by A. D. Flint
His opponent padded away to his corner, turning back when he got there to zero in on Marinho again. His people fussed over him, his trainer leaning into his face to shout instructions, gesturing toward Marinho. The cornerman slathered Vaseline around his eyes and over his ears.
Marinho’s trainer came into his vision.
“What do we know about this guy?” Marinho asked.
His trainer shrugged. “Not much. From up north somewhere. Just keep him moving and get in and out quick. Don’t brawl. He’s a monster but he’ll tire.”
Marinho nodded. He knew all that already. He shouldn’t have asked anything; it had broken his concentration. Nogueira was forcing his way back inside his head.
He was still all over the place when the referee called them together for his let’s-have-a-good-clean-fight talk. They touched fists, Marinho’s opponent trying to intimidate with a reptilian stillness.
Marinho should have got everything lined up, building to this moment so that he could screw all the fear and apprehension into a hard ball and swallow it down with the shot of adrenaline that always sent a shiver from the top of his head through to his core.
But he wasn’t there and the bell went and the champion flew at him, like a basking alligator bursting in to attack. He came with fists swinging. The brawler. Crowding Marinho, trying to put him on the back foot, get him covering up rather than putting out his own shots.
If he got a sweet connection with just one of those shots it would all be over. Even if he didn’t catch him with a good one, his momentum could barrel Marinho over and the champion could then work him on the ground. This guy knew what he was doing. Marinho’s mind finally snapped clear of everything other than staying alive for the next few minutes.
All this came in the milliseconds before a fizzing right hook caught his jaw. But he was already swinging his back leg away, his body and head following. The left hook just clipped him, and still it mashed his teeth into his mouthguard and starred his vision. But his mind was still working.
Avoiding the full force of the punch had moved him aside, letting the champion hurtle past him. He tried to grab the swinging right arm by the wrist with his outstretched right and hit the champion just above his elbow with his other fist to dislocate the joint.
The champion was no lumbering dump truck though. Snatching his arm away and dropping low, he threw his left leg out for a back kick. It was ineffective, Marinho blocking with a forearm, but it gave the champion the opportunity to spring around and bring his fists to bear again.
Marinho didn’t return his stare; he wasn’t going to win the psych battle. He concentrated around the top of his opponent’s chest, from where all the movement came. There was a ripple across the shoulders, signalling a lunge and a spray of fists.
Marinho was quicker this time, jinking to the side. The champion had to turn, unbalancing his attack, bleeding off his momentum.
Marinho lashed out a low, roundhouse kick into the outside of the champion’s left knee, striking with the bottom of his shin bone. With the swing in his long limb and the solid bone, it was like hitting someone with a baseball bat. The champion’s knee buckled inwards and there was a wince, a grunt of pain. There was no amount of muscle that could protect a knee.
But the champion was mobile for a big man, drawing the hurt leg behind him to keep it out of the way. Before, he had just been rushing him and swinging, gunning loosely from a conventional fight stance – leading with his left. Now, he had switched his fight stance to southpaw, leading with his right, no more rushing. Marinho knew he must be badly hurt if he was forced to switch to an unnatural stance. But he drilled out a stiff jab with his right, catching Marinho above the eye.
Marinho only saw it coming late. He jinked to the side again. He had to keep moving out of the way.
The champion had his elbows tucked in, fists up, and he kept moving and drilling that jab, then flashing out the left hand with combinations. He wasn’t improvising. He was comfortable. This was his natural fight stance. He was a southpaw. A goddamned southpaw.
Marinho was in big trouble.
He pulled his own elbows in to project his ribs and kept his chin down and kept moving. His hands were up, but he kept them open when he wasn’t punching, looking for a chance to grab a stray arm and go for a lock.
He worked his punch combinations and followed with kicks. He didn’t manage to trouble the champion with any of his kicks, landing on muscle and thick bone. He got a messy uppercut through, snapping the champion’s head back. But the eyes stayed clear. He could take a punch, this champion. And he could box.
The champion went for the odd kick, but there wasn’t much to that side of his game. At least not with one bad knee. Guys who didn’t have kicks hated getting kicked.
Marinho flicked out with his leading foot, his left. Catching the champion in the hard muscle of his belly, it pushed him off balance. Marinho got a quick combination of punches in, one marking up a cheekbone. He jinked sideways and around came his vicious low roundhouse. It struck just above the bad knee. It didn’t give, but he had softened it some more.
The champion grinned, a distorted grimace with his mouthguard, and shook his head. You didn’t hurt me.
Meaning that he had. Good.
The champion came back hard with the jab again. Marinho was able to slash it away, but he didn’t see the thundering left cross that followed it into his ribs. And then came a clubbing right into his ear that made his hearing whistle as if a bomb had gone off. The crowd sounded like it was roaring from the bottom of a well. He staggered. His thought process disintegrated into a thousand fragments.
The champion rushed him, windmilling the punches in, looking for the finish. Marinho could only cover up as he was forced against the chain-link wall. The blows that were landing rattled his brain. His thinking scrambled, he didn’t know what to do next. He just had the overwhelming awareness that he was in a place close to death.
The bell went for the end of the round, a couple more punches flying in before the referee dragged the champion off him.
“You okay?” the referee asked, looking into Marinho’s eyes.
He nodded and gave a thumbs up. He hoped he was walking straight when he turned to go to his corner, slumping on his stool.
“A southpaw, I can’t believe it,” his trainer shouted over the crowd, pulling Marinho’s mouthguard out and squirting water from a plastic bottle into his mouth. “Your boss really screwed us.”
The cornerman pressed a small eye iron beneath Marinho’s left eye, with downward movements. It was painful. He was trying to force the swelling away from the immediate area.
“Your left eye is beginning to close,” the cornerman said.
If his left eye closed completely he was done. There was no swelling or cut around his right eye, but he could only see a grey haze of moving shadows from it. He wasn’t able to see all the big left-handers coming.
The detached retina was his secret, Nogueira’s power over him. The condition was an automatic medical discharge from the force, no insurance backup, no pension. He was an invalid and he would never make it into BOPE without Nogueira oiling the wheels.
A southpaw would always be landing the bombs on his blindside. He had always made a point of avoiding fighters with the unconventional stance.
The champion stood beside his stool as his corner attended to him. He wanted to show that he didn’t need the rest. Marinho hoped it might be because his knee was stiffening and unwilling to bend.
The bell went and Marinho did what the champion least expected. He rushed from his stool. Catching him off guard, he slashed a couple of punches in and swung a decent kick, slapping into the sheath of muscle over his ribs. He couldn’t box this guy and he hadn’t tired him enough to risk taking him to ground, even with the injured knee.
Marinho kept flying in and out, taking care to protect his right side from the heavy left-handers. But the champion was in on the secret. Nogueira must have filled him in. Of cou
rse he had, he was Nogueira after all, Marinho thought bitterly. He kept moving to Marinho’s blindside.
Marinho was only able to half block a fierce left hook that exploded beneath his right eye.
His brain shorted out – milliseconds – and he wobbled. The champion rushed him, lunging high, leading with an elbow to catch him in the face. Marinho dipped his shoulder to avoid the elbow but the champion collected him up and crashed him into the chain-link wall.
Marinho managed to keep his feet, turning a hip into the champion’s midriff as they both fought for a hold, hands and arms slipping on sweaty skin. Preoccupied with getting his hold on, the champion didn’t notice Marinho bending his knees. Marinho sprang up, levering the champion over his hip. Launching forward, pulling the champion with him and kicking out his back leg, he swept away the champion’s legs.
The crowd roared for Marinho now. It was a clean throw, the champion sailing over his shoulder. Marinho followed him, diving off his feet, driving all his weight through his shoulder into the champion’s ribcage. He felt the give as the air whistled from his lungs in a painful gasp.
But he rolled Marinho with the momentum of the throw, getting some of his weight on top. He worked his arms around Marinho like a coiling anaconda. Marinho needed to break free of the weight crushing down on him. He shrimped – curling up and then thrusting out straight – but the champion had anticipated it, letting his body turn away, snaking a forearm under Marinho’s chin. He wasn’t perfectly set up but he had the brute strength to make the choke.
It came on fast, even as Marinho used everything – his arms, his legs, his body – to break out. He had only seconds before he would lose consciousness. The sound changed in his ears. The colours flaring around the blinding floodlights were dimming. He softened his body for a moment before bunching all that remained of his strength. Thrusting, he tried to twist free.
It didn’t work. He was done. The champion was able to wind his anaconda squeeze tighter.
The referee was on all fours, his face close-up, looking into Marinho’s eyes, waiting for the tap out – for Marinho to tap a hand on his opponent or on the canvas to submit – or for his eyes to roll up and close.
There was no way Marinho was tapping out.
And then the pressure eased very slightly. Marinho was confused, not enough blood getting back to his brain for him to react. The champion kept the choke on but now he was shifting his weight to better pin Marinho rather than tightening the squeeze.
The bell went. End of Round 2.
Now Marinho understood. The champion needed to take it to Round 3 to get his payday.
The referee slapped the champion’s back and he released his hold. He feigned a slip as he rose, digging a thumb in Marinho’s closing left eye. He jumped back up, raising a fist aloft to claim the round as he strolled back to his corner stool and stood beside it, looking down on Marinho.
Marinho regained his feet, coughing.
“You want to throw the towel in?” the referee asked, peering into his face.
Marinho shook his head. “He caught me in the eye. I just need to clear it.” The referee was just a watery, red blur. He was struggling to counter the reflex that was shutting it, trying to protect the delicate tissue.
“Okay son, but you look like you’ve had enough to me and if you’re shipping any more punishment I’ll stop it, whether you’re down or not. I don’t want to see you die in here, understand?”
Marinho nodded. His trainer grabbed him and got him back to his stool.
“You’ve got to keep away from him,” he shouted in Marinho’s face, “he’s killing you with that left. You just attack the knee – it’ll go if you keep at it. You’ve got to at least TKO him to win – the judges will give him the first two rounds.”
His cornerman was working on his right eye. “This one’s closing up too.” That eye didn’t really matter.
The champion stood off from Marinho when the bell went, giving him a little wave of his left fist. It was coming for him again.
Marinho was blinking some focus back into his left eye as he shimmied around the champion. Staying out of range, keeping his feet close to the canvas for maximum stability. A feinted front kick, quick punch combination, another kick. It was cagey stuff. Ineffective.
The crowd were getting restless. They could whistle and boo all they liked. Marinho needed to find the right gap.
The champion was paying attention to the crowd, and he surged with a tight combination. But he was just a fraction slower than before, tiredness seeping in. Marinho ducked and lunged for the bad leg. He got his shoulder into the femoral crease at the champion’s hip joint, the sweet spot, and he folded and went down.
It was messy, the suddenly frantic champion grabbing for a hold as Marinho fought to lock the knee. He was getting there and the champion panicked. Releasing his hold, he managed to kick Marinho off to roll away and scramble to his feet.
On his side, Marinho saw the target. Flicking onto his front, forearms down on the canvas, he drew both knees up beneath him to raise his hips and then drove one leg out like a piston. His heel caught the inside of the champion’s knee. He screamed and hopped back, unable to put his full weight on it.
Marinho sprang up and went after him with more kicks. He landed another roundhouse in the ribs with enough force to break a couple in a regular guy. The champion just grunted.
Marinho was also tiring, losing just that fraction of speed, not snatching his leg back sharply enough. The champion grabbed it, Marinho flailing to keep his balance.
The champion should have kicked his other leg away and taken him to the ground, but he was angry. He wanted to take Marinho’s head off. His left uppercut grazed Marinho’s jaw, the movement swinging his shoulders to load his right. Letting go of the leg, he swung a powerhouse hook aimed at Marinho’s chin. The knockout button.
Marinho tucked his chin, the punch slamming into his cheek. He felt the crunch of breaking bone, fiery tracers stabbing behind his eyelids. The crowd erupted in a roar that sounded like petrol thrown on a fire.
Marinho staggered back, desperately trying to keep his feet. He kept moving to the side, then turning, then stepping back to keep clear of his opponent without trapping himself against the cage wall. His vision wouldn’t clear, just swimming shadows. The left eye was gone, same as the right. He was finished.
He didn’t feel fear. Instead calm descended over him. Lucidity. He could hear someone calling to him, a clear voice over the screams from his corner and the baying crowd. It was a young voice. A girl’s. He didn’t recognise it and yet it was familiar. It was at once the craziest thing in the world and the most natural. The voice was calm and soothing.
“What has gone from your sight is given to every other sense,” the girl’s voice said. He knew instinctively that he had to absorb the words, believe them. It was his only chance of surviving this.
The champion, hobbled by his damaged knee, was lurching toward Marinho with his head dipped to drive him into the canvas.
Marinho felt the air around him change, the rush and swirl of tiny particles moving through the hairs on his skin as the champion came at him. He smelled the different odour of the sweat on the champion’s head, levelled at his chest. The sour blow of his breath. Closer.
Marinho put everything through his right hand, the punch detonating on the champion’s temple. He jinked to collect the champion’s head under his left armpit and whipped his arm under his chin to snare his neck. He bent his knees and launched backward and down, taking the champion’s head with him into the canvas. The champion’s momentum somersaulted his legs over his head and he crashed down on his back behind Marinho.
Marinho let the momentum carry him too, releasing the neck to make a backward roll, finishing astride the champion’s belly. Marinho could feel the champion moving beneath him but he wasn’t yet fully plugged back in after the shot to his temple. Marinho shuffled up to his chest to get control before the champion managed to put his hands
up or draw in his legs to attempt to dislodge him.
In the box-seat, Marinho didn’t need his senses to tell him where the champion’s head lay and he milled in his ground-and-pound blows hard and fast. The body went limp beneath him and he felt the grind and crunch of gristle and bone as he connected with the champion’s nose. He could smell the champion’s blood.
The pitch of the crowd changed. A howl of anguish and disbelief and fury, and another note, deeper. Blood lust.
Something big hit Marinho, bowling him off the champion’s chest, his arms trapped by a bear hug. A clean, aftershave smell with sweat.
“That’s enough, son,” the referee was shouting. “It’s over. It’s all over.”
Chapter 50
Jake
He and Eliane had found some standing space in one of the aisles running through the rows to the octagon. Hoarse from shouting, he had been scared for Marinho, watching him battling someone who looked more troll than man. Blood lust had displaced the fear as Marinho had triumphed, raging as hot in Jake as in anyone else in the crowd. Then it had evaporated.
There was pandemonium all around. It was turning ugly already, furious guys screaming and gesticulating. Others shouting and gesticulating back. He saw one guy grab another. A scuffle was breaking out to his right.
People were flooding into the octagon, remonstrating, shoving each other, shoving the referee. A group formed a protective circle around Marinho’s opponent. He was still laid out on the canvas, unconscious. A couple of thuggish young men pushed Marinho’s trainer and cornerman away from him, backing them up against the chain-link wall. A fight broke out. The two old boys were game but they were getting a hiding.
Marinho just stood there, staring blankly, seemingly oblivious to what was happening to his guys. There were other men crowding Marinho, gesticulating, jostling, shoving, shouting in his face.
“We’ve got to get him out of there,” Jake shouted to Eliane.
