KNOCKOUT - chapter 3
"When does he fight?" I pryingly enquire.
I've accepted a drink, non-alcoholic, what with the long drive back home. Mack's giving me odd looks as I return my devotion to him after scanning the room for the third time. It's precautionary. I know Harry's gone; an abrupt exit with a stunned crowd and an unconscious competitor was pretty conclusive. But I still keep my wits about me.
"Huh?" he strains over the noise.
"Harry, when does he normally fight?"
"Most weekends, occasionally during the week," Mack almost shouts in reply. "Come through to the back, it's quieter."
I shuffle along behind him, dodging people who can't seem to keep their drink steady. I feel oddly privileged to follow Mack through the door label, "PRIVATE". It was used as an entrance and exit for the fighters a little while before and yet again I'm overcome with a sense that I'm trespassing. A short walk down the corridor leads us to an office at the back. It's not overly big, but the space is used well, desk, computer, filing cabinet, and a not so well hidden safe.
"Look, if you want to meet him, I can arrange something, Bo."
My head turns so quickly I think I've jarred my neck. I rub at the nape trying to ease the discomfort. Mack's sat at the desk, riffling through paperwork in order to retrieve his phone which has just pinged with a text.
"With Harry?" I ask, my eyebrows shooting up.
He doesn't look up, instead rummages in the furniture's drawers.
"Yeah, I mean, it might be a bit difficult," he pauses with a grimace. "He's not really a people person. But even I know that he must have something going for him. Since he's been here, the amount of women turning up on his fight nights have increased."
"No, that's ok," I shake my head.
"Sure? I can tell him you're a fan. I know the - urr.." he gestures in the general area of his face, leaving me puzzled before continuing. "It's a bit intimidating, but he's alright."
"No, thanks."
I can tell he's about to nose further into my fascination with one of his fighters, so I quickly change the subject.
"What's that?"
Of the paper collection on his desk, the one I pick up is handwritten. Words and occasionally whole sentences have been scribbled out. By the crumpled appearance, it's obvious this single sheet has been given more attention than the others. It's taken from me before I can decipher the recipient.
"A letter," Mack curtly replies.
"Who are you writing to?"
A heavy sigh exhales as he slouches back in his computer chair and I pull out the seat opposite him.
"My girlfriend."
It's spoken with a little unease.
"Is it a love letter?" I ask, smiling more than I probably should.
He shakes his head with a flush colouring his cheeks. It's kind of cute.
"She's been reading these God-awful books where the characters confess their love for each other through the written word."
His nose turns up as though the sentence spoken disgusts him. Romance is often as foreign to some people as a different language, so I don't make any snide remarks.
"It's not like I don't talk to her on the phone every day. She wants me to write down my feelings and send them to her."
"I think it's sweet."
