At the Edge

by Lee Murray

  That’s what we’re counting on, Pete said from behind me. I felt his cold hand on my shoulder, and it gave me comfort. They’ll never see you coming, Katie. And they’ll never forget you again, not after today. Not ever.

  ‘I know,’ I said, relieved to be able to talk to my brother again. We’d been planning this day all year, the two of us, since he’d died.

  Pete and I were fraternal twins, but we were so alike it was uncanny. He was born first, and if reports are true, Dad bellowed with joy when he saw that little thing between the child’s legs, such a little thing to give such pleasure to a grown man. Such a little thing, yet so important.

  I came out second, a tiny wet anticlimax. A living, breathing afterbirth, as far as Dad was concerned. Just another girl.

  Pete and I had both grown up tall, lean, strong. Our reflexes were excellent; we’d gotten them from Dad. We both picked up sports with almost no effort. But Pete got all the attention, while I was relegated to the background. Ignored.

  And my dad, of course, he was so disappointed I wasn’t a boy. Another girl was no use to him, not on the farm, and especially not on Boxing Day. I think he thanked the good Lord he had Pete; his hopes and dreams could live through him. I was the forgotten twin.

  One of the spectators yelled, ‘Go!’ and the first four fights began simultaneously. There was no bell, no rounds. No referees. One rule. You fought until one man either conceded or couldn’t stand up. The first round was usually a pretty light-hearted affair; nobody wanted to get too badly hurt, not with three more rounds ahead. The winners were already known, more or less.

  I smiled again. I knew the winners already, not more or less, but absolutely. After all, I drew up the round robin chart every year. I knew who’d fought who in the past, and who’d won. I knew the odds.

  I was the only one interested in working out the roster for the fights; nobody else could be bothered, they just wanted to get out there and beat the shit out of someone. And the women weren’t encouraged to do anything but cook and clean and have babies. Here in Blair, the twenty-first century hadn’t arrived. Hell, even the twentieth century was having a hard time getting a toehold. It was my job to make up the charts, decide who fought who in the first round. Theoretically, the outcomes of the fights determined who fought who in the second round. In practice, I already knew who would win. And this year, I’d planned the roster more carefully than ever before.

  Especially where I placed myself in it.

  I ignored three of the fights, various uncles and cousins belting each other half-heartedly. Instead, I watched my dad fight his younger sister Eileen’s son, Toby. He was a dark horse; young but fast, with a good reach. Lanky, but lean. If I’d put him against anyone else, he might have made it through to the next round.

  Against Dad, he didn’t stand a chance.

  Dad drew him in, let him unload a couple of hard jabs to his kidneys. They made the old man flinch, which warmed my heart. Toby attempted an uppercut, aimed at Dad’s jaw, but Dad dodged back, grinning that cold grin, the one he always wore during the fights. He stepped to one side as Toby tried again for his face, and the kid overbalanced, stumbled forward a little.

  A little was all it needed. Dad took him down with a hard left hook across his cheekbone. The skin split, and blood gushed. He tumbled to the dirt, his knees folding beneath him. He fell face first into the dust and didn’t move.

  ‘Fucken yeah!’ Dad roared, and raised his fists. The onlookers cheered.

  I looked away, sickened. I’d felt those fists on my flesh, when Dad was angry or drunk or both. Pete was stronger and faster than me, he could have escaped the beatings easily, if he’d chosen to. Most of the time he chose not to, took the punishment so I didn’t have to. And then, last year…

  I tried to make it right, he whispered in my ear. There was a mustiness to his breath, grave dirt, and behind it a deep rot. I tried. But he…

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  The other three matches ended exactly as I knew they would. Three more men victorious, pumped up with bravado and adrenaline and testosterone. Then I stepped off the verandah and towards the rings. Curious eyes found me, then looked away. Laughter bitten back, stifled by respect for my father. For Pete. I ignored them all.

  My turn.

  I’d put myself up against a distant nephew from the other side of town, a nice little kid called Evan, barely ten years old. I liked Evan a lot, and he liked me. He wasn’t going to fight me. I wasn’t going to fight him, not properly. It was a play fight, like more than a few of the first round. We laughed as we pretended to box, then I tapped him on the jaw and he collapsed onto the dirt in giggles. I raised one hand in mock victory, and it was over. There was polite applause, condescending, patronising. Oh, isn’t that nice? Katie made it through the first round. Well done, young lady! I gritted my teeth.

  Keep it together, Pete told me from the corner of the ring. Keep it together.

  ‘I will,’ I hissed through my teeth, and smiled and curtseyed to the too-polite crowd.

  The second round was eight fighters, two in each ring. No chance to watch Dad fight this time. He was up against one of his brothers. Darryl was a pitbull, and I was relying on him to soften the old man up for me. As for myself, I had more of a challenge ahead. My opponent was a second cousin, a brash kid called Billy. He was a year older than me, but a year behind me in school. He hated that. I could see it in his tiny eyes. He was almost vibrating with anger and anticipation. He wasn’t much taller than I was, but probably twice my size overall. I’d seen him kick girls to the dirt on the playground. He didn’t care. I knew he’d wanted to bully me at school as well, but he didn’t dare, not with Pete by my side and my dad at home. Even after Pete had died, Billy had held back. But here, today, all bets were off, and he knew it.

  I was counting on that.

  ‘Billy,’ I said with a nod. He didn’t respond, just glared at me, like a dog on a chain. Waiting for the signal to attack.

  ‘Go!’

  Billy charged, bellowing. I kept very still. It seemed to be happening in slow motion. Billy was going to knock me down, then kneel on my chest and bash me with both hands, the same as he did to so many other poor kids in the playground at school. So predictable.

  At the last second, I dodged to my left and stuck my leg out.

  Billy couldn’t stop. His eyes widened as his momentum carried him past me, his ankles catching on my shin. He went down face-first in the dirt with a muffled cry.

  I moved to straddle him, sat on the small of his back. He could have gotten up even with my weight on him, but he was stunned and hurt. I leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

  ‘Give it up, Billy.’

  Then I grabbed his head, pulled it back, and rammed it into the hard ground. It didn’t take much strength. The head wanted to go forward – that’s just how the anatomy of the neck works. I didn’t let go, pulled his head back, and slammed it into the dirt again. This time there was a crack, and Billy screamed, a strangled thing, pathetic.

  I leaned in, whispered. ‘Give it up, Billy.’

  I yanked his head back again. Blood splattered the dirt where Billy’s face had been, red on red, a dark rain which soaked quickly into the thirsty sand. I prepared to send his head back to earth yet again.

  One hand came up, shaking wildly. The first two fingers and thumb outstretched, the others curled up. I smiled.

  ‘You’re smarter than you look,’ I told him quietly, and let him go, got back to my feet.

  And you’re meaner than you look, Pete said from behind me, admiration in his voice. He looked over my shoulder as Billy stood up, blood running from his nose and a split lip, tears from his eyes. He didn’t meet my gaze, just slunk away, out of the ring. I followed, slipping under the rope.

  I looked at the faces of the Blair men who’d watched the fight. Their eyes were wide, and more than a few
mouths were agape. I smirked and nodded at them, and they looked away, faces flushed. I suspected they couldn’t have been more confused if a kangaroo had spoken to them. It was that unnatural. That pleased me greatly.

  I glanced at Dad. He’d finished his fight fast, faster than I’d expected or hoped for, as he was watching me as well. There was something in his eyes, something I’d never seen directed my way before. Pride? Could it be?

  He was proud of me too, Pete pointed out, standing just behind me. Didn’t stop him killing me.

  I nodded, both to Pete and Dad. Dad nodded back.

  There was a break between the second and third rounds, during which much beer was drunk, though I restricted myself to water. Needed to keep my head straight, or it’d get knocked off. As drinks were greedily sculled, two of the rings were disassembled, mostly by those who’d lost in the first two rounds. Bloodied men and boys gathered up pickets and ropes, limped away from the arena. That’s what it was, I realised, an arena, like the Romans used to have. A spectacle of blood and pain. Vicious entertainment for the Blair clan. Mainly for my dad.

  Pete didn’t find it entertaining, not even when he was alive. That’s why he’d spent a year training non-stop, just training to win, to beat Dad, to show the whole Blair clan that it could be done. To end the circus. And he’d come so damned close.

  It’s time, Pete whispered in my ear. I nodded, pulled myself back to the here and now, headed towards my assigned ring. This was where I needed to be, heart and soul. No time for daydreaming, not yet. Maybe later, if all went well. But now, I had to fight. And I was fighting…

  I blinked. The man in the ring wasn’t who I was expecting. When I’d written up the round robin, I thought Uncle Dave would make it through to the third round, a fat slob who I could finish off fairly easily. But instead there was a tall, thin man facing me, with dark eyes and darker hair. Definitely not a Blair, not by blood. It was my Aunt Alison’s second husband, an out-of-towner called Jerome. I knew nothing about him, he’d never fought on Boxing Day before. I’d written him off in the first round, ignored him.

  This was not the plan. Not the plan at all.

  What now? Pete whispered in my ear. I shrugged him off. Closed my eyes for a second, took a few deep breaths, tried to think. Jerome had beaten at least two opponents I would’ve expected to have beaten him. He was a lot tougher than I’d anticipated. So, what now?

  I opened my eyes, looked at the man. Now I had to beat him. It was that simple. God laughs when man plans.

  ‘Go!’

  Neither Jerome nor I moved, just watched one another. From the next ring over came the slap of flesh against flesh as my dad pounded his opponent, or perhaps the other way around. I could hope for the best, for him to take a beating, but not too much of a beating. He had to make the final round.

  And so did I.

  I approached Jerome warily, and he mirrored my motion. We circled one another, a gentle spiral of attraction, like two water droplets going down a drain.

  I smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.

  When he moved, I barely saw it. One second he was keeping his distance, the next he was on me. His bare left fist slammed into my gut, and I felt the breath go out of me. My eyes filled with tears. A hard right jab caught my eye and twisted my head around. I stumbled backward, arm curled around my stomach, and hopped out of his reach. His eyes were unreadable. My left eye was already swelling, tears blurring my vision. I shook them away.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ Jerome murmured, barely audible over the cheers of the crowd. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t hit women.’

  Definitely not a Blair, Pete laughed from the corner of the ring. I resisted the urge to yell at him to shut up, didn’t have the breath for it anyway.

  ‘You … just did,’ I gasped. ‘Want to try again?’

  Jerome nodded and approached. I could see from his expression that he thought he had my measure, that he’d figured out how strong I was. How weak. I didn’t move, just remained hunched over, breathing heavily. He raised one fist, ready to take me down.

  I kicked him in the balls.

  In an instant, all his composure, all his threatening calmness disappeared, replaced with a symphony of pain. He howled and collapsed to the dirt, clutching his testicles. I knelt beside him and punched him in the face as hard as I could. Something cracked, possibly his cheek, more likely my own knuckles, but I ignored it. I punched him again, and again. He raised his hands from his crotch to his face, to fend me off. So I hit him in the balls again. Again.

  ‘Say uncle, Uncle,’ I hissed at him. Raised my fist.

  He didn’t hesitate. There was the hand, the two fingers and thumb. The fight was over.

  I staggered backwards, leaned on the ropes. My head was vibrating like a bell, my face tight and sore. My stomach ached. I looked at my hand, where the skin had split across the knuckles, weeping pale blood. I fought the urge to cry.

  Don’t give up now, Pete urged from behind me. We’re so close.

  ‘You were so close too,’ I gasped. ‘Was it worth it? Is it worth it?’

  It has to be.

  A hand touched my shoulder, and I started, thinking Pete had become real, really real, solid and alive again. I turned, and saw the bruised face of my father instead. So much like Pete, the same features, just older, weather-beaten. Pete’s face. My face.

  ‘You’ve proved your point, Katie,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’ve done Pete proud.’

  I nodded, sniffling, shoulders slumped. I didn’t let him see my rage, didn’t meet his pale blue eyes. Pete’s eyes, my eyes.

  ‘It’s over,’ he said, and patted my shoulder awkwardly. ‘It’s finished.’

  ‘No,’ I mumbled. I looked up at him. His eyes hardened.

  ‘What?’ Less a word, more a guttural growl.

  ‘No,’ I said again. ‘There’s still one round left.’ I looked around, and realised that this was the ring, the same ring as last year, set up in the same place. I smiled. ‘Come on, Dad,’ I said, and stepped back into the ring. ‘It’s Boxing Day. It’s tradition.’

  A complicated expression passed across Dad’s face. I saw anger in there, certainly, but also sadness, regret. And, strangely, again, some pride. I wondered if he could learn to respect his daughters the same way he’d respected his son.

  He killed me! Pete’s voice was filled with rage, the rage I’d felt for the past year. The rage I’d felt today. But it was passing now, ebbing away, replaced with something else. Pity? Dad didn’t seem like a monster anymore. He seemed tired and old. And human.

  It’s too late! Pete cried. We’ve come too far! Please, Katie! For me!

  ‘For you, Pete,’ I mumbled, as Dad climbed through the ropes of the ring. Behind me, I heard Jerome leaving, still moaning in pain. I wondered if Auntie Alison would have any more kids after what I’d done to her new husband. Should I feel bad about what I’d done?

  I shrugged. Maybe later, when I had time.

  ‘Did you feel this way?’ I asked Pete. ‘Last year? Here?’

  ‘What?’ Dad asked, confused. ‘What do you mean?’

  I ignored him. ‘Did you hesitate? Is that why it happened?’

  Dad opened his mouth to speak, but one of the Blair men beat him to it.

  ‘Go!’

  I charged at my father, my blood boiling. A year’s worth of sleepless nights, of endless training after school, Pete’s dead voice in my ear, whispering, cajoling, urging me to do this. Maybe now Pete could rest like he was supposed to. Rest in peace, that’s what the priest had said at his funeral, after the mortician had filled the hole in the back of his head with sawdust and putty and slathered him with tacky makeup to make him look alive. But he hadn’t looked alive, he’d looked like a dummy, like a waxwork, and he’d said so from beside me at his own funeral. All because of Boxing Day. All because of Dad.

 
; All of this filled me up, made me feel like my seams would burst and my rage would spill out like a flood, like a drought-busting flood across the whole Blair farm, drowning everyone. All of this, and I screamed and attacked my dad.

  One punch, and my world exploded in sparks.

  I collapsed to the dirt. My strength vanished. I was a popped balloon, a broken doll. A scrap in the dust. A girl pretending to be a man. Nothing. I struggled to breathe through my broken nose.

  Dad stood over me, my blood dripping from his knuckles. His own daughter’s blood. He looked down at me, still with that strange combination of fury and pride.

  ‘I’m proud of you, Katie,’ he said, breathing heavily. His face was flushed and red, blood vessels broken across his cheeks. His eyes were bulging. One of his hands, the unbloodied one, fluttered to his chest, as if he was having trouble catching his breath. ‘Give it up. You done good. You done good by Pete.’

  ‘You…’ I mumbled through numb lips, tasting the blood from my nose. ‘You…’

  ‘What?’ he asked, and his voice was almost gentle.

  ‘You … don’t get to say his fucken name! ’ I yelled.

  Dad staggered back a step, as I pulled my legs underneath me and got unsteadily to my feet. I reached up to my nose and felt it, then gritted my teeth and pushed it sideways back into place. The pain was like a firework going off behind my eyes, but it cleared my head. I looked at my father, and saw another emotion I’d never seen before, not even when he’d looked at Pete.

  Fear.

  I felt the hand on my shoulder, and knew it was my brother. He’d come so close last year, but when he had the chance to take Dad down, he’d paused, and our father had taken advantage of that, laying into him with everything he’d had left. Pete had fallen backwards, and there’d been a rock on the ground, one missed during the setup. He’d landed square on it, and it had punched straight through the back of his skull and into his brain.