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you out there in ten minutes.’ Jack picked a towel off the pile, swung it over.
    ‘Jack, can I –’
    ‘Nine and counting.’ Jack checked his watch.
    He closed the store-room door on whatever question was lurking in the room. Champagne was up at the wall, replaying the bout: hook, upper cut, jab with the right; shadowboxing his demons. It was a dangerous practice: open an old wound and all that blood could stop a fight; Jack knew how easy it could happen. He rubbed the scarred pad of his right thumb where the nail used to be.

FOUR
    J ack’s reflection stared up at him from the polished black leather. It seemed a shame to scuff up the soles by walking over the pub’s sticky floorboards. But Thursday night was Georgie’s night off; Jack always did his research. What with the shoes and taking her up town it was going to leave him a little short this month, but there would be plenty more flowing in soon enough. If he was going to be the big manager he couldn’t go around in old postman boots with cardboard filling in the holes and stitching hanging loose.
    Heads bobbed up.
Get you a drink, Jack, got any tips for tonight, Jack, when’s the next fight, Jack?
The words bounced off him. But he greeted each face with a smile and a nod. They couldn’t help being the losers – well, they could, but it wasn’t up to Jack to give them a helping hand. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.
    Cousin Alf and Newton were the only ones at the bar. Cousin Alf was a man who had seen too many fights, ears puffed up, all the features misplaced slightly to the left, but it had bought him the pub. Jack had bigger ideas than a corner boozer. He nodded at Newton, head drooping over a half-empty pint.
    ‘Evening, Jack. I was just telling Alf here about my boy Jimmy getting himself a new job up at Pentonville prison –’
    ‘Georgie about?’
    Cousin Alf rubbed a glass on the corner of his apron. ‘Should still be out back with the delivery. I’ve just got myself a new Morris Oxford – she’s parked out there too. Second-hand, mind, but she’s got some go in her.’
    His shattered nose shone with sweat, but the whole of his face was broken and scarred; the nose suited him. His car was probably clapped-out too; he should have saved for a new model. That was what Jack planned to do. But for tonight Georgie would have to settle for the bus.
    ‘I’ll pop and take a look, then.’
    ‘I’ll let you take a ride in her some time. But how about leaving the barmaid alone this time, Jack? She’s a good worker. I don’t want to have to replace her.’
    ‘Won’t be a minute, just want a quick word.’
    Jack slipped under the counter and closed the door to the bar; propped behind it was a picture of Churchill, glass cracked, and in front beer-crates lined the wall leading straight to Georgie. Her buttocks strained against the seam of her skirt as she bent over and counted bottles. Jack tiptoed forward – one slap of the hand was all it would take. But her head was in bumping distance of the shelf, and she was humming softly under her breath. Jack hesitated; the floorboard creaked. She lifted another crate, placed it on top of the first.
    ‘Peeping Tom.’
    ‘You shouldn’t look so good on your knees.’ Jack wiped his shoes clean on the back of his trousers.
    ‘I’ll have you know I look good everywhere.’
    Georgie smoothed a curl back into place; she turned to face him. His jaw dropped in mock surprise. ‘Oh, Georgie, it’s you. I thought it were someone else.’
    ‘Think you’re really something special, don’t you, Jack?’
    She seemed to slide down the passageway towards him; didn’t quite reach his chin, even in her heels. But she stared into his face as if she thought they were the same height. He reached behind her for a bottle. She grabbed the neck.
    ‘Put that back unless you’ve got money.’
    ‘Ain’t you heard the talk? I’ll be rolling in it soon.’
    The bottle clinked, settling back into place with the