Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

Rawnie knew Jesse was after her, and often she played him along a little. She knew he was royal but, in her opinion, he didn’t come anywhere near her man Freedom. As it was, Jesse stood only five foot seven, but she had to admit he was a looker and she saw the effect he had on the younger girls.

‘Well,’ said Jesse as he leaned casually against the tiny booth, ‘did you have much bokht tonight?’

Rawnie jingled her purse and smiled, and asked if Jesse had done well. He said nothing, just lifted his long, silky eyelashes, and gave her a cheeky grin.

A roar from the crowds inside made them both turn. That was a roar of approval, and it meant that Freedom must be hurt. Jesse turned back to see Rawnie’s frightened face. He kicked at the floor, tossed a stone on to the top of his boot and flicked it away.

‘Dinna worry, he’s no Icmggry. Freedom has to have the taste of blood in his mouth before he gets his temper up.’

There was a massive swell of shouts and boos, and Jesse grinned.

‘See what I mean, that’ll be a few dcrnds gone. Maybe he won’t look so handsome after this, but he can cour for a diddicoy.”

Jesse’s use of the word diddicoy, or outcast, made Rawnie slap him hard, but Jesse just laughed and shook his head which must have been stinging. He ambled off, turning as he went to say, ‘I’ll wait for you, Rawnie. You’ll come to me one day.’

Another huge cheer from the tent made Rawnie shiver and she packed her belongings fast, hauling them into the wagon and then, knowing she shouldn’t, she made her way towards the big tent.

She couldn’t even see the ring from the back of the tent so she shoved and pushed her way closer, ducking under the sweating arms, narrowly missed by clenched fists that were boxing on behalf of Hammer. She dodged men who were so absorbed in the fight they were giving blow-by-blow accounts of it to themselves. She could hear the thudding, cheering and yelling but could still see nothing. She didn’t know how the fight was going, but her little, wiry body wriggled through until she could glimpse the corner of the ring through a tiny gap in the crowd.

Suddenly Rawnie could see Freedom as he sat on his stool, drinking from a bottle of water like a baby, then turning to spit into the bucket. The sweat was dripping from his hair like tears as he leant back against the post. He was rubbed down with a white towel, water was splashed on his face, and then grease was plastered over his eyes. His face looked red, but she could see no cuts, just deep, red marks, and deeper red ones on his chest and shoulders. Then her view was blocked by a screaming fan as the school bell rang for another round.

Rawnie didn’t even know which round they were fighting or who was ahead on points, so she began to burrow her way closer until she stood behind a bench. ‘The bloody palefaces, typical,’ she thought, ‘they are standing right up close to the ring, no wonder the lads at the back are jumping up and down just to get a glimpse.’

Hammer was hammering blows to Freedom’s upper body while Freedom ducked and weaved but seemed unable to find a break in Hammer’s defence. Hammer lowered his head, almost as if he were looking at the floor, but kept his fists up and jabbed, jabbed, then he swung. Three times his heavy blows had connected, but Freedom had taken it and not gone down. Hammer was heaving for breath, hissing between his teeth, and like an old ram he thundered body blows at Freedom, but the bastard just kept on taking them.

This was the hardest fight Freedom had faced to date, and he was at a loss as to how he could get at the man at all, never mind hit him hard enough to floor him. Freedom couldn’t break through Hammer’s defence — his guard — his jabbing fists, like an oncoming tank.

Hammer was huge and overweight, and his punches hurt. One had nearly winded Freedom and if it hadn’t been for the bell he might have gone down. Hammer was judging his man, knew he’d got him foxed, now he needed to close in, but Freedom’s reach held him back. The gyppo, Hammer knew, would go for any advantage he could find. He hadn’t expected the fight to go this far and he’d already lost on the betting that he’d have Freedom down in three. The lad looked as though he could go the distance. But Hammer’s age was against him. He had to get the boy out because there was no way Hammer could go the full fifteen rounds at this pace. He decided to open up a little, let the boy think he’d found a chink in his defences, then he’d use his famous right uppercut.

The crowd was getting resdess. They weren’t getting enough action, and Hammer acted on his decision to open up. It was a fatal mistake; he had misjudged the power of Freedom’s punches, and he felt his left eyebrow split open like an orange. The blood streamed down and he tossed his head like a crazed bull, trying to cut the boy up with his famous Hammerhead, when another sharp blow to his streaming left eye blinded him on that side. He couldn’t see the punches coming, and as he fought on he couldn’t feel them either. They were coming fast, bang bang, one after the other — there was no let-up. The crowd’s boos and hisses were telling Hammer he was losing, but he struggled on, hunched up and tried to get Freedom hemmed into the corner. He knew his eye had to be attended to, the blood was splashing over Freedom’s body. He hung on, leaning his weight on Freedom, hoping to tire him and praying the bell would ring — only the bell would save his neck. But Freedom couldn’t be cornered, and he couldn’t be stopped.

Hammer lurched at Freedom, felt the big arms trying to push him away, but he clung on. The white towel of the referee flicked — it was now spotted with blood, Hammer’s blood, and then the ref. was between them, trying to break Hammer’s hold.

‘Break … Break… Come on, break!’ The referee hauled Hammer off Freedom and gave him a warning against holding, which caused more loud boos and yells from the crowd. Hammer swayed and gave a quick glance to the man with the bell. He was sure it was time. That look was his downfall, he felt the left side of his face blow apart. He was reeling backwards, he stumbled, and the blows kept on coming and coming, then it was black, black on black; Hammer was going down, down into the mines. He was shouting for his Da to help him up, there was heavy, black, thick smoke everywhere. He couldn’t breathe, his chest heaved and he screamed again for his Da, screaming that the roof was caving in. He was falling, falling down a black shaft, no light, no sound, just silence.

The huge crowd in the tent was ominously quiet, they stared in disbelief as their magnificent Hammer crawled along the canvas floor. He seemed to be crying and his knees were gone, he couldn’t get himself up.

Then his body crashed, face down, the spray of blood and sweat drenching the first row of the audience.

Evelyne gasped as the red spray splashed across her suit, and she put her hands up to cover the nightmare in front of her. The huge man crying like a baby, his head split open and the cheering, screaming crowds. She heard herself shouting, and the next moment the place was in an uproar as the men clinging to the ropes high up in the tent fell, landing in the crowd. The benches started toppling as they were pushed from behind, spilling their occupants forwards on to the people in front. Bench after bench went over, trapping people underneath, screaming, fighting, writhing bodies everywhere, a mass of struggling arms and legs.

Freedom and his crew ran from the ring, pushing the avenging, clawing miners back. They were spat at, insulted, accused of cheating, rigging the match. This had happened once before at a boxing match and the gypsies knew they had to get out fast, move their wagons. The touts would collect the money and bring it to the camp; the main thing was to save themselves from the mob.