Faces of Man

1

Water splashed solemnly against the quay. Cold mist rose from the murky basin and clawed its way onto the street. Although all buildings surrounding the dock were tumbling down, with shattered windows, unhinged doors, and shingles askew, was the night busy with short hard laughter and the silent talk of men who weren't used to talking. A single oil lamp turned slowly at the squeaking end of a rusty chain above the entrance to Ernest's Trading Co. The men waited outside the dirty glow of the lantern, bottles in hand, smoking, filling their lungs with the damp dockland air before the next fight.

Posters were plastered all over the rotting walls, announcing the fight of the century. Some of them flapped in the light breeze against the nails pinning them to the rough bricks. The fight would start at ten. It was the attraction not only of the week - they had all eagerly awaited these day for months. John Fussey, The Maiden, was up against the one they just called the Madman. Fussey was a good fighter. Renowned. Seasoned. But the Madman ... Oh boy, it was bound to be a great fight.

The men waiting outside Ernest's stamped their feet against the cold. One after the other they crushed their cigarette butts or flung them over the quay into the basin, fleeing inside before the damp claws of mist could caress their ankles and creep up their trousers. The oil lamp turned squeaking at the end of the iron chain. The door closed with a mouldy thud. The night was silent again. A bell tolled quarter to ten.

The ground floor of Ernest's Trading Co. was crowded with men, shouting for beer and pressing for the stairs down to the ring, or to the bookmaker's booths. It was hot and noisy. A fiddle played over the rumble of the crowd. Oil lamps burned at every corner and post of the singular room, blackening the ceiling. Ernest's Trading Co. hadn't traded in over two decades, not since they closed the docks in South End. Glen Strickland, running Ernest's had first set up a bar, and had then turned the cellars to use. Odd thing, driving cellars down beside the basin. Someone rang a bell. High notes floating over the mass of men, ringing in the ears. Five Minutes To Go! Everyone pressed towards the stairs leading down. No one was going to miss this fight.

The ring was three stories below water level. The air was damp and cold, and although the walls were thick, water seeped steadily through it. Steep ranks ran around the room, heavy wooden beams supporting the ceiling, candles illuminating the slippery, worn steps. The stands stopped three metres above the ring, allowing the audience to watch the fight from above. The circular ring was lined with rough stone walls and bright burning oil lamps. The floor was hard, packed dirt. The fiddler had come down with the crowd, the notes bouncing between the damp walls. The mass jeered and cried. Bottles breaking, betting vouchers bristling in outstretched fists. They were in a high mood. The Maiden against the Madman. Oh boy, it was going to be grand!

The heavy iron gate rattled open and Fussey stepped into the ring, raising his arms in acknowledgment of the storm breaking loose on the ranks. He was small, but lean. Seams of muscles seemed to wind around his bare chest. He hopped up and down, fists drumming against his body to get his blood running hot. Tattoos of bare-chested, full-breasted women were dark stains against his pale skin. That's why they called him The Maiden. The addition, With The Shiny Full Hair, was ... well, he was bald. The crowd jested and cried. They liked their Maiden. Liked him good.

As The Maiden finished his round around the pit, the gate rattled again, and a sudden hush fell over the crowd. The Madman was big and burly. No tattoos touched his skin, but he was grizzled with scars, thick and overlapping, along his shoulders and forearms as if he had fought a pack of wolfs barehanded, while they tried to rip his arms off and his heart out. His beard was greying, and his hairline receded, but his stinging blue eyes cleared all doubt whether he was too old to fight or not. He didn't greet the crowd, didn't rustle his blood into running hot. He stepped into the ring, bare feet on naked earth, watching Fussey expectantly.