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Staring at me he punches his fist—one of the knuckles has been smashed to smithereens during a fight—into his open palm. He’s getting off on the adoration of the crowd and trying to intimidate me.
I step over the cordon of hay and I am in the ring with Pilkington.
I feel the eyes of every single person in that packed barn. All hoping to spot a telltale weakness, a slight twitch, a nervous smile, a dropping of the eyelids. Any small sign to decide which corner to put their money in. But I keep my attention totally focused on Pilkington. He is much bigger than I remember, stronger, and more muscular. There is a new scar on his face. It looks like a bite mark.
In that moment I realize we are two different species. He’s fighting to die and I’m fighting to live. This is totally against everything I am supposed to be doing with my life. Nevertheless, this fight is real and it is happening. For a second my mind shifts to Lily waiting outside. I push the thought away. Shane is watching over her. She is safe. I need to get this done. I train my thoughts back to my adversary.
‘What you waiting for, Eden?’ Pilkington taunts.
His voice inspires an instant eruption from the crowd. They jeer and bay for blood. Anyone’s will do, it’s all part of the bare-knuckle sport!
Pilkington takes a step forward into my space and I take one into his. I meet him glare for glare. We are so close our noses are practically touching. This is as primeval as it gets. Two rivals locking horns in a battle for supremacy.
His raging black eyes blink, and suddenly he head-butts me and swings a thunderous right my way. I register the breeze that slithers up my cheek as his iron knuckles swish by and hear the sickening crack of his fist connecting with my temple, before my brain rattles in my head and my ears start ringing. My legs give way under me and I go crashing to the ground. But I am so hyped up and racing with adrenalin I don’t feel the pain. All around me his supporters are going crazy.
‘Do him. Fucking do him,’ they howl.
This is a bad start. I know that he already has one on me.
Every punch takes a little out of me. It isn’t like it is on TV. It’s exhausting. Unfortunately for Billy Pilkington, though, we’re not yet half an hour into the battle when I’ll be weaker. His blow disorientates me only momentarily. I look up and see him, feet apart, hands raised, as if he is a conquering gladiator who has already delivered the final blow. Boy is he wrong. I’m not done. Not by a long shot.
‘Come on, Jake,’ Dominic screams somewhere from my left.
I shake my head to clear it and get to my feet. This time Pilkington doesn’t have surprise on his side. I explode forward with a powerful uppercut. He leans backward to evade it, and I kick him. He staggers, but stays upright.
I throw a punch into the side of his jaw. He ducks, and I land a solid blow to his liver. The pain causes air to whoosh out of his lungs. He retaliates with a blow to my left kidney. I gasp with the flash of pain and land on my knees. Fuck that hurt. I’m gonna be pissing blood for the next few days.
I scramble up, but he sideswipes my legs from underneath me. I topple backwards. He staggers toward me, and with a furious screech, throws himself on top of me. The weight of him landing on me is unreal. My body jerks. His large hand spiders across my face and digs into my eyes. I slam my elbow into his ribs, and hear the crack of bone. His eyes widen. He rolls off me.
We are both on our feet.
I unleash a powerful uppercut down the middle that catches him on the chin. Whack. He grimaces and falls with a dull thud, almost as if he’s unconscious before he even hits the floor. For one moment I think it’s done, but the next thing I see, he is sitting up, blood spilling from his mouth, and what the fuck? Smiling at me. Well, that’s a fucking first, no one’s ever got up without help from my best shot. That shot should have dropped a horse.
I realize single punches are not going to crack this tough nut as I watch him get back on his feet and turn to face me. With a grunt he takes a lurching step forward. The odd move disarms me. He swings out and connects heavily with my ribs. A searing flash of pain ripples through my torso.
Winded, I double over, and stagger back unsteadily. The punch has the effect of knocking in the backs of my knees. My head is swimming, but blindly I hit out for
his body.
I know I’m in a fucking war when a left body shot opens me up to a pair of knuckles that feel like they’re encased in steel. My head snaps around from the unbelievable force. My mouth fills with blood. I swallow a mouthful and, protecting my head, fire back, unleashing multiple combinations that rain down on him.
His head looks like it might come off his shoulders. Fuck knows how he’s staying on his feet. One thing I got to say for him, he is as strong as a damn bull. He keeps coming forward throwing bombs. One lands hard on my jaw. I see a vapor mist of my blood spray the onlookers. It makes them yell louder. The more blood the better, just so long as it isn’t theirs.
I suck up the pain and catch him again, this time with a devastating blow to the solar plexus that bends him in two. I watch him drop to his knees, face etched in pain, blood pouring from his mouth and a gaping eye cut. He’s a fucking mess, but the fucker won’t stay down.
I gulp some air as he staggers toward me, and I remember the hard way what I’ve learned with fighters—no matter how exhausted your opponent is, the last thing to go is the power of his punch—when a crunching punch lands on my ribs followed by an exploding right to my jaw. It sends more blood spraying all over two guys closest to me. The impact of the rib shot sends me winded to the floor. I choke and cough violently.
‘Fucking give it up, Eden,’ Pilkington bellows, swaying over me, his face snarled and bloodied.
But quitting is not in my genes. I can take his best dogs. I get to my feet—it is only adrenalin that is keeping me going now—and start dancing the famous Eden shuffle. It’s been so long, but it comes back to me as clear as if it was yesterday. It mesmerizes and dazes Pilkington. My jabs come from every angle making his life a little worse with every shot. They’re too fast for him to see them coming out of that swollen eye of his and he’s too fatigued to block any.
The sustained assault on his face and body leaves him gasping for breath. I watch him finally wilt and collapse after three more hard blows. The crowd becomes frenzied: they know as do I. He won’t throw another punch. He’s done. He’s not the only one—the earlier strength in my legs deserts me and I slither to the ground beside him, blood and sweat dripping from my body.
We’ve neither won.
The referee will have to decide on points.
But before he can make his decision, a decision that could start another feud, the barn is split by the sound of a man’s voice screaming, ‘Police, police.’
