by Markus Zusak
(We blew our last cash at the dog track the other day.)
“Certainly, but they didn’t throw you in the Pacific either now, did they?” He grins, evil. “They didn’t chuck you out there and tell you to start swimming.” He adds for good measure, “Like they should have.”
“You’re crazy.” The drunk begins to leave.
“Of course I am,” Perry calls after him. “I just gave you a dollar of my hard-earned wages.”
Yeah, right, I think. It’s money he earns from fighters.
The old man is already on to the next people — a grungy black-dressed couple with purple hair. They’ve got earrings stapled across their faces, and Docs on their feet.
“He oughta give them the buck now,” Rube observes, and I laugh. He’s about right, and as the old man lingers around the couple, I watch him. He has turned his life into the pocket scraps of other people. It’s sad.
It’s sad, but Perry has forgotten all about the man. He’s had his pleasure and is now strictly onto business.
“Right.” He points at me. “We’ll get you out of the way first. Here are your gloves and shorts. I thought about shoes but you’re not getting any. Neither of you are worth it, because I’t know how long you’ll last. I might get you some later, so wear your gymmies for now.”
“Fair enough.”
I take my gloves and shorts and like them.
They’re cheap, but I like them a lot. Blood-colored gloves and navy-blue shorts.
“Now.” Perry lights a cigarette and pulls a warm beer from the suitcase. Smokes and beer cans. He annoys me with that garbage, but I listen on. “We need to get you a name, for when you get introduced to the crowd before your fights. Any ideas?”
“The Wolf Man?” Rube suggests.
I shake my head.
Thinking.
It hits me.
Smiling.
I know. I nod. I say it. “The Underdog.”
I continue to smile as Perry’s face lights up and I watch old beggars and weirdos and city pigeons scouring the city floor for the sake of their lives.
Yes, Perry lights up, behind his smoke, and says, “Nice. I like it. Everyone loves an underdog. It appeals to them and even if y’ lose they’ll send some tips your way.” A laugh. “It’s better than nice. It’s flat-out perfect.”
No time-wasting though.
“Now,” he moves on. There’s a finger pointed at Rube. “You’re all sorted out. Here are y’ gloves an’ shorts.” Gray-blue gloves. Cheap. No laces. Just like mine. His shorts are black with gold rims. Nicer than mine. “You wanna know what name you’ve got?”
“Don’t I get a choice?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Y’ sorted out, that’s why. Tell y’ what, you’ll find out when you fight, okay?” “I s’pose.” “Say yes.” Forceful.
“Yes.”
“And say thank you, because when I’m done with you, the women’ll fall over you like dominoes.” Dominoes. What a tosser.
Rube obeys him. “Thank you.” “Right.”
Perry stands and leaves, suitcase by his side. He turns.
He says, “Let me remind you fellas that your first fight is next Sunday at Maroubra. I’ll take you there in my van. Be here at Eddy Avenue again at three o’clock sharp. Don’t make me wait or a bus’ll clean me up and I’ll clean the pair of you up. Okay?”
We nod.
He’s gone.
“Thanks for the gear,” I call, but Perry Cole is gone.
We sit there.
Gloves.
Shorts.
Park. City.
Hunger. Us.
“Damn it.”
“What, Rube?”
“It’s been annoyin’ me all day and night.”
“What?”
“I wanted to ask Perry if he could get his hands on a punching bag for us, and some of that other practice gear.”
“You don’t need a punching bag.”
“Why not?”
“You’ve got me.”
“Yeah.”
“Y’ didn’t have to agree.”
“I wanted to.”
A long pause …
“Are y’ scared, Rube?”
“No. I was before, but not anymore. Are you?”
“Yeah.”
There’s no point lying. I’m scared as hell. Scared crazy. I’m asylum scared. Straitjacket scared. Yes, I think it’s pretty much decided.
I’m scared.
CHAPTER 7
Time has elapsed and it’s the Sunday morning. Fight day, and I’m dying to get into the bathroom. I have to do a nervous one. We’ve trained hard. Running, push-ups, sit-ups, the lot. Even skipping, with Miffy’s leash. We’ve done One Punch and also fought two-handed with our new gloves, every afternoon. Rube keeps telling me we’re ready, but still, I have to go. Desperately.
“Who’s in there?” I cry through the door. “I’m in agony out here, ay.”
A voice booms back. “It’s me.” Me as in Dad. Me as in the old man. Me as in the guy who may be unemployed but can still give us a good kick in the pants for being smart. “Give me two
Two minutes!
How am I going to survive two minutes?
When he finally comes out, I feel like I’m going to collapse onto the seat, but the doorway’s as far as I get. Why’s that? you may well ask, but I tell you, if you’re anywhere near our bathroom this morning, you’ll be tasting the worst smell you’ve ever swallowed in your whole life. The smell is twisted. It’s angry. No, it’s downright ropeable.
I breathe and choke and breathe again, turning around, almost running. Now, though, I’m almost howling with laughter as well.
“What?” Rube asks when I make it back to our room.
“Oh, mate.”
“What is it?”
“Come ‘ere.” I tell him, and we walk back toward the bathroom.
The smell hits me again.
It smacks into Rube.
“Whoa.” That’s all he says, at first.
“Shockin’, ay?” I ask.
“Well, it isn’t too cheerful, is it, that smell,” Rube admits. “What’s the old man been eating lately?”
“I’ve got no idea,” I go on, “but I’m tellin’ y’ right now — that smell’s physical.”
“Damn right.” Rube backs away from it. “It’s bloody relentless is what it is. Like a gremlin, a monster, a —” He’s lost for words.
I muster up some courage and say, “I’m goin’ in.”
“Why?”
“I’m dyin’ here!”
“Okay, good luck.”
“I’ll need it.”
I’ll need more later though, and I feel the nerves, waiting at Eddy Avenue. Fingers of fear and doubt scratch the lining of my stomach. I feel like I’m bleeding inside, but it’s only nerves. I’m sure. Rube, on the other hand, sits with his legs stretched out. His hands rest firmly on his hips. His face is awash with his hair, blown in from the wind. A small smile is forming on his lips. His mouth opens.
“He’s here,” my brother says. “Let’s go.”
The van pulls in — a real heap of a thing. A Kombi. Four other guys are already in it. We enter it, through the sliding door.
“Glad y’s could make it.rins at us through the rear vision mirror. He’s wearing a suit today. Bloodred and tough to look at. It’s nice.
“I had to cancel my violin recital,” Rube tells him, “but we made it.” He sits down and some guy the size of an outhouse slides the door shut. His name is Bumper. The lean guy next to him is Leaf. The fatty sort of bloke is Erroll and the normal-looking one is Ben. They’re all older than us. Daunting. Scarred. Fist-weathered.
“Rube ‘n’ Cameron.” Perry introduces us, via the mirror again.
“Hey.”
Silence.
Violent eyes.
Broken noses.
Missing teeth.
In my uneasiness, I look to Rube. He doesn’t ignore
me, but rather, he closes a fist as if to say, “Stay awake.”
Minutes follow.
They’re silent minutes. Awake. Moving. On edge, as I concentrate on survival, and hope for this trip to never end. Hope to never get there….
We pull into the meat factory out the back of Maroubra and it’s cold and windy and salty.
People hang.
Around us, I can sniff out a savagery in the noisy southern air. It knifes its way into my nose, but I do not bleed blood. It’s fear I bleed, and it gushes out over my lip. I wipe it away, in a hurry.
“C’mon.” Rube drags me with him. “This way boy, or do y’ wanna play with the locals?”
“No way.”
Inside, Perry takes us through a small room and into a freezing compartment, where some dead frozen pigs hang like martyrs from the ceiling. It’s terrible. I stare at them a moment, with the tightened air and the frightening sight of dead cut meat gouging at my throat.
“It’s just like Joe Frazier,” I whisper to Rube. “The hangin’ meat.”
“Yeah,” he replies. He knows what I mean.
It makes me wonder what we’re doing here. All the other fellas just wait around, even sit, and they smoke, or they drink alcoholic beverages to eat the nerves. To calm the fear. To slow the fists but quicken the courage. That huge bloke, Bumper, he winks at me, enjoying my fear.
He’s just sitting there and his quiet voice comes to me, casually.
“The first fight’s the toughest.” A smile. “Don’t worry about winning it. Survive first, then consider it. Okay?”
I nod, but it’s Rube who speak
He speaks, “Don’t worry, mate. My brother knows how to get up.”
“Good.” He means it. Then, “How ‘bout you?”
“Me?” Rube smiles. He’s tough and sure and doesn’t seem to have any fear. Or at least he won’t show it. He only says, “I won’t need to get up,” and the thing is, he knows he won’t. Bumper knows he won’t. I know he won’t. You can smell it on him, like that guy in Apocalypse Now that everyone knows won’t die. He loves the war too much, and the power. He doesn’t even consider death, let alone fear it. And that’s exactly how Rube is. He’s walking out of here with fifty dollars and a grin. That’s it. Nothing more to say about it.
We meet some people.
“So you’ve got some new blokes, ay?” an ugly old guy smiles at Perry — a smile like a stain. He sums us up and points. “The little one’s got no hope, but the older fella looks all right. A bit pretty maybe, but not too bad at all. Can he fight?”
“Yeah,” Perry assures him, “and the little one’s got heart.”
“Good.” A scar crawls up and down the old guy’s chin. “If he keeps gettin’ up, we might just have us a slaughter. We haven’t had a slaughter here for weeks.” He gets right in my eyes, for power. “We might just hang him up here with the pigs.”
“How about you leave, old man?” Rube steps closer. “Or maybe we’ll hang you up instead.”
The old man.
Rube.
Their eyes are fixed on each other, and the man is dying to have Rube against the wall, I swear it, but something stops him. He only makes a brief statement.
He states, “You all know the rules, lads. Five rounds or until one of y’s can’t get up. The crowd’s restless tonight. They want some blood, so be careful. I’ve got me some hard fellas myself, and they’re keen, just like you. See you out there.”
When he leaves, it’s Perry who has Rube up against the wall. He warns him. “If you ever do that again, that guy’ll kill you. Understand?”
“Okay.”
“Say yes.”
Rube smiles. “Okay.” A shrug. “Yes.”
He releases him and straightens his suit. “Good.”
Perry then takes us through another hall and into a new room. Through a crack in the door, we see the crowd. There are at least three hundred of them. Probably more, all crammed into the cleared factory floor.
They drink beer.
They smoke.
They talk.
Smile.
Laugh.
Cough.
It’s a crowd of stupid men, old and young. Surfers, footballers, rednecks, the lot.
They wear jackets and black jeans and rough coats and some of them have women or girls clinging to them. They’re brainless girls, otherwise they wouldn’t be seen dead here. They’re pretty, with ugly, appealing smiles and conversations we can’t hear. They breathe smoke and blow it out, and words drop from their mouths and get crushed to the floor. Or they get discarded, just to glow with warmth for a moment, for someone else to tread on later.
Words.
Just words.
Just sticky-blond words, and when I see the ring all lit up and silent, I can imagine those women cheering later on when I hit the canvas floor, my face all bruised up and bloody.
Yes.
They’ll cheer, I reckon.
Cigarette in one hand.
Warm, sweaty hand of a thug in the other.
Screaming, blond, beer-filled mouth.
All of that, and a spinning room.
That’s what scares me most.
“Hey Rube, what’re we doin’ here?”
“Shut up.”
“I can’t believe we got ourselves into this!”
“Stop whisperin’.”
“Why?”
“If y’ don’t, I’ll be forced to trounce you myself.”
“Really?”
“You’re startin’ to aggravate me, y’ know that?”
“I’m sorry.”
“We’re ready.”
“Are we?”
“Yes. Don’t you feel it?”
I ask myself.
Are y’ ready Cameron?
Aga
Are y’ ready Cameron?
Time will tell.
It’s funny, don’t you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.
CHAPTER 8
It’s the sound of my breathing that gets me, pouring down into my lungs and then tripping back up my throat. Perry’s just come in and told me. It’s time.
“You’re up first,” he says.
It’s time and I’m still sitting there, in my old, too-big-for-me spray jacket. (Rube’s got an old hooded jacket of Steve’s.) All is numb. My hands, fingers, feet. It’s time.
I stand up
.
I wait.
Perry’s gone back out to the ring, and the next time the door opens, I’ll be heading there myself. With no more time to think, it happens. The door is opened and I start walking out. Out into.
The arena.
Aggression quivers inside me. Fear shrouds me. Footsteps take me forward.
Then the crowd.
They lift my spirit, as I’m the first fighter to come out.
They turn and look at me in my spray jacket, and I walk through them. The hood is out and over my head. They cheer. They clap and whistle, and this is just the beginning. They howl and chant, and for a moment, they forget the beer. They don’t even feel it pouring down their throats. It’s just me, and the fact that violence is near. I’m the messenger. I’m the hands and feet. I bring it to them. I deliver it.
“THE UNDERDOG!”
It’s Perry, standing in the ring, holding a microphone.
“Yes, it’s Cameron Wolfe, the Underdog!” he shouts through the mike. “Give the boy a hand — our youngest fighter! Our youngest battler! Our youngest brawler! He’ll fight to the end, people, and he’ll keep getting up!”
The hood of the jacket is still over my head, even though it has no string, no anything to hold it in place. My boxing shorts are comfortable on my legs. My gym boots walk on, through the sharp, thick crowd.
They’re alert now.
Awake.
Eager.
They watch me and size me up and they’re tough and hard and suddenly respectful.
“Underdog,” they
murmur, all the way to the ring, till I climb in. Rube’s behind meHe’ll be in my corner, just like I’ll sit in his.
“Breathe,” I say to me.
I look.
Around.
I walk.
From one side of the ring to the other.
I crouch.
Down in my corner.
When I’m there, Rube’s eyes fire into mine. Make sure you get up, they tell me, and I nod, then jump up. The jacket’s off. My skin’s warm. My wolfish hair sticks up as always, nice and thick. I’m ready now. I’m ready to keep standing up, no matter what, I’m ready to believe that I welcome the pain and that I want it so much that I will look for it. I will seek it out. I’ll run to it and throw myself into it. I’ll stand in front of it in blind terror and let it beat me down and down till my courage hangs off me in rags. Then it will dismantle me and stand me up naked and beat me some more and my slaughter-blood will fly from my mouth and the pain will drink it, feel it, steal it, and conceal it in the pockets of its gut and it will taste me. It will just keep standing me up, and I won’t let it know. I won’t tell it that I feel it. I won’t give it the satisfaction. No, the pain will have to kill me.
That’s what I want right now as I stand in the ring, waiting for the doors to open again. I want the pain to kill me before I give in….
“And now!”
I stare into the canvas floor beneath me. “You know who it is!”
I close my eyes and lean on the ropes with my gloves.
“Yes!” It’s the old ugly guy who yells now. “It’s Cagey Carl Ewings! Cagey Carl! Cagey Carl!”
The doors are kicked open and my opponent comes trotting through, and the crowd goes absolutely berserk. Five times louder than when I walked in, that’s for sure.
Cagey Carl.
“He looks about thirty years old!” I scream at Rube. He barely hears me.
“Yeah,” he replies, “but he’s a bit of a runt of a thing.”
Nonetheless, however, he’s still taller, stronger, and faster-looking than me. He looks like he’s been in a hundred fights and had fifty broken noses. Mostly though, he looks hard.
“Nineteen years old!” the old man continues into the mike. “Twenty-eight fights, twenty-four wins,” and the big one — “twenty-two by knockout.”
“Christ.”
