De Payns started with a run around the Bunker, and just before 10 a.m. he entered the gym in the basement, where he was alone except for someone sitting on a weights bench peering at their phone. He slurped at the bubbler, grabbed some boxing gloves from the gear cupboard and went to the heavy bag. He hit the timer on the wall and it started counting down from three minutes. He took a boxer’s stance, balanced his weight and began slow, throwing jabs, hooks and straight-rights and, keeping his weight evenly distributed on the balls of his feet, bobbing and weaving, making his legs and hips throw the punches.
When the timer buzzed out, de Payns was panting, his legs almost jelly. He gasped for breath, wondering why he didn’t do this three times a week and keep his fitness at a constant level. He was psyching himself into completing two more three-minute rounds, when he heard a voice behind him.
‘Call that boxing?’
Turning, he found Shrek, dressed in a tight-fitting Brazilian jujitsu shirt and shorts.
‘I call that rusty,’ said de Payns.
‘Don’t tell me—you have your annual next month,’ said Shrek, openly amused. ‘I warned you, didn’t I? You can’t be a natural all your life, mon pote. Have to put in the work.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said de Payns. He looked like a one-time rugby player who’d once flown fighter jets, while Shrek looked like an academic who would take you to the cleaners in a game of chess. But Shrek had done the work and was a black belt and instructor in Wing Chun kung fu, and de Payns was getting through a pack a day and trying to get fit for his annual check-up. Shrek was right. Any natural ability with his fists probably belonged to a younger version of himself.
‘Come on, let’s see what you’ve got,’ said Shrek, walking to the gear cupboard.
‘I’m not doing one of your sparring sessions,’ said de Payns. ‘You kidding me? I can barely hold my own against the heavy bag right now.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ said Shrek, throwing a pair of black MMA gloves at de Payns. ‘I won’t hurt you.’
‘Yes you will,’ said de Payns, replacing the boxing gloves with the MMA mitts.
‘Okay, but I’ll spare your feelings,’ said Shrek, walking to the blue martial arts mats in the northern end of the gym. They kicked off their shoes and walked onto the hemp-packed mats, de Payns dreading what was about to come.
‘So, did I see you talking to Frasier the other day?’ asked de Payns innocently while he did his shoulder stretches. ‘Outside Briffaut’s office?’
Shrek smiled. ‘That’s fairly specific. Not a spy, are you?’
That was classic Shrek. Seamless dissembling wrapped up in humour. If de Payns pushed, it was he who had the problem.
‘I thought you were going for a pay rise—at least, that’s what everyone’s saying.’
Shrek’s eyes flashed. ‘Who’s every—?’
‘Ha! Got you!’ said de Payns. ‘Smug bastard.’
‘You prick,’ said Shrek, fist-touching with de Payns’ glove.
They stood back from one another and de Payns raised his hands in a defensive posture, crouching into a fighting stance. Shrek twisted sideways, backed up with fast reverse shuffle steps, and unleashed a back kick that caught de Payns in the solar plexus, lifting him off his feet and onto his arse. He coughed and looked up at Shrek.
‘So much for not hurting me,’ said de Payns, catching his breath and realising this was going to be a painful return to sparring.
‘I’m a spy,’ said Shrek, shrugging. ‘I lied.’
Leaping to his feet, de Payns regained his composure and effected a stance.
‘Oops,’ said Shrek. ‘Not going all jujitsu on me, are you?’
‘Bring it,’ said de Payns, and they circled one another, Shrek more careful now, knowing his sparring partner would go to the ground if he had the chance.
De Payns feigned a lunge to the torso, and when Shrek countered with a stamp kick and a punch combination, he was ready. He slipped the left-hand punch and blocked the right-hand with his elbow, extending his arm and barring Shrek’s twisted right elbow so Shrek was lifted off the ground. To avoid breaking his arm, Shrek twisted downwards and away, and de Payns used the momentum to take them both to the ground, where de Payns drove his forearm into Shrek’s neck and then positioned himself into a chokehold on his friend, which he tightened.
Having tapped out, Shrek stood and the two faced one another, the score one-all. They could have left it there, but Shrek raised an eyebrow, so de Payns called game on. Shrek let go a fast roundhouse kick into de Payns’ thigh then followed through with a punch. De Payns slipped inside the extended arm and hip-rolled him onto the mat, only for Shrek to roll free from the slamming and come to his feet again. De Payns was onto his partner as he regained balance, trying to hook him into another arm hold, but Shrek leaned away and lashed out with a right-foot side kick, hitting de Payns in the floating ribs. As Shrek followed through with a left-hand punch, de Payns ducked under it and threw his friend to the ground, pinning him once more with a forearm to the throat. This time, Shrek twisted away and slammed a fast left-hand elbow into de Payns’ right ear, stunning the larger man. They rolled away from each other and jumped back to their stances, panting heavily.
De Payns could feel the sweat running down between his shoulder blades. He was not in shape. ‘That’s not a bad warm-up, old man,’ said de Payns, trying to get oxygen.
‘Beats a stretch,’ said Shrek, voice rasping. ‘Let’s do this.’
He gasped as he reached for the wineglasses in the dresser. A rib on the left side of his chest felt like it wanted to spring straight out of his bruised skin.
‘You okay, honey?’ asked Romy, watching him from the sofa.
‘It’s fine,’ he said, pouring two glasses of riesling. ‘I sparred with Shrek.’
‘You always regret that,’ she said.
‘I didn’t have a choice. He cornered me in the gym.’
‘Where are you hurt? I have some tiger balm.’
‘Ribs, legs, stomach, arms,’ he said, delivering the glasses.
‘You need a massage,’ she said, sipping at the wine.
He noticed she was wearing the red trackpants that made her look like the genie from I Dream of Jeannie. ‘It might have to be one of those massages where I touch you at the same time,’ he said with a wink.
‘You get the boys out of the bath, and you have a deal, monsieur.’
De Payns put down his glass and leaped to his feet, crying with pain as a muscle gripped in his thigh.
‘Easy does it, tough guy,’ Romy said, chuckling. ‘We have a deal, remember?’