Ryan won his first cage fight with a clean knockout in the second round. Standing over his sprawled opponent, he punched the air, drinking in the applause. There was booing too. It didn’t matter which, as long as the crowd reacted. He strutted around the ring, chin held high, sweat shining on his shaven head, sparks in his blue eyes, staring down the punters with a pantomime sneer. There was no actual cage but an octagonal boxing ring with a wire link fence around it, which was used as a weapon to trap the opponent on the ground, bunched up against the wire. He had seen one fighter use the wire like this then wrap his legs around the other’s neck. The blood supply to the man’s head was cut off and he blacked out.

He loved everything about this new kind of fighting. The booming music as each fighter made their entrance, the snarling crowd, the tattoos. Experienced fighters displayed a sleeve of tattoos down each arm. Half Maori warrior, half street thug.

He gave his wife Jess some of the prize money to put towards Christmas, then went straight to the tattoo studio. There was enough for half an arm ring around his left bicep.

“Win a few more fights and I’ll finish off the whole arm,” said the tattooist, as he wiped away the inky blood.


Ryan did win more fights. Soon he was lined up for his first big opponent. He got tighter inside, another notch each day. The night before the fight he sat at the kitchen table, turning pages of the evening paper. He was wearing his training kit; shorts, vest and lightweight shoes, his gloves lay on the table and his black hoody was over the back of the chair. His legs were twitching. Every now and then he ran a hand over the new growth of black hair on his bare head which crackled like iron filings under his hand.

He picked up a little wrestling figure from the table. His mum had brought it round for a laugh when she heard about his cage fighting. It was Jake the Snake, the pride of his WWF collection when he was a little boy. Some of the paint had chipped off the Jake’s drooping ‘80s moustache and mullet style hair but his chest stood proud and the flames on his black leggings still made it look like his boots were on fire. The snake wrapped around Jake’s wrist held its head erect. When the craze hit his school he must have been about eight years old. It was before his dad left. Ryan had held Jake tight and twisted the plastic snake between his fingers while his mum and dad fought behind closed doors.

He looked over at Jess, she was making Ben’s tea after a long shift at the hospital. She still wore her navy work top with NHS Critical Care stitched on the breast. He knew the job was hard but at least now there was a wage coming in. She had treated herself to a fake tan and hair extensions at the weekend.


Ryan noticed the soft swell at the front of her waist. There would soon be a little sister for Ben. She looked good pregnant, new curves for him to linger on. Walking over to the living room door with a tin of beans in her hand, she told Ben to turn off his X-Box.

“How long’s he been on that thing? I don’t like him being on those fighting games for too long.”

He turned a page of the newspaper. She opened a drawer, picked up the tin opener and tapped him on the shoulder with it.

“Ryan, did you hear me? I wish we’d never bought it for him. It’s all he talks about… when he does talk. It’s making him brain-dead.”

She went back to the counter and opened the tin of beans.

“One of the doctors said they want to ban cage fighting.”

He closed the newspaper. He knew she was looking at him.

“Yeah I heard that. Marlon says they tried that in the States and it just went underground. It’s safer here, the referees stop the fights early.”

He sniffed and half looked at Jess.

“Anyway there’s no danger for me, I never had much of a brain anyway did I?”

He stood up and looked out of the front window.

“Where is Marlon anyway? He said he’d be here at six.”

“Never mind about Marlon. What about me and Ben,” she put her hand on her belly, “and the baby? I’ve seen head injuries. Even the ones who recover, they’re like basket cases some of them, memories gone.” Jess’s eyes brimmed with tears. “They don’t recognise their own kids. Is that what you want?”

Ryan’s jaw tightened as he spoke.

“Leave it Jess. It’s my first big fight tomorrow.”

“I’m just really scared. Doesn’t it worry you, what could happen?”

“Marlon says I’m a natural. I’m fast, light on my feet.”

He looked out of the kitchen window again as a 4x4 pulled up outside.

“He’s here. I gotta go, the gym’s booked.”

He walked into the living room pulling on his hoody. Jess watched from the doorway as he opened the front door. Marlon stood squat and short on the step, car keys and gold ID bracelet jangling. His close cropped head sat low on his shoulders, compressing the rolls of mottled pink skin around his neck. He flashed a smile at Jess, showing a gold tooth at one side of his mouth.

“Come in mate,” Ryan said. “I’ve left my gloves on the table. Tell Jess how safe this fight’s gonna be will you?”

Marlon stepped inside.

“All right sweetheart,” his tongue ticked as he drew in a breath and shook his head. “It’s safe. As long as you’re fast like your man.”

His eyes looked past Jess to where Ben was kneeling in the glow of the TV, X-Box between his knees.

“Hey champ. You learning how to fight like your dad?”

“Don’t sweetheart me,” Jess’s voice was choked but she looked straight at Marlon. “Just make sure he doesn’t get hurt. Ben, turn that off now.”

“But I’m winning,” Ben said. “I’m winning.”


He paused the game and looked up at Marlon with his dad’s blue chip eyes.

“Will dad be the greatest winner?”

Ryan came back with his gloves in one hand, holding up the plastic figure in the other.

“Course I will. Here you go Ben, look what gran brought round, Jake the Snake.”

Ben’s eyes opened wide as he took the little man and turned him around in his hands, twisting his head and torso. Ryan pulled the gloves on and knelt down in front of him.

“Come on. Show Marlon what you can do.”

Ben threw himself, fists whirling, at his dad, who grabbed him in a bear hug, stifling his blows. Ben stopped struggling and buried his face into Ryan’s neck.

“Hey what’s up? What’s with the tears?”

He stroked Ben’s head but he pulled away and ran to Jess, hiding behind her legs. Ryan stood up and grabbed his sport bag.

“Look Jess. I’ll be all right. Marlon’s a top coach, he’s taught me how to ride out a head punch. Come and watch tomorrow, you’ll see for yourself.”

“Come and watch? No way. I see enough blood and guts at work.”

Marlon was already shuffling down the path to his car. Ryan zipped up his hoody and reached round Jess’s legs to Ben but he couldn’t reach. He turned and saw Marlon waiting on the path and then he was gone, pulling the front door closed behind him.

The house was dark when he got home. Jess stirred as he got into bed. He was hot and he threw back the covers. Then her hand was on his chest. His heart was hammering and his breathing was quick.

“Hey, you’re home,” she whispered. Her hand stroked his stomach and he got hard. Then he was on top of her. Fast.

“Slow down,” Jess cried out. “You’re hurting me.”

The next night in the changing room, Marlon grabbed the back of Ryan’s head and pulled it towards him. Sweat and antiseptic curdled the air.

“All right, this is it, get in there,” he barked and they broke apart.

Ryan couldn’t keep still. He wanted to piss. Then he was bouncing on the spot, throwing shadow punches, snorting through his nose. Someone hammered on the door.

“Main fight, on now, move.”

He pulled the black hood of his top down over his head, letting it half cover his eyes. It had an x-ray of a skull on the front. As they followed the bare concrete corridor towards the arena, he heard shouts echoing around him.

“Go Ryan. Come on. Do it.”

Time for the entrance. Head bowed so no one could see his face, gloved hands out-stretched to the side at shoulder height.

It was dark outside the ring of white light from the spotlight. He could smell burgers and beer. The carpet was soft and sticky under his bare feet, a white line marked each step down. Two girls in black bikinis and high heels catwalked down in front of him, he could see the backs of their tanning parlour legs. Marlon and the fight officials in black T-shirts followed like security guards. He looked up as the procession neared the cage. The girls’ arms were raised, hands clapping in time to Ryan’s song.

He climbed the steps into the ring behind the girls and held his head up as the mouth-guard was jammed in. Someone unzipped and pulled off his top. One of the girls shimmied around the ring holding the number one above her head. Now he was face to face with his wiry opponent, who scowled while they both bounced on their toes. He had close-cropped red hair and tattoos down both white arms. They took a step nearer and pressed foreheads together. He could smell the man’s breath. Keep eye contact, Marlon’s words rang in his ears. The referee parted them with his arms. Gloves touched gloves, the crowd bayed.

They danced around each other. Both made tentative kicks, jabs and feints to take out the other’s legs. Ryan moved in for a quick close jab to the head but he missed and his legs were whisked away by a dive. Then they were grappling on the floor. He was on his back, jerking his body this way and that, anything to keep himself away from the wire where he knew he would get trapped. This fighter was good and he smelled his own fear for the first time. He flicked himself upright enough to shift his weight on top and broke free.

The dance began again. He registered nothing outside the space occupied by their bodies, his eyes took in every flicker of movement.

At the end of the first round the referee’s dry hands prised their slick bodies apart and they withdrew. Marlon’s voice barked through the wire over the noise of the crowd.

“You’re on top but don’t let him get your legs again. You’ll only get him if you jab to the head cos his feet are too quick for you. Be quick. Be sharp. Leave it too long and he’ll have you.”

The bell rang. Again the same pattern of staccato movement, the false jabs, the decoy moves. Ryan tried a quick head jab then crashed to the floor as his legs were taken out. On his back again, but this time jammed into the wire, bucking and heaving, his spine and legs thrashing, trying to get onto his side and his legs up and around the man’s neck. But he was too slow. Fists were slamming fast into his head; one, two, three, four. Then more. Blood seeped into his eyes and then nothing.

Jess and Ben were still up when he got home and stumbled through the front door, helped by Marlon. Ben ran out in his pyjamas then stopped and stared at his dad.

Ryan didn’t speak and lurched into the living room with Ben by his side. Jess was sitting on the sofa in her dressing gown, magazine open beside her. She gasped and stood up.

One hand went to her mouth, the other reached out to his broken face. She looked at Marlon where he lurked in the hall. He turned and left the house.

She touched his cheek lightly with her fingertips. He moved his head away. She put her arms around him. He drew back. But she didn’t let go. Her hand brushed his head, warm on his clammy scalp. His breathing was quick and shallow. She pressed his broken face into the crook of her neck. He winced. He smelled her hair, felt her skin warm on his face. He remembered Ben’s heady newborn smell, how he would let it smother the back of his nostrils, every cell soaking up its sweetness. Her breasts press against him and the soft swell of her baby belly pillowed on his stomach.

Ben pulled on his dad’s hoody, “Did you win Dad?”