Rivals in the City Read Online Free PDF

shirt and trousers look like a fancy-dress costume.
    As he came into the ring, Jem Hoskins stripped off his shirt and raised both fists high, acknowledging the crowd’s support. Then, slowly, he turned to take stock of his opponent: once up, once down, and then he spat (a high, arcing globule that landed on a couple of spectators) to show what he thought of the Chinese man. The audience roared its approval of this piece of theatre, threatening to surge into the ring to give Hoskins a hand in beating this upstart foreigner to a pulp.
    The announcer stepped forward. His voice was unexpectedly hushed, and the crowd quieted to hear him. “Here are the rules, then: no biting. No stopping. And we’ll know when we have a winner.”
    As the men about him erupted into paroxysms of joyous aggression, James surveyed the room. All these happy, hate-filled men. He’d heard more racial vitriol in the last quarter-hour than he had in the rest of his life, and that included his brief sojourn amongst the Anglo-Indians in Calcutta. Had England changed? Was this heightened racism new, a result of the current bloodshed in China? Or had it always lurked behind otherwise unremarkable façades?
    His reflections were interrupted by movement in the ring: an advance from Hoskins to the centre, bare fists raised, at the ready. Ching merely stood where he was, hands by his side, seeming to regard Hoskins as an object of only minor interest. This lack of response seemed to enrage the young boxer. He smacked his hands together and swore, foully, colourfully, of course racially, at Ching. After a few more seconds of inaction, he lost his temper and charged at Ching, who reached out a casual arm and neatly flipped Hoskins onto his back.
    The room fell silent. James heard Hoskins gasp as he struggled for wind. Ching looked down at him, expressionless and perfectly still, and James realized that Ching had yet to move his feet. As Hoskins clambered shakily to standing, the men in front of him murmured encouragement and curses, and one said, “He must of slipped, that’s all,” in a tone that sounded utterly unconvinced.
    Hoskins’s approach was warier this time. He circled Ching tentatively, fists poised, searching for an entry point. When he was firmly to Ching’s left, his right arm flashed out, in a low jab, and half a moment later Hoskins landed on his back again. The crowd moaned. By the time Hoskins lay sprawled on the sawdust a third time, the audience was restive. There were muttered complaints (“I paid good money to see proper fighting, not some gull falling on his arse!”) and the odd cry of “Cheat!”, but it was significant that the abuse was evenly directed towards both fighters, not just Ching.
    Finally, Hoskins threw his arms out, an open appeal. As though this was the invitation he’d been awaiting, Ching finally consented to move. And when he did, it was a revelation. This slight man didn’t care enough for English fighting even to remove his shirt, but he moved like a dancer, or an acrobat, or a snake. Ching circled Hoskins, gliding around him with sinuous steps as though performing an incantation. Finally, with Hoskins – and the audience – reduced to passive confusion, he launched an extraordinary series of blows using both hands and feet, raining down upon the larger man with such speed it seemed that he had eight limbs instead of four.
    A dozen heartbeats later, Hoskins lay sprawled on the sawdust, motionless.
    A hoarse cry rang through the pub, echoing James’s own alarm. Surely Hoskins was not… But even as horror swelled, he saw the boxer twitch, then open puzzled eyes. He had been unconscious for only a moment. It was enough, however. He hauled himself clumsily to sitting, signalled to the announcer and muttered something.
    The man’s eyes glittered, and he nodded. “Gentlemen of London, we are making history indeed. In the first match of the evening, Jem Hoskins concedes defeat.” Jem Hoskins, the pride of