‘Proper Bout’ and ‘Rats In A Dream’ by Daniel Fishwick

‘Proper Bout’ 

With long shadows we traipsed round the streets. Woods and I got talking to a slightly older guy named Robert. He must have been about 21 or so but had big broad shoulders and a wide barrelled chest, bloody thing was like an anvil. He asked if we’d ever been to a fight before. We told him we’d seen a few but not a proper bout, if that’s what he meant. He rolled his wrist, two fingers together, “Follow me.”

We stood side by side in a dank underground den. We soon had a cold glass each, filled with foaming American beer. Stronger stuff than you’d get there now I imagine. We took a sip and looked up: every face was staring at us. Each one strong jawed with thick black hair greased down onto their scalps. Some with moustaches or beards, all with eyes that burned right through you. They had fading tattoos, our bare arms stood out a mile.

A bell rang and as one mass they turned to face the ring, lit by low hanging bulbs. The ropes were thick and dark. They left white lines on the backs of the fighters when their lean bodies bounced off them. Their elbows were pointed, their shoulders like thick knots. The colours of their shorts caught the light as did the sweat that left their brow with each blow. Round after round, they threw punches which were sharp and short. The heavy leather gloves made a muffled sound when a punch pounded to the gut.

My nerves were frayed during the delays in between each fight, when the attention diverted away from the ring. Woods got chatting to a group of locals and had himself a gamble on a guy with an Italian name. Minaggio, I think, something like that. All I remember was this big bullish head with immaculate hair, quiffed to perfection. I’m sure it was there to compensate for the broken nose and cauliflower ear.

I told Woods we had to leave, his guy was losing and he was relying on me paying up. Getting back steaming drunk wouldn’t have been a problem but getting back late was unthinkable. If I didn’t have money for a cab it’d be a formality. The way his guy was punching, we’d soon have no money at all. Robert was nowhere to be seen, presumably back on the street roping in more punters, more fools like us.

With every punch that connected with Minaggio’s face, my stomach groaned. I could feel the eyes on me, on Woods, knowing that we’d need to pay up or make a quick exit. The latter sounded preferable. While Minaggio wobbled to a corner, with his knees beginning to point inwards, I turned to Woods and said “When he hits the mat, run.”

‘Rats In A Dream’ 

Inwards and outwards, every damp night. Crick necked sleepers, shaking tweakers and cubicle creepers can’t hide from bold fluorescent light. Outside my thick walls, in the area I stand tall, the darkness quickly falls. Huddled groups rush through me like rats in a dream, veins of electrical wires have long replaced the old steam. Millions pass through my transient space and I soak in their atmosphere, the mood they create. The sepia of nostalgia blurs an impractical past but the things I see now surely can’t last. Waves of Importants remember their digits while polyester fleeced minimum wage staff fidget and vacuum packed meat festers in fridges. Panels of thick glass now press against my Victorian breast and those below are constantly told that it’s all for the best. Grand arched shoulders, girder platform spine, ignored by a march of progression and the race against time.  Hollowed out shells containing odious smells rattle in like bottle bins, sometimes on time, likely late, patience past it’s sell by date.  Sad to say that with every passing day in my belly rises angry yeast, far from sweet - fuming from the guts, hostility dripping from cast iron struts and if you look not far from where the rambling pensioners are sitting tongues are bitten by those too straight laced, embarrassing mannequins on an electric staircase.  History is deleted quickly as it passes each passing year extra room is made for useless shite and unfair trade, providing a dustbin for their money, a pit for their dignity. Never before have people flooded through me so comatose, blinking blankly into small flashing screens. Under a tannoy echo of a Standard English bellow is a hornet’s nest of profit protection, wrapped up in equipment and ho-vis reflection, my insides quartered into keenly patrolled sections.  Each wide slab surface is met with the wider stroll of their thick black soles, suspecting those who fix eyes to the floor, make a rush for the door or just happen to look poor. The illusion of movement is prudent with entrances and exits all marked. Forever heavy handed, fees are commanded from those who are stranded, collars are pinched and there’s no given inch. I’ve seen an age pass through me and never before has apathy been as visible, depressing slews of conforming queues, submitting increasing amounts for the slight permission of where to go and who to visit. In full admittance that I’m no more than a witness to the passing of time it’s hard to state who’s wrong and right or if it all morphs into one - if these are just passing clouds that block out a low lying sun, but the evidence suggests there’s much more distress than they can possibly digest.