"No, I suppose not," Caramarin leaned forward and panted. Pojer passed him a two litre bottle of water. Caramarin drank thirstily, water sloshing down his front.
"Your ear's bleeding," Pojer told him. Caramarin poured water over his head. It came away pink with blood so the man passed him a rag. Now the adrenaline was wearing off, the pain from his ear drilled deep into his head. Caramarin shivered, so he slipped on his shirt and warm jacket.
Pojer snapped a couple of aspirins from out of their pack and handed them to Caramarin.
"What the fuck are you doing with someone like Engin Hasanov?" Caramarin asked.
"I love him," Pojer said simply.
Hasanov returned shortly after.
"Good fight," Hasanov said as he passed Caramarin his winnings. "You could make a living out of this."
"No thanks, comrade. There's easier ways to make money."
The next fight had started but Caramarin didn't bother watching, just lay back on the straw and recovered his strength for his next bout. He covertly watched Pojer with Hasanov trying to get a feel for the man; how he moved, which side he favoured. Caramarin figured he'd be a much tougher fighter than the labourer he'd beaten. He wasn't looking forward to the bout.
The noise level ramped up. Another fight over. Too soon, it was his turn again. Caramarin stripped off his shirt and jacket and walked through the crowd. They hadn't forgotten his earlier win and there were cat calls and a few digs as he passed. One man spat on his back and he felt the spittle hit his shoulder blade. Caramarin turned and lunged at the man and was pleased to see fright in the little runt's eyes.
Caramarin stepped into the ring and flexed his muscles while the ref gobbed off into his mike. Eventually, the ref stepped out the ring. His fight with Mihai Pojer was on.
The two men crabbed round each other warily. Each able to easily block the other's jabs and punches. Caramarin was positive the man had been in the military at some point in his life. Pojer was slightly larger and heavier than Caramarin but moved easily on his feet. Obviously the man kept himself in shape. After a minute or so, the crowd's boos and jeers became louder. Neither man took any notice, just concentrated on the other's face and reactions. Both impressed with what they saw.
Mihai Pojer feinted, drawing Caramarin's attention. He slammed his fist into Caramarin's face, blooding his nose. Caramarin cursed, managed to get one into the other fighter’s ribs before they resumed circling. The crowd cheered the blood.
There were no rounds, just one long drawn out fight. As the match carried on; both men jabbing, punching, rarely kicking as they didn't want to lose balance, Caramarin realised the other man was gradually winning. His build and greater experience in bare-knuckle fighting was starting to tell. The two men continued feinting, testing each other.
Caramarin was glad he'd put in time at the gym but his arms were tiring and his breath getting ragged and uneven. He saw the knowledge of victory start to appear in Pojer's eyes. The crowd was a little quieter now, unable to keep up that roar forever. And more were watching this contest, appreciating the fighters' skills rather than just wanting their blood lust satisfying.
As the two fighters circled, Caramarin noticed the Albanians. They were gathered around one heavy set man in a suit who was collecting side bets. The man looked up and his mouth twitched as he said something. That smile chilled Caramarin. There was as much humanity in it as a shark’s grin.
All the same, although the two men were evenly matched, Mihai Pojer was getting the advantage. Another fist slammed into Caramarin's ribs. The crowd cheered and shouted comments. Caramarin knew if he couldn't win fair, he'd have to win dirty. After all, as Pojer said, there were no rules.
Suddenly, with no warning, he flung himself on Pojer, knocking the man back. Hating to do it but risking it anyway, he butted Pojer right between the eyes. Blood streamed down the other man's face. His nose looked out of line now. The crowd went wild with excitement. Sounded like lunatics on day release from the asylum. But his head-butt also stunned Caramarin for an instant and he took a couple of hard blows to the chest before recovering.
Mihai Pojer shook the blood out of his face in a crimson spray. Caramarin followed up his head-butt with a couple of punches to the face, one smashed full-bodied onto Pojer's nose, splattering it further. More blood rivered down now, making a gory red mask, covering the other's chest. But it had little effect at the moment. Pojer kept weaving, throwing punches; more hitting Caramarin now that he, too, was tiring.
Suddenly, a fist lashed out, catching Caramarin's right eye. Caramarin saw red stars in the blackness as his vision swam. He lost his footing, almost fell on the wet canvas covered wood flooring, his feet back pedalling and more by luck than skill, he kept upright. Caramarin shook his head but realised his vision was failing as that eye swelled up.
Things were getting a bit hairy now.
Throwing some desperate hooks and jabs. Caramarin tried to keep Pojer in one spot at the centre of the ring. Blood puddled at his feet. The man shook his head and carried on. Caramarin knew he'd have to take some more pain now. He dropped his guard slightly, trying to look exhausted. Didn't have to act that much either.
Pojer took the bait. He lunged forward, hoping to finish it quickly before he lost too much claret. Caramarin seized his chance. He kicked out at Pojer's legs using that old Paratrooper trick. The man tried to regain balance but slipped in the blood. Caramarin scythed the other fighter’s leg out from underneath. Pojer fell to the unyielding floor.
Immediately, Pojer rolled away, putting out his arm to lever himself back on his feet. Caramarin stamped down, aiming to snap the elbow. But Pojer twisted away at the last micro second, Caramarin's foot hitting the shoulder instead. Feeling the other's arm dislocate out of its socket. The man screamed in pure pain, the noise carrying above the crowd's howls of rage, and the fight was over.
Mihai Pojer's arm hung uselessly by his side. Caramarin wasn't sure if he'd leave the ring alive but the referee climbed into the ring and gobbed off into the mike, quietening the onlookers. He then hauled Caramarin's arm in the air as a token of victory. That brought on another jolt of pain from his battered torso.
This triumph wasn't as unpopular as the last. More men must have bet on him to win. Engin Hasanov pushed his way through the crowd and up to the ringside.
"Why did you do that?" he cried through his tears.
"What did I do?" exclaimed Caramarin, confused. "It was you who wanted me to fight him, comrade."
"You didn't have to break his arm, did you?"
"I don't fuckin’ need this. You were the ones wanted this fuckin' punch-up." Caramarin swung down and grabbed Hasanov's lapels. "Now, where's the picture and money? And don't even think of fuckin' me about."
Fear in Hasanov's eyes. Without his friend he was less than nothing. "In the boot of the Beemer. Help yourself, you bastard." Hasanov threw a set of car keys at Caramarin. They hit his chest but Caramarin snatched them before they fell to the litter-strewn floor.
Caramarin shrugged, pushed the young man away and Hasanov climbed up into the ring and knelt by Mihai Pojer. The losing fighter was struggling to sit up. Through his one good eye, Caramarin saw the man's face was a total mess. Christ, the man was tough. He touched his fingers to his forehead in a rough salute, then pocketed the BMW’s keys and shoved his way to the back of the barn to pick up his boots and jacket.
Caramarin joined the crowd already emptying out the barn and he heard the noises of motors making their way down the farm track to the road. The damp fresh air restored him a little after the stink of smoke and cheap deodorant in the barn. He took a few deep breaths as he walked over to the BMW. He popped the trunk. Inside was a small black nylon holdall.
Unzipping it, he saw a load of s of various values. Next to it was a thick cardboard tube. Peering down it with his good eye, he could see a piece of paper or cloth. Reckoning that must be the Picasso, Caramarin slammed the trunk, fired up the BMW and switched on the wipers.
Fuck it. It wasn't like he owed Hasanov or Pojer anything. He didn't. But he respected Pojer as a true fighting man. He switched off the BMW and returned to the barn. The next fight was on – a lumbering giant of a man against a wiry man covered with prison tattoos who was using Thai kick-boxing moves on the giant.
Caramarin made his way to the back of the building. Pojer's arm had been crudely strapped up, his jacket flung loose over his shoulders.
"C'mon," said Caramarin. "Let's get you seen to." He helped Pojer to his feet, then with Hasanov's help led the man out to the Beemer. Pojer nodded his thanks. Caramarin tossed the keys to Hasanov.
"You'd better drive," he told the young man. "I can't see straight." The two fighters sat in the back.
Hasanov drove back into town following signs towards Manchester Royal Infirmary, the city's main hospital. This late at night or early in the morning the roads were empty. With his bad head, Caramarin was having big trouble even just sitting in the back.
He felt sick, asked Hasanov to pull over and threw the door open just in time, his vomit splashing over the road in a stinking stream. He mopped his face and sucked in clean, wet night air. He felt better after that but only for a while before the nausea built up again. They reached Manchester Royal Infirmary and stopped again in the parking lot to allow Caramarin to throw up strings of bile.
Hasanov parked round the back. Caramarin fetched the Picasso and holdall out of the trunk, and then Hasanov and Pojer walked into the painfully brightly lit Accident and Emergency, the harsh light spilling out onto the wet tarmac, spearing lances of hurt into Caramarin's brain. Standing outside the A & E were two cops talking to a security guard in a hi-viz coat. No way did he want to walk past them clutching a holdall stuffed with cash and a dodgy oil painting.
"Aren't you coming in," asked Pojer, a note of concern in his voice. "It's free in this country, you know?" Caramarin shook his head and wished he hadn't.
"I'll be all right," he said, walking to the taxi rank. "See you around." Hoping he wouldn't.