pussy.’
Everyone was yelling something, except poor Martin who stood on the far side of the ring with his arms at his side. Dante’s brain ran at full pelt. Two things occurred to him. First, he wasn’t wearing gloves, gumshield, or any other safety equipment and nobody had laid out any rules. Second, he thought about school and how his teacher made kids shake hands and sit together for the whole of the following lesson if they got in a fight.
Dante felt like he lived in two different worlds. The world of his mum and his teachers, where you weren’t supposed to swear or fight and always had to be nice to everyone. Then there was the Brigands’ world, where men sold drugs, stabbed snitches, got drunk, stole cars and found it perfectly acceptable to stick you in a boxing ring and tell you to beat the crap out of another kid who’d spat on a jacket.
‘Stop stalling, Dante,’ the Führer shouted. ‘Wipe the floor with the skinny prick!’
Dante stepped away from the ropes and saw Martin backing into the opposite corner of the ring. Getting cornered is the worst thing a boxer can do, but Martin had never boxed in his life and held his arms crossed meekly in front his face.
Dante closed fast and threw a punch. He was surprised by how swiftly Martin dodged and he thought – almost hoped – that the fight would be more even than everyone assumed. He followed up with a Karate kick and his trainer sank deep into Martin’s undefended stomach.
The crowd shouted wildly as Martin stumbled sideways. With everyone cheering him on, Dante got a taste of bloodlust as the older boy hit the ropes and bounced back towards him. He pounded Martin’s face and stomach before an especially satisfying blow hit the squishy part of Martin’s nose.
Blood spurted up Dante’s arm and across the front of his T-shirt as Martin’s legs gave out. The crowd was going insane and Dante felt wonderful and terrible at the same time. At the front of the crowd, Sandra was jumping up and down and screeching, ‘Kill him, kill him. Scramble his brains!’
The amount of blood was shocking, but all the cheering made Dante feel like he was king of the world. Martin was sobbing and clearly had no intention of getting up, despite a few unsympathetic souls telling him to be a man and find his feet.
Teeth symbolically held his Brigands jacket aloft and rang the bell at ringside.
‘Honour restored,’ he shouted, before looking at the Führer. ‘Are you happy with that, boss?’
The room went quiet as the Führer considered his reply. ‘My boy got what he deserved,’ he nodded. ‘I’ll settle for that.’
Teeth looked relieved as he stepped into the ring. ‘Could someone get me some ice for Martin’s nose, please?’
As Dante ducked between the ropes to leave the ring he found the Führer standing right in front of him.
‘Sweet-faced little bulldog,’ the Führer beamed, as he gave Dante a quick hug and slipped a ten-pound note into his palm. ‘You gonna wear a Brigands patch one day?’
‘Sure,’ Dante said, as the other Brigands gathered around, saying stuff like you saved the club’s honour and taking it in turns to shake his hand.
Two metres behind, Teeth had Martin sitting up. The boy’s nose dripped blood on to the wooden boards. As Teeth held a handkerchief over a split lip, Martin kept saying thank you because he knew he’d have come off far worse if his father had done the beating.
Joe chased his friend as Dante walked away from the ring, looking at the clotting blood spattered up his arm as he crossed into the deserted bar.
‘You were lethal ,’ Joe said enthusiastically. ‘When my brother’s nose burst! Oh man, I wish I’d been allowed to do that!’
Dante kept walking silently, until he was out in the night air facing a line of bikes.
‘You OK?’ Joe asked uncertainly. ‘He didn’t even hit you, did he? And you got a tenner off my dad.’
‘Just shut up a minute,’ Dante said, as he tried getting his
Everyone was yelling something, except poor Martin who stood on the far side of the ring with his arms at his side. Dante’s brain ran at full pelt. Two things occurred to him. First, he wasn’t wearing gloves, gumshield, or any other safety equipment and nobody had laid out any rules. Second, he thought about school and how his teacher made kids shake hands and sit together for the whole of the following lesson if they got in a fight.
Dante felt like he lived in two different worlds. The world of his mum and his teachers, where you weren’t supposed to swear or fight and always had to be nice to everyone. Then there was the Brigands’ world, where men sold drugs, stabbed snitches, got drunk, stole cars and found it perfectly acceptable to stick you in a boxing ring and tell you to beat the crap out of another kid who’d spat on a jacket.
‘Stop stalling, Dante,’ the Führer shouted. ‘Wipe the floor with the skinny prick!’
Dante stepped away from the ropes and saw Martin backing into the opposite corner of the ring. Getting cornered is the worst thing a boxer can do, but Martin had never boxed in his life and held his arms crossed meekly in front his face.
Dante closed fast and threw a punch. He was surprised by how swiftly Martin dodged and he thought – almost hoped – that the fight would be more even than everyone assumed. He followed up with a Karate kick and his trainer sank deep into Martin’s undefended stomach.
The crowd shouted wildly as Martin stumbled sideways. With everyone cheering him on, Dante got a taste of bloodlust as the older boy hit the ropes and bounced back towards him. He pounded Martin’s face and stomach before an especially satisfying blow hit the squishy part of Martin’s nose.
Blood spurted up Dante’s arm and across the front of his T-shirt as Martin’s legs gave out. The crowd was going insane and Dante felt wonderful and terrible at the same time. At the front of the crowd, Sandra was jumping up and down and screeching, ‘Kill him, kill him. Scramble his brains!’
The amount of blood was shocking, but all the cheering made Dante feel like he was king of the world. Martin was sobbing and clearly had no intention of getting up, despite a few unsympathetic souls telling him to be a man and find his feet.
Teeth symbolically held his Brigands jacket aloft and rang the bell at ringside.
‘Honour restored,’ he shouted, before looking at the Führer. ‘Are you happy with that, boss?’
The room went quiet as the Führer considered his reply. ‘My boy got what he deserved,’ he nodded. ‘I’ll settle for that.’
Teeth looked relieved as he stepped into the ring. ‘Could someone get me some ice for Martin’s nose, please?’
As Dante ducked between the ropes to leave the ring he found the Führer standing right in front of him.
‘Sweet-faced little bulldog,’ the Führer beamed, as he gave Dante a quick hug and slipped a ten-pound note into his palm. ‘You gonna wear a Brigands patch one day?’
‘Sure,’ Dante said, as the other Brigands gathered around, saying stuff like you saved the club’s honour and taking it in turns to shake his hand.
Two metres behind, Teeth had Martin sitting up. The boy’s nose dripped blood on to the wooden boards. As Teeth held a handkerchief over a split lip, Martin kept saying thank you because he knew he’d have come off far worse if his father had done the beating.
Joe chased his friend as Dante walked away from the ring, looking at the clotting blood spattered up his arm as he crossed into the deserted bar.
‘You were lethal ,’ Joe said enthusiastically. ‘When my brother’s nose burst! Oh man, I wish I’d been allowed to do that!’
Dante kept walking silently, until he was out in the night air facing a line of bikes.
‘You OK?’ Joe asked uncertainly. ‘He didn’t even hit you, did he? And you got a tenner off my dad.’
‘Just shut up a minute,’ Dante said, as he tried getting his
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