Rivals in the City Read Online Free PDF Page B

Dagenham, had been in the ring for less than five minutes. He had failed to land a punch.
    There followed an interval during which betting resumed, feverish and panicked. What to do? Might Hoskins have thrown the match? Or ought they to trust the evidence of their eyes and bet – heavily – on Ching? The bookies looked tense, recalculating their odds by the moment and swatting away their errand boys’ attentions.
    Even those who weren’t gambling – that trio in front of James and Mary, for example – were perplexed. Those men were now having an animated conversation about what they had just seen, trying to work out what Ching had done, and how. For a few minutes, at least, technical admiration outweighed rabid nationalism.
    The second contender was Robert “the Master” Bates, a heavyweight with a known history of boxing victories at the Cambrian Stores, and thus a much worthier challenger than Jem Hoskins. Once his name was announced, the atmosphere tipped once again towards the buoyantly bloodthirsty. One of the boxers near James nodded comfortably. “Aye, he’s a proper fighter, I reckon. Got some speed, long arms and heavy fists at the end of them. It’ll take more than a bit of prancing about to beat him, anyway.”
    The man was correct. The boxer who entered the ring to resounding cheers of “Bate-sy! Bate-sy!” was very tall and heavily muscular, with knuckles dangling to mid-thigh. The effect was distinctly simian. This resemblance was underscored by his dark hair, cut straight in a fringe across his forehead, and a scowl of concentration. He didn’t bother to show off for the crowd; Robert Bates was here to collect his prize money.
    Yet once the match began, Bates struggled to land a blow. He swung mightily, of course. But Ching dodged and ducked, slipping around the larger man’s fists with a fluid ease that left James mute with admiration. Mr Ching was more than a fighter; he was an artist. He was also, unexpectedly, a master showman. He’d designed the first match to show off the speed and strength of his blows. This second was intended to reveal his uncanny ability to read an opponent, to anticipate not merely strategy but individual movements.
    Minutes elapsed, during which Bates grew visibly tired. It was hard work, swinging to knock a man out yet making only the air whistle. He panted, he spat, he cursed. The dour discipline that had been his initial trademark gave way to eagerness, desperation and, finally, frustration. Ching, in comparison, seemed to grow lighter and quicker as the match unfolded, and he began to add small acrobatic flourishes to his evasions. As Bates launched a flurry of what should have been short, sharp punches to the head, Ching skipped lightly away and performed a back handspring that landed him at the edge of the boxing ring.
    Bates could bear no more. With a roar of fury – the words were unintelligible, the sentiment perfectly clear – he charged, putting his considerable weight and speed into a punch that couldn’t fail to knock a man out. If it connected. At the last possible moment, Ching twisted to one side and Bates’s fist drove full-force into the six-inch wooden post behind Ching’s head.
    The crunch of bone against wood was gruesome to hear, but Bates’s scream of agony was much worse. James forced himself to look: Bates’s fist was a mangled pulp, resembling nothing so much as a bundle of butcher’s scraps awaiting the dogs.
    There was perfect silence for ten seconds.
    Somebody was noisily sick.
    Finally, the announcer re-entered the ring, looking rather queasy himself. He bent, had a word with Bates, sent an errand boy shooting off for a surgeon. The outcome of the match hardly needed confirmation, but for the sake of the bookmakers, he said soberly, “Mr Bates concedes this match to Mr Ching.”
    The silence grew monstrous after Bates was led from the ring, with all attention riveted upon Ching. He stood calmly, breathing deeply from his