Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [55]
The barker headed for the side of the ring, where more people held the ropes apart for him. Sherlock tried to follow him, but the ropes snapped back up into place and the men, women and children in the crowd jeered as he approached. Stones were flung at him, causing him to back away into the centre of the ring.
The other fighter strode over, his gaze flickering around the crowd and drawing their applause. He was at least six inches taller than Sherlock, and bigger around the chest. His hands looked like two leather bags filled with walnuts. ‘Up to scratch,’ he grunted.
‘What?’
The fighter indicated two parallel lines that had been cut into the grass, about three feet apart. ‘You stand behind one; I stand behind the other. When the bell goes, we fight. That’s the way it goes.’
‘I don’t want to fight,’ Sherlock protested.
‘That’s your choice, boy,’ the fighter snarled. ‘I still got to make it last five minutes, an’ your head’ll look like minced meat if you don’t protect yourself.’ He eyed Sherlock critically. ‘An’ it’ll prob’ly look that way even if you do,’ he added. He shoved Sherlock towards the nearest line in the grass. ‘Hands up, protect your face. An’ keep standin’ up. If you fall, I’ll kick you till you stand again.’
‘I thought the referee said no hitting a man when he was down.’
The fighter shrugged. ‘Didn’t say nothin’ about kick-in’.’
Sherlock, disbelieving, moved to his mark. The fighter stood with his booted feet on the other line. Sherlock glanced around, looking for someone, anyone who might help, but the faces looking back at him were flushed, sweaty and distorted by aggression. There was no way out.
A bell rang.
Sherlock stepped back just as his opponent’s fist swished past his nose. He brought his hands up to defend himself, backing away as the other man stepped forward. The crowd roared. He’d seen pictures of boxers in books, watched a few fights in the Deepdene gymnasium, even sparred a little himself, and he took up the position that he remembered – hands clenched into fists and held high in front of him – but his opponent obviously hadn’t read the same books and lumbered forward, swinging his arms in sideways from shoulder height. Sherlock took a blow to his own left shoulder – the one that Clem had hurt the other night – and felt agony pouring down his arm like liquid metal. His hand dropped uselessly to his side. How had this happened? Only a minute ago he’d been anonymous in the crowd, and now he was the centre of all attention! It was almost as if something, someone, had been guiding the crowd, pushing them to this very moment.
The other fighter stepped closer, ready to punch upward into Sherlock’s face, so Sherlock stepped backwards and lashed out with his right fist. Incredibly, he connected with the man’s nose. He felt something crack under his fingers, and blood waterfalled down the man’s chin and chest. The other fighter jerked backwards and breathed out explosively, spraying blood over Sherlock’s shirt, then punched his right hand straight out into Sherlock’s chest. The impact knocked Sherlock backwards. Pain radiated across his ribs. For a moment he thought his heart had stopped. He tried breathing in, but his lungs wouldn’t work. He bent double, trying to force some air into his throat. A hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and threw him across the grass. The impact of his body on the ground forced the last remnants of air from his lungs, and he was suddenly sucking great breaths again. He rolled away as a foot smashed into the ground where his head had been, and scrambled to his feet.
The other fighter’s face was a mask of blood, broken only by two narrowed and furious eyes and the snarling line of his teeth. He stepped towards Sherlock and punched twice, left hand to Sherlock’s ribs and right hand to the side of Sherlock’s head. Pain filled Sherlock’s world, red and raw. Everything seemed so far away. He was falling, but he didn’t feel the impact as he hit the ground.
Darkness claimed him, and he went willingly.
CHAPTER TEN