Dutch Holland examined his right eye, which had started to swell. 'Not much harm done,' he said, smearing fresh vaseline over the eyelid. 'At least it's not cut. How's your sight?'
Togger was sponging Peekay down, trying unsuccessfully not to look worried as Peekay sucked on the water bottle and rinsed his mouth and then spat into the bucket at his feet. 'Fine, Dutch, I can see fine. Christ, he hits hard!'
'You can't leave it to chance, my son. We reckon he's taken three. You're going to have to look very convincing in this one, lad.'
Hymie pointed to Habib, who was standing, punching his gloves together, waiting for the bell. He was still breathing hard but trying to conceal it, glaring over at Peekay. 'Look! His heart!' Hymie exclaimed. 'He's taken a lot of punishment.'
'You've marked him, lad. That's nice close work. He's hurting. Work it, work it hard, keep going under the heart,' Dutch instructed.
'As always, you'll wear him down and finish him on the ropes,' Hymie added lamely. There is a time in a dose fight when there is nothing to say. Hymie was simply covering his concern with words.
Peekay understood what they were saying. He had to do more than win the round convincingly to be sure of the fight. 'He's bloody strong. I don't know whether I've got time,' Peekay replied.
'So are you, my son, fitter and stronger. The punch that put you down would have finished off any other welter in Britain.' Dutch said. He was concerned. Peekay had let the fight slip away. All Habib had to do was hang in and he could win. Dutch was no longer concerned with Peekay making a good showing; he'd seen enough already to know he had the makings of a champion, one with the skill to take him to the top. Peekay was now into the part of the fight which requires character, where the men are sorted from the boys, the would be's if they could be's. Whatever happened in the next three minutes, Dutch would have all his questions answered.
The bell went for the final round and Peekay moved into the centre of the ring. He knew he had to knock Habib out to win but the Algerian was crowding him, working up too close for a big punch. Peekay was hurting a lot, the blows from the French Algerian were remorseless. He was taking most of them on the back of the arms, and he could feel his arms starting to weaken. He needed to dig deep, deeper than he'd ever been before. Hoppie Groenewald's voice came to him suddenly. It was clean, unhurried. 'Always Peekay, remember, first with the head and then with the heart. A fighter must have himself a plan. Always a plan!' At precisely that moment, as though Peekay and Hymie were synergised, Hymie turned to Dutch Holland, his dark eyes shining fiercely. 'Peekay will take him out, Dutch! I'm telling you, manâ¦no way he's going to lose this fight!'
Dutch shook his head. 'Our lad's spent, 'e 'asn't got the punch no more to put Habib on the deck.'
Peekay switched suddenly to southpaw, as Habib moved in again. Habib expected him to back away and he held his gloves a little low, confident Peekay wasn't going to come after him. The switch in style caught him by surprise as Peekay moved forward and hit him with a left cross, followed through with a hard right.
Peekay needed those two punches to slow Habib down, to move him backwards onto the ropes. There he had to open him up, where he could work him to the body, to the spot under his heart. There was only one way. He must offer the Arab his head as a target, hope he could ride the punch, and force the Algerian to open up. He was gambling that he could read Habib, that the other fighter would follow his big punch with a left hook, miss and leave himself wide open for a hard left to the head. Habib would bring his gloves up to protect his head from the expected right hand and in doing so, he'd leave his torso open, where Peekay could hit him with everything he had under the heart. Peekay needed an eight-punch combination, a Geel Piet eight solidly into the spot to slow the other fighter right down, allow Peekay to box him, and wait for the big punch that might put him out. It was a plan which depended on Peekay reading the Algerian perfectly; but he couldn't think of a better one. If he'd underestimated the power still left in Habib's straight right, his opponent would knock him out. He had no choice; winning the round was not enough. He had to take the chance.
Peekay opened his gloves, closing them again, opening again, signalling, offering his head. Habib saw his chance as Peekay opened just a little wider, and the right smashed into Peekay's swollen eye. Perfect. The eye socket, the strongest part of the face, absorbed the power of the punch as Peekay rolled with it. Habib's left hook followed but Peekay wasn't in line for the punch. Instead his own left smashed into Habib's nose. It was the hardest punch Peekay could ever remember having thrown. Habib staggered back against the ropes, his nose broken, his good eye filling with tears. He was blinded, and his gloves came up instinctively to cover his face as Peekay knew they would. Then Peekay's right hook came from low down, with all the follow-through from his shoulder to catch the French Algerian under the heart. The left had been a spectacular punch, but it was the right hook that did the terrible damage. It was the best punch thrown all night and he could feel Habib's ribcage give as the blow ripped into his body. In went the Geel Piet eight, so fast that Habib's agonised grunt from the deadly right hook was still coming out of him when Peekay pulled back.
Habib sank to the canvas as though in slow motion. He was unconscious before his knees hit the surface of the ring.
But even so, his right arm hooked around the centre rope and his left glove pushed against the canvas propping him up. He may have been out but he wasn't going to lie down.
The blood ran into Peekay's eye where Habib had hit him earlier. The eye was closing rapidly and even his good eye was less than fifty per cent effective, as though he was looking through a red haze. If Habib managed to get up from the canvas and landed half a good punch into the eye,
Peekay was history; you can't fight if you can't see. Peekay felt no elation as Habib's arm dropped from the rope and he sank to the floor. For the first time in the fight he was really scared. He had nothing left.
Peekay moved quickly to a neutral corner, conscious that every second delayed gave the French Algerian time to recover. For the first time he heard the roar of the crowd. At the count of seven Habib managed to stand, using the ropes to pull himself upright. Peekay couldn't believe his eyes. He'd hit the Algerian harder than he'd ever hit anyone in his life. The punches under the heart, coming as they did, after fifty or more well-timed blows to the same spot should have taken him out for a twenty count. But the bastard was up, facing Peekay, a blood-smeared grin on his swollen face.
The referee seemed in two minds. He wasn't fooled; it was a fighter's grin. He knew Habib was hurt bad. For a moment it looked as though he was going to stop the fight. Oh God, please call it! Peekay begged silently. Please let me win! But the ref wiped Habib's gloves and signalled for the fight to continue.
Peekay closed in and pushed Habib into the ropes with two barely effective straight rights to the face. He came in so his left eye was closest to his opponent, allowing him maximum vision. Habib tried to pull Peekay into a clinch but failed, and brought his gloves up to protect his broken nose.
Peekay dug deep. He was fighting from memory, the years and years of doing it right, putting all his punches together for the maximum effect. The orthodox right hook under the heart from Peekay was almost polite it was so businesslike. Earlier in the fight it may just have stopped Habib momentarily; but now it was enough. The French Algerian grunted softly, it was almost a moan as he toppled onto the canvas. He was out cold before he hit the deck. One minute and forty-five seconds into the last round, Habib had fallen over like a sack of potatoes. The referee stood over him counting, but it was a mere formality. Habib still hadn't moved as he was counted out.
The crowd exploded with excitement and the stadium was in an uproar. They'd found a new champion. 'Angel! Angel! Angel!' they chanted.
Hymie turned to Dutch. 'What did I tell you!' he screamed. He was climbing into the ring when he telt Togger brush past him. Togger rushed over to Peekay and, grabbing him about the thighs, hoisted him off the deck.
'You was bleedin' sensational. The best, the best! The world champ!' Togger yelled. He swung Peekay around to where the Odd Bodleians were seated before putting him down. They were all on their feet yelling 'Angel! Angel! Angel!' with the crowd, their arms held high above their heads.
Hymie pointed to them, then grabbed Peekay and hugged him. 'Christ, when the Arab got up again, I think I shat my pants!'
'Me too!' Peekay gasped.
Dutch Holland remained in his corner, all his questions about Peekay answered. 'You'll do, my son, you'll do very nicely,' he said quietly to himself.
Peekay, flanked by an excited Hymie and Togger, returned to the corner. Dutch Holland looked at Peekay angrily. "Ere, lad, that's living too fuckin' dangerously! Next time you offer your bleedin' noggin as a trade for a chance to knock your opponent out you better find yourself another trainer!'
In fact, it was the courage and critical judgement that showed in this very decision which made Dutch Holland finally sure he had a world champ on his hands. Dutch hoped that Peekay would never again have to repeat the tactic. Peekay had been mismatched. It was the French Algerian's arrogance and temperament which had cost him the fight. That wouldn't happen again. The next time Peekay stepped into the ring his opponent would treat him with the utmost respect. In future his skills as a boxer would decide the outcome of his fights. Nevertheless, Holland was deeply gratified that the young man in his charge had come through his baptism of fire with nothing more than a couple of black eyes and a bruised rib or two. It was a small enough price to pay to find out he had a lad on his hands who had the courage to kiss the knife. Dutch knew that from such raw material world champions are made.
Peekay held out his right hand for Hymie to remove his glove. He was stunned by Dutch Holland's reaction. His body was covered with red blotches where Habib had hit him and his right eye was closed. He winced, trying to smile. 'Shit! Nobody told me it was this hard!' he said, trying not to seem upset by his trainer's remark.
'Welcome to the professional ranks, my son. You're going to have to learn to put 'em away sooner. Saves a lot of wear 'n tear on the old carcass,' Dutch said without smiling.
Peekay fought back his tears. Christ what do I have to do? What does the bastard want? he thought. He kept his head down so that Hymie couldn't see how upset he was and held out his left glove for his friend to remove.
'Oi! Fair go, Mr 'Olland! Peekay done marvellous! He knocked 'im bleedin' out didn't 'e? 'E's never been put down before, never!' Togger yelled, defiant and plainly upset for his friend.
Dutch Holland looked down at Togger. 'You're right son,' he said quietly. 'He's done bleedin' wonderful, but he's a toffee nose, these intellectuals can't take too much praise all at once.'
'Try starting with just a little bit, then, Dutch,' Hymie shot back at the trainer, his sarcasm plain.
'There's plenty of time for that later, Mr Levy! If the lad had ten per cent more going for him in both 'ands he'd have been enjoying an early shower. We got lots of work to do if we gonna take your man anywhere special. I haven't got no time to stand around throwin' bleedin' bouquets.'
Not wanting to show his feelings, Peekay excused himself 'and walked over to Habib's corner.
'Merci,'
he said, smiling, nodding his head to Habib's manager and seconds. One of them held an ice pack against Habib's face so that the Algerian fighter hadn't seen Peekay approach.
'Merci, mon ami, j'espère que je ne rencontre jamais un pugiliste qui me bat
si
fort que vous,'
Peekay said, in halting schoolboy French.
The second withdrew the ice pack. The French Algerian's nose was badly swollen. The bleeding from his left eye had been stemmed but the eye itself was completely closed and raised well above his cheekbone, and he could barely see out of the other eye. Habib was surprised to see Peekay, but took only a moment to smile. Sniffing back a trickle of blood which had begun again from his nose, he rose from his stool and, taking Peekay's arm, he held it aloft to cheers from the crowd.
'One day you will be world champion, Tadpole Angel,' he said, speaking in French. 'Then I will say,
"Eh bien!
He's not so great, one time I nearly knocked him out!'"
Jam Jar had invited Hymie and Peekay to the Savoy with the Odd-Bodleian crowd for a champagne supper, calling Hymie from across the ring as they were leaving for the dressing room. 'Wonderful fight, brought out positively the worst in me! Loved it!'
Hymie nodded, acknowledging his invitation, 'The singingâ¦it was marvellous!' He imitated playing a violin, 'You were terrific'
Harriet declined to accompany them to the Savoy. She hadn't realised just how much tougher professional boxing was than the amateur sport and she'd winced with every blow Peekay had absorbed. By the time the fight had ended she was exhausted and had a splitting headache. E.W., who'd travelled up from Dorset that morning for the fight, was also tired and elected to escort Harriet home in a taxi.
Harriet was anxious to be on her own. She'd seen an aspect of Peekay she'd only previously glimpsed, the ruthless determination to win. She'd been seated in the front row directly beneath Peekay when he'd taken the full impact of Habib's punch to the head in the last round and had thrown the right counter smashing the bone and cartilage in Habib's nose. She'd been watching Peekay and not the punch. The expression on his face as he landed the counterpunch had sent a shiver down her spine. It was the most primitive, ruthless fight she'd ever witnessed. In the few seconds that followed she'd seen the very core of the male animal, when he wages death with himself, the moment when he lays everything he is on the line.