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“Hi, Innes,” I say, answering.
“Hey. So…Dad’s come down with something.”
“Oh no. What’s wrong? Do you want me to pop round?”
“No, Mum’s here. It’s a cold or the flu or something. He’ll be fine—he just needs his bed. But he can’t take me to the fight tonight.”
“Oh. So is Mum going to…?”
“Don’t make me go with Mum. Please. She’d hate it. Besides, she needs to keep an eye on Dad.”
“You’re not asking me, are you? Innes, you know I don’t do violence. I’d be just as bad as Mum. What about Alan?” He’s the carer who helps Innes with uni.
“It’s his wee girl’s birthday today. I’m not going to ask him to miss that. Please, Briony. Emmy’s going to be there. Besides, aren’t you even a little curious to see your neighbour fight?”
“No,” I say much too quickly.
“Really? You’re going to say no to your poor wheelchair-bound brother, whose only ambition in life is to become a sports journalist?”
“Oi. That manipulation might work on other people, Innes, but not me.”
“Really? Because it normally works on you. Here’s an idea: let’s skip the protests and jump to the part where you say yes. What time can you pick me up?”
“Innes…” I start, then I let out a long breath, because he’s right. We both know I’m going to say yes. “Okay, fine,” I grumble. “I’ll take you.”
“Brilliant view, this,” Innes says.
He’s not wrong. From our spot in the accessible seating, we can see straight down to the arena floor, where the cage sits in the middle surrounded by rows of chairs. A lighting rig hangs over the cage, and above that, huge screens face the tiered stands on every side. Apparently, I’ll have the choice of watching people hit each other in the flesh or in enormous close-up. Wonderful.
“I’m glad one of us is happy,” I tell Innes.
“Just wait till it gets going. You’ll love it.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
The seat on my other side is empty. It’s for Emmy—Niamh arranged for her to sit with us—but she’s backstage for now. Until she appears, it’s just me, Innes, and several thousand people who seem considerably more enthusiastic about violence than I am.
The place has a restless, boozy energy to it. The bar on the arena floor is doing brisk business, and almost everywhere I look somebody has a plastic cup in hand. Men shout greetings across the rows, laugh too loudly, and conduct conversations at a volume normally reserved for building sites.
There are women here too, but we’re in the minority. Quite a few are dressed up enough for a night out. Proper dresses, heels, hair and make-up done. I hadn’t appreciated you were supposed to look glamorous for an MMA fight. I’m in jeans and trainers.
Suddenly the lights dim, and the crowd erupts. Music pounds through the arena as the first fighter starts his walk towards the cage.
“Here we go!” Innes says excitedly.
The fighter is tall and lean and in blue shorts. At the cage door, an official checks his gloves, then gets him to open his mouth. Gumshield check, I assume. Sensible.
Then the official casually backhands him between the legs.
“What on earth?” I say.
Innes glances at me. “What?”
“That man just slapped him in the privates!”
Innes bursts into laughter.
“He did!” I insist.
