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Ryan goes after him, but the referee dives between them, waving his arms. Ryan turns and walks away. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even check whether the other man is okay.

That’s what gets me. Whatever reluctant fascination kept me watching disappears. I lock my phone and dump it back on my bedside table.

Four years ago, everything changed for Innes in the space of a few seconds. We spent the next thirty days at his bedside in intensive care, finding out what those seconds cost. We’re still finding out.

I don’t understand how you can hurt someone like that and turn your back before you know if they’re all right.

CHAPTER FIVE

RYAN

I stamp hard. The impact should die beneath my foot. Instead, the floor sounds hollow.

I’m in my home gym with Gordon, the foreman overseeing the renovation. The place is empty, nothing in it yet but the floor and four freshly painted walls.

I move closer to the window and stamp again. Same. I’ve spent fourteen years on gym floors. I couldn’t tell you how to lay one, but I know there’s something off with this one.

“It’s no right,” I say to Gordon. “It was supposed to be soundproofed.”

“We put the acoustic layer in under the flooring,” Gordon says. “It’s an old building, Ryan. You’re always going to get some noise travelling.”

“It’s no the building. I know what a properly deadened floor sounds like. I’m telling you, something’s wrong.”

He taps his clipboard. “If you’re wanting more than was in the spec, we can lift the floor and put a second layer in. But that’s extra work. I’d need to price it up.”

“I don’t want a second layer. I want the first one laid the way I paid for.” I hold his gaze. “Do I need to get somebody else in to check it’s been done right? Because I will.”

He’s the first to look away. He sighs. “Fine. I’ll get the boys to take another look at it.”

I nod then walk out of the room. Another week or two and I’ll have the place to myself. No more banging, no more dust, nobody trying to pull the wool over my eyes when a corner’s been cut. People don’t seem to understand that I earned every penny I own in a cage, with somebody trying to knock me unconscious. I’m not about to part with cash because a man with a clipboard reckons I won’t argue with him even though he’s the one who screwed up.

I head into the open-plan kitchen and living space, which, mercifully, has been finished. I fire up the coffee machine, and while it’s doing its thing I gaze out of the kitchen window. Sandstone and slate as far as I can see, rows of chimney pots, old trees heavy with new leaves.

The kitchen window I grew up with looked onto bin sheds and the boarded-up, graffiti-covered block opposite.

It’s only seven miles from there to here. You could walk it in a few hours. The two places are night and day, though.

My stomach growls. Five days into fight camp, and my body still expects what it was getting last week. The first week is always the worst. Another few days and it’ll settle.

I glance at the plan pinned to the fridge. What I want is a stack of pancakes about six inches high with enough maple syrup to drown a man. What I’m getting is eggs and spinach.

Well, shit.

I get the hob on and empty a bag of spinach into a pan. After it’s wilted, I crack four eggs in and push them about with a wooden spoon. My phone goes, and I answer it without looking, expecting it to be James. I’m still waiting for that promo plan he promised.

“All right,” I say.

There’s a pause on the line. An unsteady breath. Then, “Ryan, it’s your maw.”

Everything in me stops. My mother isn’t supposed to contact me.

“I told you not to phone me.”

“I know you did. I just—we need to talk, son. Can we meet up? I’ve things I want to say to you, and I’d rather do it face to face.”

“No.”

“I’m different now. I am. I’m clean.”