that overshadows the boisterous noise of the club. Curling in on himself to shield his broken bones lays himself out defenceless. Harry spares no mercy when taking him by the shoulders to drag him to the floor. It's while he's writhing in agony that Harry takes the chance to climb on top of him, fighting to restrain his arms before positioning his thighs around the man's neck. There's not much else to the tactful hold other than to squeeze. Harry maintains the tight clench even when rocked to the side.
It's as his competitor's face makes the colour transition from red to blue that Harry's unceremoniously pulled off before he passes out. The crowd are hollering at Harry to finish it, but the fight's already been won. Any further action on Harry's part will condemn him with unjustifiable violence. They're waiting for a knockout. As far as they're concerned it's not over until someone's bloody and moments away from death.
He glances to me and my heart pounds, ready to break free of my chest. I don't hesitant in climbing into the ring with Mack helping to boost me up. My scrabble to ground myself is unbecoming and I'm unwilling held back from reaching Harry as he looms over the defeated man.
"Miss," the ref implores with a steady hand. "Please step out of the ring."
"No."
"Leave her."
We're silenced by Harry's threatening tone. The crowd has fizzled out as they watch with bated breath.
"I'm done," he announces.
As I take his hand, flawed eyes flicker down to the contact. My fingers curl around his and I'm careful not to startle him.
"Let's go," I softly murmur.
***
It's the first time I've seen him smile properly as he silently observes me clean the dried blood from his face. I leave him to pull on a t-shirt before turning back to inspect the bruises he sustained. It's surprise I'm overcome with as I'm lifted from my feet in a close hug. His skin is damp with sweat and glowing with victory. I soak him in, committing to memory the new person he's transformed into. His shoulders are tighter, arms more tense, hands more hesitant. His tattoos are reminders, little sparks to fuel the beginnings of conversations. They're exchanges that we're yet to have.
"I'm so pleased you're here," Harry sighs quietly.
His palms stretch out across my back as he burrows his face to my neck. We're so close it feels as though our bodies sync up, minds reeling at the same pace, hearts pounding in consecutive waves of longing. And somehow all of that abruptly crumbles as his lips brush the corner of my mouth and I stiffen. I can't control my fingers as they pinch at the back of his neck and his hair tangles in my grip. Suddenly, my thoughts are in overdrive and the once comfortable tempo to my pulse is skipping with every second he holds me.
Harry lets me slip from his arms until I'm standing in front of him. There's an angry looking bruise forming on his cheekbone; his body is in tatters but all he's worried about is me.
"Did I do something wrong?"
I turn away, clearing up the medical supplies with trembling hands.
"No."
It seems I'm creating more of a mess than I'm tidying up, so I leave the kit open on the side. Harry's exactly how I left him, with the exception of him now looking down at his feet.
"Did you want to get a drink? It doesn't have to be here, we could go somewhere else."
My legs feel like jelly as I clutch back at the counter. Harry instantly moves forward and the hand on my waist is burning hot through my clothes.
"Bo?"
"Sorry, I'm just really tired," I ramble. "What with you and James and uni work, it's got me all over the place."
I know my mistake as soon as the words leave my mouth. Harry draws away and over to the bench that his clothes are sprawled out on.
"James," he repeats, idly playing with the zip on his bag. I know it's so he doesn't have to look at me; and I'm glad. "Who's he?"
I find myself feeling guilty, at the fact that I've not told him yet and that I let him kiss me.
"Someone that I'm seeing at the moment."
"Like dating. Your boyfriend?"
He looks crestfallen. Disappointment bites at his lip as his eyebrows pull together and he stews over the news for a moment before his features harden. The sturdy shape to his jaw tightens along with the way he holds himself.
"We've not really discussed it yet."
"You like him though?" he firmly questions.
"Yeah, he's nice."
"Nice," Harry almost scoffs. "I would have thought you'd have strived for something more than just nice. Sounds boring."
"Yeah, well that's what I want now; to know where he is and not worry about him all the time. Something boring and uncomplicated," I coldly remark.
There's a tension building between us and I'm unsure of the specific emotions fuelling it. The way he's looking at me suggests something more than just frustration. It's itching away at both of us as Harry steps forward.
"Compared to what?" he hums. "To us?"
I shake my head because I don't want to remember us. I've only just locked those memories away and for them to flood me again would be too much. There's little hesitation in his movements, his nervousness wiped clean and substituted with ill placed vengeance to counter my apparent dismissal.
"You know," he starts bitterly, "after we broke up, I used to get blind drunk," his unintentional pun doesn't go unnoticed with his small smile. "I'd drink so they'd look like you."
The revelation suddenly makes me sick to my stomach and now I want to leave.
"Some girls don't care, but I know others are a bit wary," he gestures towards his face. "I took one girl back to my flat though, she was kinda your height, dark hair."
There's a waver in his speech, a small smile as the ends of my hair are lightly taken between his fingers. I soon wish the fleeting pause would continue, anything to scratch away his cutting words.
"She didn't smell like you though, when I took her to bed and kissed her neck."
"Fuck you."
I'm astounded the door isn't taken off its hinges by the crack of force I open it with. It's left wide as I hasten towards Mack's office where my coat and bag are draped over the back of his chair. Harry's pursuit commences seconds later, feet thundering down the corridor after me. He's behind me but I remain stubbornly facing away. Fury sweeps my body in a burning rage.
"Do you think I'm spiteful?"
I reel in the temptation of booting him in the shin as on some level I decide he's gone through enough tonight.
"I think you're cruel," I reply, shoving past him.
I'm almost to the door when undecided fingers brush my arm before choosing to lightly take my wrist. Mack's just the other end of the corridor, unsure whether he should intrude on the situation. I shake my head in silent communication that everything is fine and he disappears through a doorway.
"I called her your name," Harry's voice cracks.
Astonishment has me turn to him. My arm is freed whilst his drops limply to his side. Harry travels backwards until he's supported by Mack's desk, legs kicked out as his head drops to his hands. And just like that, my boiling wrath calms.
"She slapped me so hard I could feel it for like two days after," he lightly jokes. "I never brought anyone back after that." His hands are brought down and away from his injured face. "It's you, it's always gunna be you."
The strap to my bag slips through my fingers as I make up the ground between us. Kind hands take his face and he's forced to look at me properly. It's taken a while to grow accustomed to his permanent impairment and it's heart wrenching because I don't think he's fully accepted it himself.
I place a soft kiss over his blemished eyelid, pausing to rack my fingers easily through his hair. This is what he needs, someone to be gentle and kind to him.
"I don't want to do this anymore."
Someone to liberate him.
"It's gunna be ok."