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Tyrone couldn’t remember a time he’d been in so much pain. At least in the boxing ring the referee would call a halt to proceedings if you were getting your arse handed to you on a plate. When you got beaten up in the street — or a park — though, things were very different.
The boxing ring allowed you to see your opponent, too. You knew what was happening and could prepare. When someone jumps you from behind, a boxer has about as much chance of fighting back as anyone else. That was something Tyrone was acutely aware of as he lay in his hospital bed, his head throbbing, his ribs in agony every time he took a breath.
‘How are you feeling, Tyrone?’ the nurse asked him, as she adjusted the drip that was hanging up next to his bed.
‘Great,’ he mumbled, the effort hurting his ribs.
‘The
