Abacus

no energy left to defend, the flurry became a tit for tat affair as they both took turns at punching each other to the body and head. Eventually they slowed down so much that the recipient had time to ready himself for the oncoming punch. With each hit they staggered, then prepared to return fire.
    It was now a battle of attrition as they were both completely exhausted. Taking a huge swing, Hobbs hit Randall with all he had, which sent them both falling to the canvas. Lying face up, Randall rolled onto his stomach and crawled towards the ropes on his hands and knees. Even though he was in pain he wanted to be first up to claim victory.
    Getting to his feet first , the giant stood there swaying, holding his arms up in triumph. He held out his glove in an offer to help Randall to his feet. “I’m right. I’ll get myself up,” Randall growled as he slowly got up, spat out his mouthguard and put his gloved hand out to shake the victor’s. “Way too good today, big fella.” He puffed, totally breathless.
    “But the tag of underdog sits better with me anyway,” he said, beaming through swollen, cut lips.
    “ You’re a pretty tough guy, big fella. I threw everything I had at you.”
    Ho bbs looked at Randall. “I’m not the tough one. If I’m going as well as you are at your age I will be one happy man. That could have easily gone either way.”
    Squeezing through the ropes to leave, Randall felt pain from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. He had been beaten every which way, but somehow, it was what he needed at the moment and he enjoyed it.
    * * *
    It was now late in the afternoon as Randall prepared to leave for the day. He moved his jaw side to side with his right hand to self-diagnose a possible broken jaw, but everything seemed to be in the right place. His jaw did have an annoying click to it, but he was sure that it would pass over time. Thankfully, the newspaper fairy had paid him a visit and left the day’s afternoon edition for him. He wasn’t sure who the fairy was, but he was most appreciative.
    Flicking through the paper , he skipped over the stories aligned to politics and the economy. At page five his attention was drawn to a small article headed, Man sought in connection with overdose death . He read through the article, which detailed how a man with either a Scottish or Irish accent was wanted for questioning in respect of a recent overdose. The printed story outlined in detail the outcome of their last DL assignment.
    Randall folded the paper in half a nd read the article again, hoping the content would change. But it didn’t. Closing the paper, he thought about the wider repercussions this had for him and the organisation. If a thorough investigation took place, they would look at hospital records to see if an overdose patient was admitted. And when they found out that an ambulance not far from the fatal overdose scene collected Irish, he would be easily identified.
    Randall’s concern was that with some well- directed pressure applied, Irish may well cave in and tell all. He knew there was no time to reminisce or reflect. His time had come. Pulling the phone from his pocket, he quickly typed the text message. Change the bait. Taking a deep breath, he firmly pushed the send button. Once sent, he exhaled loudly and slumped back into his seat. Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he glanced at the newspaper article. Irish was no longer an issue for him or DL.
    After a long afternoon in the office, Randall’s head pounded. He reached for the jar of Panadol in his top draw and washed down two tablets with water. He sat silently and waited for the tablets to take effect. He knew why he had the headache. His life was bedlam. He thought about the problems he was facing in order of consequence. Digby’s disappearance only ranked first due to Georgie G’s involvement. Next was his frustration at not being able to prove Helen’s involvement one way or another, and finally and most recently he felt a little down about parting ways with Irish. He craved control in his life, especially at work, but now felt like he had lost all control. There were too many loose ends.
    A s he slid into his Mercedes to go home, he threw his jacket and briefcase on the passenger’s seat. Often, when he felt down, music was his saviour. Putting his hand into the glove box like a lucky dip, he pulled out an arbitrary cassette and pushed it into the player.
    A loud solo piano instrumental filled the