He leaped in with a vengeance and layered a complex set of quick punches to prevent retaliatory strikes.
He had to get the man unsteady and off his feet and confused. William felt no pleasure, only frustration, as his opponent stumbled to the ropes, clutching at his jaw and rubbing his chest. The crowd erupted, cheering and stamping, flinging adoration and encouragement to William who had decided on ending it now.
When Ricky came at him again, William levered a heavy punch that hit the side of his temple, a punch to his chest and the third on his stomach had Ricky doubling over—and then, he collapsed.
His body began to convulse, his chin tipping up and eyes rolling to the back of his head. Alarmed, William dropped to his knees, avoiding the flailing limbs while the man jerked uncontrollably. The crowd turned into a pandemonium of a different kind; shouts of fear instead of encouragement.
“Medic!” he shouted over the din, seizing the man to keep his head from slamming back on the rough floor. “Where is the damned medic!”
Ricky’s chest was heaving, the bulge of his ribs pushing out and spit dribbling from his mouth. He was grabbing at William, clutching at him, his words a mumble, head shaking, “…failed you, I-I f-failed you.”
What did that mean?
“Stay with me, man,” William held him tight. “Don’t give up now. Live, damn it, you have to live! Where is the damned medic! He’s dying!”
It was torturous, having the man flail and convulse, his chest heaving like a drowning man gasping for air. The speeding moments felt drawn out like hours and William held him tightly.
The place was clearing and he gripped Ricky's hand, frantic. Had he killed him? Had the blows to the chest been too much?
“Medic!” He screamed. “Hurry!”
Clutching his wrist with a tight grip William had not expected, Ricky stammered, “T-tell her I l-love her, I—I…” His eyes fluttered.
The moment the medic slid through the ropes, the man shooed him away, and helpless, William leaned on the ropes, unable to do anything but watch.
The medic tried to stabilize the man, trying to pump his chest, get him to drink water, put him on his side—but nothing worked.Ricky’s body jerked one final time, and his boots slapped on the floor as his head went slack.
William knew it was too late. The man was dead.
The deafening pub William stumbled into near-midnight… he barely made it to a chair before his knees gave out. The moment Ricky lost his life kept replaying itself in his mind’s eye as he gazed at the worn grain on the small round table.
“Need something, guv?” A buxom woman asked while passing with a tray of drink.
“Whisky,” he murmured.
She laughed. “Oh, no, sirrah, you’re in the wrong side of town. We’ve only got Blue Ruin, rum, and ale.”
“Ruin,” William leaned forward, gripping his hair.
“You got into a fight, luv?” the lady said as she moved away. “Yer knuckles are all busted up.”
While she went off, he looked at his knuckles, the bloody tips, the black and blue skin, and the tiny cuts on his middle phalanx, but as he looked on, he could not believe his hands had sent that poor man to his death.
Guilt, horror, and shame warred inside him as death was the furthest thing he had imagined when he had started bare-knuckle boxing.
He thought back to the first time he had seen a boxer in that countryside fair, handsome and muscular, with hundreds of people cheering him on and dozens of ladies all throwing themselves at him.
William had only thought about the pomp and prestige. No one had warned him about death.
He barely looked up when the cup was placed before him.
“Hartwell!” Colin called while pressing his way through the throng of drunks. “Christ above, do you know how many hovels and alleys we searched thinking you went off and got mugged?”
Instead of facing his friend, William stared down at his cup. “I killed a man.”
Sliding into the chair beside him, Anthony let out a sigh. “We know, we saw. But I don’t think it was all your fault. The man looked...peakywhen he entered the ring.”
Little comfort.
