by Gary McMahon
Unlike boxing, there were no rounds to speak of. This was a fight to the finish. The man who remained standing at the end was the winner and would receive the entire purse. The loser would depart empty-handed and no doubt suffering from worse injuries than wounded pride. Such was the way of these things, and Marty was as experienced as anyone else he knew on the small, secretive bare-knuckle circuit. He’d learned the hard way, after the accident that ended his boxing career. At the time, he’d felt that he had no other option than to fight. He was a born fighter, so he simply continued along that same path.
People were shouting and screaming. Men and women jostled for position, trying to get a good view. The Barn was now a place of gladiatorial combat. The air was thick and heavy with the expectation of violence, and the audience moved as one amorphous mass, heavy and swaying, their sweat mingling and rising in a thin, steaming cloud. Couples grabbed at each other beneath the poor lights, in some savage act of foreplay. Others stood and watched, generating an altogether different kind of energy.
Marty ignored it all and moved slowly forward, raising his guard. Aleksi kept his own guard low, just as he had done in the videos Erik had supplied for Marty’s research. It was apparent that the kid relied on brute strength, but that was no match for speed, guile and ring craft. The two men circled each other like great beasts, each summing up the other, inspecting his opponent for weak points. The roar of the crowd was reduced to a whisper; Marty focused on the other fighter to such an extent that everything else faded away. His vision narrowed to a tunnel and he began to smell the other man’s musk. Soon he would taste him, like a tang in the air. His senses would be so attuned to the task, and to his foe, that his body would have recognised him in a dark room filled with a hundred strangers.
“No chodź staruchu,” said the kid, his Polish wasted on Marty. “Dalej, dawaj.”
Marty waited, waited, waited... smiled, bobbed his head and weaved a little, throwing wide a few light jabs just to rile the other fighter. He said nothing, he never did. He was a silent enforcer, a man who let his fists speak with a language of their own.
The lights flickered overhead, but Marty was only dimly aware of the change in illumination. He did not take his eyes off Aleksi. To do so would break the spell.
The lights flickered again, and that was when the kid decided to strike. He moved in surprisingly fast, going low with a decent shot to the body. Marty turned to the side and bent at the waist, not enough to dodge the blow completely but more than enough to absorb its immediate power. He responded with a short left hook, which caught the kid on the side of the head. The kid staggered, his feet shuffled backwards, and Marty slammed a good straight right into the centre of his forehead. He felt the dull jolt of the impact through his fist and along his forearm.
The small crowd made even more noise at this point, but Marty barely registered their jeering. He went in fast, double-jabbing all the way, and pushed the kid back onto the ropes. He lost his footing for a second, his left leg buckling slightly in his stance, and it was enough for Aleksi to mount a spirited retaliation. Marty retreated, blocking a barrage of mostly wild blows, and tried to work out exactly how far he was from the ropes on his side of the ring. He couldn’t risk grappling with this one; he was outweighed by at least two stone, and had less reach. He had to keep on the move, ducking and dodging and wearing the other guy out with combination shots.
They stood toe-to-toe for a moment, trading blows. Marty used his defence, and was pleased to see cuts opening up on the other man’s face: a long gash across his brow over the left eye, a nick in his cheek beneath his right. Blood washed down his face, thinned by the adrenalin in his system.
Marty took too long admiring the damage. He felt a glancing blow to the temple and reeled; he was rocked immediately by another quick punch to the cheekbone, this time from the big right hand. Then, just as he was beginning to think he’d misjudged or underestimated the kid, he saw what he’d been expecting from the beginning. The Polish kid dropped his right shoulder an inch or so and feigned with a left, preparing to unleash his main shot: the big looping right. Marty struck before the kid had time to consider his next move: a straight right, catching Aleksi on the chin; he followed with a double-left jab, and then finished the combination by throwing all he had into a sweet right uppercut that he dragged right up from the floor.
Marty felt the bones in his hand compress as the blow made contact; it was a good one. The kid toppled to his right, his hands going down, the arms limp, and staggered backwards towards the ropes.
It was time to finish him. Most fights lasted only seconds, very few more than a couple of minutes. In the movies, they went on for a long time, but in real life they were scrappy affairs, consisting of brief bursts of energy and longueurs of heavy breathing and grappling. But there would be no close contact fighting tonight. That was not in the script.
Marty moved in for the kill.
Left, right, left, left, right... boxing all the way, not brawling, and using his training and experience to subdue the other man. The kid was flagging; he didn’t know what to do. His big weapon had failed him, and he had no craft to fall back on. Blood was smeared across his face; the light in his eyes went out.
And then it happened.
Just as the kid slumped back onto the ropes, a strange transformation occurred. It did not last long, just a flash, like an echo of a memory, but suddenly the Polish fighter was no longer in the ring. Leaning against the ropes was a huge, oval torso with stubby little legs that ended in hands instead of feet. The face was made up of large, heavy-lidded eyes, two holes for a nose, and a lipless mouth that was more like a thin crack in the flesh-coloured shell.
This was no longer the Polish street fighter.
It was Marty’s old friend Humpty Dumpty.
He threw one punch after another, laying into the image, trying to make it go away, to crack the shell. His vision blurred and then flickered, and the egg-shaped monstrosity changed back into a big loose-lipped Polish kid with blood on his face. But it was too late for Marty to do anything but continue his assault. He kept punching, his fists aching, his fingers crunching, and could do nothing but wait until his terrible rage was spent. Anger drove him on, fuelling his body and inuring it to the pain in his hands. He was once again the child whose father had beaten him for no other reason than to toughen him up, who grew into a teenager who burned and lacerated his own body so that nobody would ever cause him pain or beat him in a stand-up fight.
Just as Marty thought he might black out and enter the darkness where a bastardised kid’s rhyme lay in wait, sung through a crack in the world, he became aware of many hands upon him, an arm wrapping around his throat, and people pulling him off the other fighter. Realising what was happening, he went limp, his arms hanging loose at his sides, and allowed himself to be dragged away without further protest.
His opponent lay on the ground, his young face a mask of red. He was not moving. He did not even seem to be breathing.
What have I done? thought Marty. Who did I become?
At last, the audience had fallen silent. This was too much, too harsh for them to process. They came here expecting violence, and they had faced absolute savagery. Marty realised that he was screaming, but the sound was nothing that could be described as words. It was just a long, wailing lament, a cry of rage at the things that had pushed him to this point and driven him to fight with a demon from the pages of a children’s book.
“Get off me,” he cried, shutting off that other noise – the one that made him sound as if he’d lost his mind. “Get the fuck off!”
Who the hell was I trying to hurt? Not him – not the kid.
As the figures released him and backed away to give him room, he got to his knees and stared at them all. The ref was shaking his head, Erik Best was smiling, and a few of Best’s heavies were trying to stop the Polish corner crew from climbing into the ring. Marty held up his hands and stared at them. The white wrappings were coated with bl
ood.
Nobody can hurt Marty, he thought, recalling the years of self-damage, of extreme body conditioning, and the insane physical tests he had put himself through before the age of thirty. Nobody hurts Marty... not even Marty.
Best stepped forward and bent down, trying to be heard above the clamour. “That was some fucking show, marra,” he said, grabbing Marty’s shoulder. “But I think we need to get you out of here before it all kicks off.” He squeezed Marty’s arm, earnestly.
Marty nodded. With Best’s help, he stood, feeling shaky and ill. The egg-shaped creature was no longer in the ring, and when he glanced beyond the ropes, at the people being herded away from ringside, he caught no sight of it anywhere in the vicinity.
“Quickly. This way.” Best guided him to the edge of the ring and lifted the top rope. Marty stumbled through, falling onto his knees as he hit the dirt on the other side. He looked up, staring at one of the ceiling lights. The bright spot held his gaze; it pierced his skull, burning into his brain, and once again he saw the terrible stunted image of a grinning Humpty Dumpty. He closed his eyes and twisted his head to the side, trying to rid himself of the horror.
Some kind of fracas was occurring off to his left. Marty could not hear clearly, just a dull roar, as if his ears had popped under pressure. He opened his eyes to see, and was just in time to catch the fat Polish man in the Kappa tracksuit forcing his way through the crowd. Marty blinked. His ears felt as if they were stuffed with cotton wool. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he realised that things were not right. Then, just before someone grabbed him by the back of the neck and dragged him away, the Polish man hit Marty hard in the side. The impact was dull, yet it burned briefly. Marty moved in slow motion, glancing down at his left side. There was a shock of red there: a stain. The stain was moving, blooming like a flower. Spreading across his left side...
That was when he realised that he had not been punched. He’d been stabbed.
Sound rushed back into his ears and he pressed his bandaged hand to the wound. The tips of his first two fingers slipped easily between the edges of the cut, and they went in deep. The blood was warm. He felt no pain.
“Jesus,” he said. He looked back up, towards the hanging light fixture near the ceiling, but saw only the incandescence of the bulb. Then he looked back at his hand. His fingers were red and slick. There was a white halo around them, from staring too long at the light.
“Get him over here,” said someone he’d never seen before. “Now!”
Erik Best was charging around the Barn like a bull, clearing out the rest of the crowd and directing his men to grab hold of the Polish contingent. The fat man was lying unconscious on the ground at the foot of a broad timber post. Someone had wrestled one of the other corner men onto his back and was slipping in a couple of punches to his kidney area. Two other men in suits had pinned the last Polish man to the wall, where they were taking turns to hit him in the gut.
Marty was being walked quickly by three men towards the opposite corner of the Barn. Doc, an old guy in a shabby grey suit, was laying out medical equipment on a plastic bench beside a low wooden table. He was smoking a cigarette and his hands were shaking. Carefully, he placed a scalpel, syringes, scissors and various dressings onto the flat top of the bench.
Marty was forced to lie down on the table, strong hands pushing down on his chest. He still could feel no pain – the rush of adrenalin was probably masking it, but he knew the numbness wouldn’t last for long. Soon his left side would be in flames.
He opened his mouth. His lips were dry. “Is it deep?”
The doctor looked up from where he was inspecting the wound. “Yes, but it isn’t fatal.”
Erik Best appeared at the side of the table. “Can you fix him up, Doc?” His face was shiny with sweat.
Marty was drifting in and out of a dream. None of this was really happening; it was like a play or a movie. He’d fallen asleep in front of the television.
“Not a problem,” said Doc, peeling off a pair of rubber gloves stained with blood and putting on a clean pair fresh from the sterile packet. “The wound’s located far enough forward that it’s missed his kidneys. Luckily, because it’s on the left side where it might have happened, it doesn’t seem to have hit the liver. Higher up, though, and it would have got his spleen.” Doc grinned around his cigarette. “I should really make a larger incision to explore the wound, but I’m happy enough with my diagnosis that it won’t be necessary. This is basically your textbook loin wound. I’ll use lignocaine to anesthetise locally, clean it out, and then I’ll chuck in some ethilon sutures to stitch him back up.” He smiled again, a man happy with his work.
“Quit the shop talk,” said Best, glancing around to look over his shoulder. “Just fucking patch him up, marra.”
The Barn had grown quiet now, as most of the onlookers had been moved outside. They would be inside the house by now, quaffing Best’s champagne and talking about how close they’d been to real violence, true bloodshed. There would be a lot of fucking going on afterwards, and Marty hoped they felt satisfied with his performance.
Marty watched in silence as Doc jabbed him with a needle, then, after what seemed like hours, the man began to apply the sutures. He was still smoking his cigarette – or had he lit up another? – and the entire process had taken on a surreal air.
So this is what it feels like? he thought. He’d often wondered, and had even known a couple of people who had been wounded by blades in the past. It’s not so bad. I’ve gone through worse.
“You did good,” said Erik Best, leaning down close to speak. “You gave them what they wanted. You entertained those fuckers.” Marty felt a soft, hot gust of breath against his cheek. He smelled Erik Best’s halitosis. “And that’s what it’s all about – entertainment.”
Best was grinning.
Marty nodded. He felt high, as if he were on heroin.
“And don’t worry about those Polish fucks. We’ve taken them away, and they won’t be coming back.”
Marty nodded again. “Humpty Dumpty,” he whispered.
“What?” Best’s face loomed large in his vision, like yet another monstrous image from his butchered past. But, thank God, it was not oversized and egg-shaped; thank fuck it did not belong to a monster.
TWENTY YEARS AGO, BEFORE THE MONSTERS WERE REAL
MARTY SITS IN his room, listening to music. The volume is set low so that his father won’t hear what he calls ‘that stupid crap’ and come in with his fists swinging. The tape is a recording of a Simple Minds album. Marty can’t remember who gave him the cassette, but he likes the tunes... there’s something about them that suggests the kind of freedom he yearns for but will probably never achieve.
Marty gets off the bed and walks to the window. He looks out over the estate, watching the slow movement of clouds above the Needle and the way the stars seem so far away, yet at the same time close enough that if he reaches out he could grab one. It’s a feeling that echoes the way he feels inside: that weird distance that isn’t really a distance, not a physical one. He struggles with the notion, and then puts it out of his mind.
He checks himself out in the mirror on the wardrobe door. He is wearing a pair of stretch Geordie Jeans and a thin woollen sweater. It was his birthday outfit, and already he is outgrowing the garments. He pulls a bodybuilder pose, bending his arms and tensing his biceps. Even at ten years old, he is aware of the changes taking place in his body. His father has not been as quick with his fists lately; he watches Marty with a new kind of awareness, especially when he is wearing just a T-shirt or wandering around in his skivvies.
Before long, Marty thinks he’ll be strong enough to take on his old man. He has already begun to condition his body, like the fighters in the martial arts magazines he buys with his pocket money and smuggles into the house. But he has gone further than those guys; he causes himself real pain, genuine damage. He has a sharp penknife he uses to cut the flesh of his forearms, and he holds his fingers against t
he flame of a lit match.
It’s not so much that his father hits him, but more about the way the bastard treats Marty’s mother. He knows that his father beats her at least once every two weeks – sometimes more often, if he’s been drinking a lot. He rarely leaves marks, but there was that time last summer when they had to tell everyone that his mother had fallen down the stairs. She had two black eyes and her top lip was split and swollen. The skin around her jaw was red and tender to the touch.
If his father does that again, he thinks that he might kill him. He could use the penknife. It would be hard work, because the blade is so small, but it’s sharp, and Marty has taught himself how to use it.
Outside, someone lets off a firework. Marty turns back to the window, drawn by the sound, and he watches the brief flaring of red and blue lights in the sky. The lights splutter and die as they fall back to the ground. Their flight is over before it has even begun.
“I hate you,” he whispers, not even knowing if he means his father, the estate where he feels so trapped, or even himself. Sometimes he even despises his mother for being so weak, for not running away from the man who so casually and regularly abuses her.
He thinks about the silly tree house he and his friends are building. The Three Amigos – the name was Simon’s idea, after some film he read about in a magazine, a comedy about rubbish cowboys that’s supposed to be coming out next year. Marty isn’t really into funny films, but Simon said that Steve Martin is in this one, and Marty laughed himself ill at the one the American made about the mad brain surgeon, even though he only understood something like half of the jokes. He remembers they watched it on video one Sunday afternoon at Simon’s place, when his parents were out at the pub. Simon likes movies; he knows an older kid who works on the local video van and gets him all the latest ones pirated for free.
