He pointed over to some Indians, who were watching one of their fellows laying into a punchbag – only he did more prancing than punching, and his pals laughed at him for it. They were near a low archway. I ducked down through it, coming to a cooler subterranean room that was half swimming bath, half changing room, which is to say the boxing kit was tumbled about in a series of baskets placed on the stone edging of the pool. The place was empty, crypt-like – a flooded crypt lit by candle stubs, and cooler than the gymnasium on account of the water, which was greyish, but damned inviting all the same.
I put my hands on some kit that fitted – all save for the gloves and headgear. This last was the key item. The man Irwin had not looked my way, and he never would get sight of my features as long as I wore the protector, which covered the cheeks and temples as well as the skull. I would quiz him from behind it. After all, boxers did talk in the ring; they weren’t supposed to but they did. It was usually of the order of ‘Stand still while I clout you, you fucking rotter!’ but I would ask Irwin about what if anything he’d seen at the Baghdad railway station on the night the town fell.
Glancing about, I saw two of the protectors spilled out of a canvas bag. I put one on and I thought, I’m a fucking racehorse in blinkers. Feeling a prize chump in baggy shorts, I found my way back to the ring and to the instructor, who was bawling at his fighters, ‘As you were, gentlemen, as you were!’, at which they left off punching. Irwin stayed up, the other climbed down. The instructor went off somewhere, came back with gloves for me. I held out my hands, and he laced them without a word. My opponent shadow-boxed in the ring; or he was dancing to the American music. As he moved, he was in a bath of sweat.
‘See your stance, sir?’ said the instructor.
I put up my fists, and he immediately wheeled away, as though in disgust. But it was just that another bloke wanted his attention. This other bloke was a big bloke – heavyweight – and had blood coming from his nose. It was coming down on to his chest, and every so often he’d swirl it about all over his front in a manner rather child-like; otherwise he didn’t seem too bothered about it. The bloodied man tipped his head back, and the instructor watched his nose bleed for a while, then sent him away with a word I couldn’t hear, but which made the other laugh. The instructor turned back to me, and made no remark on my stance, but just said, ‘Keep your chin down, sir. Don’t hit him with this . . .’ at which he nearly hit me with the palm of his hand.
I climbed into the ring, and the instructor shouted ‘Two minutes!’ which was evidently the signal for ‘begin’ as well as ‘stop’, and Irwin the southpaw machine-gunner came over and clouted me. Whether he’d done it with his left or his right I was for the moment too dazed to say, even though the protector had somewhat lessened the force of the blow. He then started dancing again. I aimed a couple of blows at his midriff, which he defended easily. You were supposed to go for the solar plexus, but where the hell was that?
‘You were at the station with Captain Boyd,’ I said. ‘On the night the city fell.’
He gave me a left and right to the head.
‘No talking,’ he said. He was a Londoner. His plimsoles squeaked furiously on the canvas.
I tried the following lie: ‘I was at school with him.’
‘You don’t sound like you were. Sorry sir, are you an officer?’
‘I am,’ I said, and he went into a faster dance, as though in celebration at having an officer to bash. ‘He’s been found dead,’ I said. ‘At the railway station again.’
‘I’ve heard that, sir,’ said Irwin, still dancing.
I said, ‘Did anything funny happen there? First time around, I mean?’
Irwin came for me again, and this time I defended better, or thought I did, but the instructor, looking up, said, ‘Box hard, box hard,’ as though I’d just been nancying about.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Irwin, ‘and how do you mean “funny”?’
The instructor shouted, ‘As you were, as you were.’
Was this the end of the bout or the end of the round? Evidently the former, for my opponent said, ‘Go again in a minute, eh sir?’
‘Captain Boyd went into the station with another officer,’ I said.
He nodded, went over to his corner for a towel, came back.
‘Boyd was my C.O., sir. A good man. We were in an advance party with some infantry. This other officer was with this infantry lot . . . I mean as far as I could make out. He went into the station where the Turks were. A little later, Captain Boyd went in.’