Sucker Punch

Murray unravelled my arm from around his neck and dumped me on the bench. I let my head hang and my eyelids droop. Vicki had cooked a delicious pre-fight meal, spaghetti carbonara with extra crispy bacon bits and homemade garlic bread, but it was hurtling from my belly towards my throat. I gulped so I wouldn’t spew all over Murray as he cut the tape off my hands.

‘Mate, will you be okay here on your own?’ he asked, draping an ice pack across the back of my neck. ‘Matty’s bout is up next.’

I nodded, so off he waddled. My head pounded like a jackhammer on a stubborn bit of tarmac, but the empty sensation in my chest hurt worse. I had shown promise once upon a time. Won medals as an amateur. Promoters battled to sign me when I turned pro. But now I was a cheat. A fraud.

The changing room door swung open and crashed against the wall. Dramatic entrances weren’t the doc’s style; shame, because I had self-diagnosed an orbital fracture, the kind of injury a medical professional should examine after a fight. Instead, framed in the doorway, was the slim, lanky figure of Frankie. Eyes wide and chest heaving, he held what looked like a copper’s truncheon by his side.

‘What the fuck have you done?’

‘What you wanted,’ I whispered, indisposed to his drama.

‘Don’t fucking lie to me.’

He strode over, wrapped his hand around my throat and pinned me against the wall. Our foreheads collided, and not even a broken nose could shield me from his breath. Tuna mayo sandwiches washed down with turpentine. White residue lined his nostrils, too. Frankie was a pain in the arse at the best of times, but coked up, he was more obnoxious than a fart on the Northern line during rush hour.

‘It was meant to be the sixth, you thick cunt. That’s what I told Semion, who fucking lumped on.’

‘Huh?’

Vicki conveyed simple instructions: let the fight get into a rhythm to keep the punters entertained. Fade at the end of the fourth, which was an easy sell thanks to my Brazilian opponent’s spiteful body shots, at least one of which most refs would have ruled low. Then go down in the fifth. I threw a jab and left my arm dangling, opening a gap for an overhand right which clipped the crown of my head. Another blow, this time the truncheon against my temple, knocked me to the floor.

‘Do you have any idea how fucked we are?’ he asked, straddling me, the truncheon now wedged underneath my chin. As I struggled for breath, heels clacked along the corridor.

‘Frankie!’ screamed Vicki, stumbling into the changing room in four-inch stilettos and a sequin dress hugging her caramel curves.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ he said, spinning around. She flinched.

‘Semion is hunting all over for you.’

Frankie’s eyes flitted about.

‘Fuck!’ he yelled, flinging the baton against the locker.

‘If I go down, you’re both coming with me,’ he warned as he bolted through the door.

Under normal circumstances, my loving partner would have dashed to check on my well-being. But Vicki opened one of the lockers lining the wall and fished out an old-school Adidas duffel bag. She unzipped it and removed a dress, a little black number. Just as I was about to question her timing for an outfit change, she chucked it at me. I didn’t react fast enough, and a tassel poked me in the eye.

‘For fuck’s sake, Vix,’ I complained.

‘Sorry.’

‘What the fuck am I meant to do with this?’ I asked, unfurling the dress.

‘Put it on.’

‘Are you fucking mad?’

‘Hurry up!’

‘Vix, what’s going on?’

‘Strip! I’ll explain later.’

‘Why not explain…’

‘Al, don’t argue with me. Please.’

I kicked off my boots while she fumbled with the cord on my shorts and yanked them down, leaving me sitting in the middle of the floor wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. She slipped the dress over my head, and I slid my arms through the straps. As I shuffled the hem towards my knees, she stretched an Alice band across my forehead and behind my ears and flipped a straight, raven-black wig into place.

‘Stay still,’ she instructed, lifting my chin but refusing to meet my gaze.

‘What are you doing?’ I complained as she teased the wig’s fringe over my face, her hands trembling. ‘I can’t see a thing.’

‘That’s the idea.’

Satisfied the fringe obscured my eyes, she removed a couple of small jellyfish from the sports bag, peeled off the adhesive backing and positioned them on my chest to fill out my bust. They sagged a little, tugging at the skin underneath until she tightened the shoulder straps. A few stray leg hairs had sprouted, which she shaved off with a plastic razor. In her rush, she nicked me, and a drop of blood dribbled down my left calf. The finishing touches were a cardigan, fastened all the way down, and a pair of stilettos. Both were black. Didn’t matter that this was a disguise; the colours had to coordinate.

‘I’m not wearing those,’ I insisted, glaring at the shoes.

‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to,’ she said, backing away to survey her work.

‘You’ll do. Oh, nearly forgot something.’

‘What now?’

Vicki loosened the lid of a plastic container and tipped the contents onto the cardigan. Chunks of carrot and celery tumbled to the floor, and broth seeped into the fabric. Vegetable soup mixed with rosé wine, judging by the citrus scent. Nice attention to detail.

‘Right, here’s what we’re going to do,’ she explained as she chucked evidence of my disguise into a locker, turned the key and dropped it down the sink.

‘You’ve got to listen to me, Al, okay?’

I nodded.

‘When we’re walking down the corridor, hold on to me as if you’re drunk,’ she instructed. ‘Let your head hang so nobody can see your face.’

Vicki helped me up and propped me against the doorframe while she retrieved the spare pair of heels. A piece of tape had stuck the dress to my hamstring, so I tore it away as we embarked on the first phase of our escape. The tunnel was lined with fighters, trainers and ring card girls. We passed Murray doling out last-minute instructions to a lad from the gym. Then Dean, the promoter, scolding the caterer for the dearth of burger buns. As we approached the exit, the opening chords of ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ rang out from the arena, another ring walk about to commence.

‘Need a hand there, love?’ a kind-hearted security guard offered.

‘Probably best to leave it to me, thanks,’ Vicki replied. ‘Might puke again, fucking lightweight.’

A shiver surged through my body, ascending from my feet as they padded along the damp path. Vicki froze at the sound of raised voices, but they sprang from a couple of blokes replicating a knockout, fuelled by alcohol and testosterone. We continued until a car’s central locking thunked. I flopped onto the back seat, much to the amusement of a passer-by who tried to upskirt me.

‘Ouch!’ I moaned as she slammed the door on my foot.

‘Sorry!’ Vicki cried, shoving it out of the way.

She flung her stilettos onto the passenger seat and tugged at her seatbelt a few times before clicking it into the buckle. The engine purred to life, but instead of pulling away, she ducked to pick something off the floor. Probably an earring. Couldn’t it wait?

‘Hide!’ she whispered.

I buried my face in the leather upholstery, which smelled like a new pair of trainers. The fittings were spotless, not even the faintest hint of dust. Hopefully Vicki had rented the car rather than nicked it, but I wasn’t ruling anything out.

‘Fuck, that was too close,’ she said, shifting the gear stick. The car lurched forward, thudding into the barrier.

‘Fuck!’

After smacking the steering wheel, she shifted into reverse and pulled out of the space without a peep from the sensor. Once she found the exit and hit the main road, the ride was smooth. The only time she jammed on the brakes, tossing me into the footwell, was another driver’s fault, judging by the expletives that rolled off her tongue. There were hand gestures, too.

Thirty minutes later, we eased into a driveway, so we weren’t hiding out at her place or her mum’s. More mystery. I tugged at the wig until it dislodged, exposing a damp and itchy scalp, which I rubbed with the sleeve of my cardigan. When Vicki opened the door, she was cloaked in an aura. Was this angel my saviour or my downfall, I wondered, until the security light died.

‘Come on, babe.’

I reached for the grab handle and swung my legs around, but I needed Vicki’s help to complete the manoeuvre. She led me to our hideaway, a red-bricked detached cottage at the end of a residential cul-de-sac, and punched a code into a safe next to the doorbell. The flap fell open to reveal a key lodged inside, which unlocked the door. She patted the wall to find the light switch, and I squinted when she flicked it. Another wave of nausea surged through my body, this time culminating in a burp.

‘Charming.’

The first room on the left contained a king-size bed wrapped in white linen. I collapsed onto the mattress and nestled my head in the plump, soft, cool pillows. On the bedside table sat a DIY kit for managing concussion. As I washed down extra-strength Panadol with a bottle of water, she reached into a paper bag, sitting on a beige dresser that clashed with the rest of the decor, and removed a bunch of bananas. My tummy was churning like a cement mixer, but they’d be easy to digest once my appetite returned. Vicki perched on the side of the bed, her dress riding up her thighs, and caressed my forehead.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Okay,’ I said, reaching for her hand.

‘Listen, I need to go.’

‘You’re leaving?’ I blurted out, sounding needier than intended.

‘Sorry, babe. Still stuff to sort out.’

‘Can you at least explain what’s going on?’ I asked, but she had already stood up.

‘Tomorrow morning,’ she promised.

The front door shut before I summoned an objection, so I lay there nursing a thumping head and swamped by questions. How? What? When? Eventually I dozed, but confusion seeped into my dreams: Mrs Goodwin, my Year Two teacher, needed directions without revealing where she was going. My classmates besieged her with suggestions, but their bellowing jumbled every thought my brain tried to form.

When I surfaced at 6am, dawn hadn’t arrived, and the house was still empty. There was no sign of my phone, so I popped more Panadol and glugged Lucozade, savouring the sensation of the bubbles washing over my parched throat. Just as I finished rearranging the pillows, the security light flared. I slipped out of bed to greet Vicki but froze at the sound of a second set of footsteps.

‘Alex, hun, I’m back,’ she announced. I sneaked over to the wall adjacent to the door, so I was hidden when it swung open.

‘He’s not here,’ said Vicki.

‘Then where the fuck is he?’ demanded Frankie as he stomped through the house.

‘Come here, you sneaky little cunt.’

He dragged Vicki into the bedroom and flung her on the bed, at which point she spotted me. Frankie swivelled.

‘For fuck’s sake!’

He drew a revolver from his waistband and fiddled with the safety catch. Our eyes locked when I emerged from my hiding place, and his brow furrowed. A couple of seconds passed until I remembered I was still wearing Vicki’s dress, which he may well have bought. One of the silicone breasts slipped under the hem and plopped on the grey, wood-effect laminate floor. He gawked, and I swung a right hook, catching him flush on the chin. He staggered backwards and bounced against the built-in wardrobe before keeling over.

‘We need to get the fuck out of here,’ said Vicki, nudging Frankie with the tip of her shoe to ensure he was out cold.

‘Don’t suppose you thought of bringing a change of clothes for me?’

Of course she had.

The next time I woke, the November afternoon sun was seeping through the frayed orange curtains of a truck driver doss house just off the M1. Vicki was curled up on the bed, clutching a padded envelope. She had swapped her dress for a light tan Adidas tracksuit and cleansed her face, but the vanilla scent of her perfume lingered. The worst of my concussion had passed, and I had spent the previous couple of nights at my trainer’s place, so I rolled over, ran my hand up her thigh and kissed her. When she roused, her gaze was weary and her thin lips pursed. I muzzled my libido; she sat up, cross-legged.

‘So what…’

‘Al, I need…’

We both paused.

‘Let me speak,’ she insisted. ‘I need to explain last night. But first, please believe me when I tell you I still care about you.’

‘Go ahead,’ I conceded, piling pillows against the headrest.

‘I gave you the wrong instructions.’

‘What? Fucking hell, Vix. That could have been…’

‘On purpose.’

‘You fucking what? Why? No wonder Frankie went berserk.’

No response.

‘What have you done, Vix?’ I pressed, the snare drum in the back of my head kicking in again.

‘Frankie came around just after he got out.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘He saw the letter from the maternity unit.’

‘So?’

‘He was going to offer me as insurance to Semion. Till the debt was cleared. Reckoned I’d be worth more pregnant.’

I exhaled. Let that sink in.

‘You should have told me the right round. At least this shit-show would be over.’

‘Fuck him! He threatened my baby. Our baby.’

‘Yeah, but what happens if they figure it out?’

She relinquished the envelope. Inside was a thick wad of crumpled notes. Fifties and twenties. About five grand.

‘You bet on a fifth-round knockout?’

Vicki shrugged.

‘Should be enough for us to get away until things calm down.’

‘And let Frankie deal with Semion,’ I reasoned.

‘If we’re sensible, we might have a bit left over to kit out a nursery,’ she added.

‘Don’t worry about that. A trip to Majorca would send the wrong signal. I hear Skegness is even more miserable at this time of year.’