by Jack Tunney
“Do we have anybody out there who fancies himself against the King of the Ring, Tommy King?” I asked.
“I'll have a go at him,” Iron Bar said. Of course, at the time, I didn't know he was a boxer, and didn't know he was one of Sanderson's boys.
“What's your name, son?” I asked.
“They call me Iron Bar.”
“Iron Bar,” I repeated.
“You got a problem with that, mister?”
“No, not at all.” A chill went up my spine. I had a bad feeling about this one. But I put on my showman's face and continued. “Ladies and Gentlemen, let's hear it for Iron Bar who will be our fifth contender this evening. The show will be starting in twenty minutes. For those who are watching the show - and I can guarantee you a fantastic evening's entertainment - if you make your way to the cashier, sixpence will get you inside the tent for five bouts of brutal thrills and entertainment.”
* * * * *
Despite the small numbers of attendees, as we walked to the ring, the usual torrent of abuse was directed toward Tommy. But he didn't seem to notice. His mind was locked on one thing – the fight! I wished I could switch off like that. I held the top rope up, and Tommy ducked under it and entered the ring. I climbed in after him.
A small cheer came from the crowd as Iron Bar climbed into the ring. He looked in good shape. And now that he had removed his singlet, I could see his full physique. He was built to do damage. That should have told me something was fishy, especially with Sanderson in town. As Iron Bar shadow boxed in his corner of the ring I could see he was pretty fast too. But I knew there was more to boxing than just strength and speed.
When both fighters were ready, Wheeler called them into the center of the ring and explained the rules. I climbed out, and took up my position ringside. Ginny, as she always did for the last fight of the evening, finished up at the cashier's table and came inside to watch Tommy fight. She stood beside me. The fighters returned to their corners and the bell rang. Round one.
Iron Bar came out fast, immediately throwing a series of jabs at Tommy's face. Tommy kept his guard up, but gradually found himself forced back into a corner. Iron Bar sure knew how to cut off the ring. He'd done it fast, and Tommy was pinned down from the get-go.
“Get out of there!” I yelled.
Tommy didn't seem to hear. He just kept his guard up while Iron Bar went to work on him. Most of the blows deflected off Tommy's gloves, but then he started pounding away at Tommy's mid section. Tommy dropped an arm to protect his stomach, and there was the opening Iron Bar had wanted. There I was, standing at the corner and I had to turn away. I couldn't watch. The first rule of boxing was never let your guard down, especially early. The inevitable big right cross came thundering into Tommy's face. And down he went.
Ginny gasped in horror. She had never seen Tommy outmatched, much less so quickly.
Damn. Forty seconds into the fight and Tommy was down on the floor. Iron Bar stood back, and Wheeler moved in for the count. He counted slowly because, after all, he had money at stake. I looked into Tommy's eyes. Surprisingly, they still looked clear and focused. But now he was angry. Good. He knew he had been set up.
“Can you get up?” I yelled.
Tommy nodded and climbed to his knees. Attaboy, I thought. Go on. You show 'em lad.
He got to his feet, and offered Wheeler his gloves. He was good to go. Tommy had learned his lesson. Fighting Iron Bar wasn't like fighting the usual loudmouth bumpkins. This guy knew the game. And now it was time for Tommy to show he also knew the game.
The fight continued, and both men circled each other warily in the center. Tommy threw a couple of weak jabs, which just defected off Iron Bar's gloves. And his opponent threw a few back. Not much venom in them.
The first round came to an end and it couldn't have come sooner. I put down the stool in the corner. Tommy slumped down like a rag doll. I'd been trainin' the boy for near on five years. He could box, but he wasn't showing it.
“What do you think you're doing?” I asked.
“Hits hard,” Tommy said, almost unintelligible, speaking past the mouth-guard.
“So do you. But I didn't train you to take this battering. Now, it's up to you, kid. I've given you the tools, taught you what I know, but it's up to you.”
We went into the second round. Iron Bar came out as fast as he did in the previous round, trying to cut off the ring and trap Tommy in the corner. Tommy tried to punch his way out, throwing a flurry of wild punches. Iron Bar took the brunt of the onslaught on his gloves and arms, and then continued to press forward, throwing a barrage of his own. Tommy took the hits. At least he looked like he was in for the long haul now.
Most tent fighting was a bit of hit and giggle, mixed with piss and vinegar. Everybody could fight, but not everyone could box, and it was pretty rare that we came up against men who knew what they were doing. Those that knew how were usually doing it out there on their own. Every now and then we'd brush across some has-been who was tryin' to prove he still had it, but the bulk of our contenders were just good ol' boys or barroom brawlers at best. They could fight all right, and could certainly throw a punch, but they didn't have the technique. At least not like Iron Bar here, who was settin' up Tommy like a pro.
Tommy spent most of the second and third rounds tryin' to punch his way out of the corner. Pinned down, his usual smooth style went walkabout. He landed one or two blows, but nothin' that shook the world. The fourth showed a bit more spirit. Tommy carried the fight to Iron Bar, comin' out hard at the start. Then, rather than allowin' himself to be forced back against the ropes, Tommy chose to swap leather, blow for blow in the center. It wasn't pretty but the crowd was lovin' it. They were gettin' a real show tonight, that was for sure!
Like the punters, my attention was solely on the fight, so of course I wasn't watching all the mugs comin' and goin' in the crowd. And even if I was watchin', I probably wouldn't have noticed Sanderson's pock-marked punk, Straw, wander into the tent. Only Ginny and Tommy would have recognized his mug. Straw had a bit of a look-see, and didn't like what he saw.
He turned to a punter beside him and asked, “What round is this?”
“The sixth,” the punter yelled.
Six rounds? To Straw, Iron Bar wasn't doin' what he was paid to do. He was supposed to teach Tommy a lesson. Instead he was hostin' a boxing exhibition. That wasn't good enough for Straw. Not by a long shot. But Sanderson had come up with a backup plan, and if Iron Bar didn't start producin' the goods in the next coupla rounds, well, Straw was gonna do what needed doin'.
In the eighth round, Iron Bar caught Tommy with a zinging right cross. It stunned Tommy and he dropped to a knee in the center of the ring. I thought Iron Bar would have stepped up and ended it there and then. But he didn't.
“Get up,” he yelled through his mouthpiece.
Tommy looked up at his opponent. By now, he had a good sized mouse under his left eye, already turning black and blue. Then Tommy just nodded. It was like he just looked into to himself and checked if he had anything left in his ticker. He must have. He stood and offered his gloves to Wheeler, who made the pretense of giving him a standing eight count.
Both men returned to the center of the ring, prepared to recommence their battle. But somehow it was different. Tommy looked like a different man. Iron Bar was the first to attack, with a wild flurry of punches. But Tommy wasn't going to take it unanswered. He continued to stand toe to toe with Iron Bar in the center of the ring. Iron Bar probed with a series of small, quick jabs. Tommy practically swatted them away. Then Iron Bar tried a big move. Ill advised, he threw a big right. Tommy blocked the blow, pushing up, opening up his opponent. Then Tommy really let him have it. He tagged him with a thunderous right hand to the point of the jaw. That punch would have stopped time itself.
I knew Tommy could punch, but this shot was as close to perfection as you could get. Timing was everything in this sport, and this punch had it – the same way a cricketer knows when he has hi
t the sweet spot, or a golfer tees off cleanly. It was a beautiful, magical feel, and something that was almost indescribable unless you've done it. I knew that this was a knockout punch. It was crisp, it was clean. And the sound was – I guess unless you've been there and heard it, you won't truly know what I mean.
Iron Bar slumped to the floor like a twenty pound sack of potatoes. Tommy jumped back to allow Wheeler in, but he was still pumped and ready to go. If Iron Bar had even looked as if he might have got to his feet, Tommy would have been ready. His fists were like swirling anvils, heavy and dangerous and prepared to do far more damage.
But that was a moot point. Iron Bar was not getting up any time soon. He was out. And Wheeler confirmed it with his count. He didn't even have to count fast. But there wasn't time to revel in the moment.
There was an outcry from the back of the tent, and a stampede of patrons all rushed towards the entrance. The rear canvas wall was flickering with flame and black plumes of smoke filled the tent. Within seconds, the whole rear was alight, flames now soaring upwards, licking at the roof. I tried to ignore it, and concentrated on shepherding all the customers out of the tent. A boy about sixteen had been knocked down in the rush and I scooped him up, and carried him out the front. I turned and went back in, to help out more of the surging crowd. Where was Ginny? The smoke was thick now. I spotted her near a central support beam. I cut towards her.
“C'mon, you've got to get out,” I yelled.
“Not without Tommy,” she replied.
I turned, and there was Tommy still in the ring, with the flame crackling overhead. Strips of burning canvas were now falling away from the roof, and trailing down like flaming fly-strips. He was trying to lift the inert form of Iron Bar. I ushered Ginny towards the entrance.
“Don't worry. I'll get him out.” I rushed over, and took one of the slugger's arms. With Tommy on the other side, we fed him through the ropes and carried him out of the tent and lay him down on the grass.
I turned to head back into the tent. Ginny grabbed my arm to stop me.
“It okay,” she said. “Everybody is out now.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, and looked around. In stunned silence, all the punters who had been at the show, and our troupe, stood back watching as the flame lit up the night sky. Likewise, helplessly, Tommy, Ginny and I watched the tent burn, and with it our livelihood. The fire tore through the sun-baked canvas in seconds, leaving a flaming skeleton of tent poles. As the ropes burnt through, the poles fell, and the tent collapsed in on itself, quickly burning itself out. It was gone forever.
ROUND SIX
It had all happened so fast, I didn't know how to feel. I guess I was grateful nobody was hurt, but I was damn angry too. I mean, how the hell did a fire start at the back of a boxing tent? My question was soon answered.
“Here, Yack!” I was called over by Killer Ken, who was scouring the remains of the burnt tent, looking for anything salvageable. I walked over the ashen ground to his position.
“Look at these,” Ken said.
The empty, blackened kerosene tins were self-explanatory. The tent fire hadn't been an accident. It had been deliberately lit, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to work out who had done it. Everybody already believed Sanderson was responsible for the fire that destroyed Charlie Owen's tent. It looked like he was trying the same stunt with us.
While I was lookin', Ginny was reviving Iron Bar with some smelling salts. He regained consciousness, coughing and spluttering. He had swallowed his share of smoke in the tent. He was looking pretty green around the gills, and it didn't surprise her when he threw up.
He was as mad as hell at Sanderson and told Ginny everything. He could have gone up with the tent too.
* * * * *
The next morning was pretty miserable. Old Man Wheeler was livid. His eyes sparked with fury as he paced back and forth.
We had all gathered out front of Wheeler's caravan. Tommy was consoling Ginny, who was crying, and I swear I saw a tear in Tiny Johnson's eyes. Of course, I'd never say that to him. Killer Ken was just sittin' on the ground, with his head bowed. The two other fighters, Kevin Day, and Rusty Morris stood at the back of the troupe with their arms crossed. “Limehouse” Manton, our cook, was passing round mugs of steaming black coffee. I took one, and gulped down the hot liquid appreciatively. The way things were goin', with our livelihood gone, I figured this coffee might just be my last hot meal for quite a while.
The cops had been called, but there was only one full time policeman in Birdsville. With the races on and the influx of tourists, he had his hands full policing the town. It wasn't until around mid-morning when he showed up.
His name was Archie Atkinson, and he was a small gaunt fellow with an oversized nose. He got out of his four-wheeled-drive jeep, slapped on his hat, more to keep off the sun, than any strict protocol, and approached us.
“I'm looking for Walter Wheeler,” he said as he walked up. He spoke in a slow Aussie drawl.
“That'd be me,” Wheeler said stepping forward.
“You run a boxing tent?” the police officer asked.
“Ran a boxing tent.”
“And your tent burnt down?”
“Damn right, it was burnt down.”
“Do you know what caused the accident?”
“Accident, my arse! Come with me. I'll show you.” Wheeler led Atkinson to the kerosene cans. The troupe followed behind. “Do these look like an accident?”
Atkinson bent down, picked up one of the blackened kerosene cans, and brushed the ash off the label. It was a common brand, sold everywhere. The cans wouldn't be a great help in the investigation.
“So the fire was deliberately lit. Do you know who would want to burn down your tent?” the cop said.
“Arnold Sanderson. He did it.”
“You saw him?”
“No, but I know he did it.”
“Your troupe, how many aboriginals do you have working?”
“Six. What's that got to do with anything?”
“It's my experience with this type of incident that often it is an inside job. Someone wanting to get out. You say you have six aboriginals working for you. They don't like been cooped up. Drives them crazy. Maybe you should look to your own people. That's where you will find out who burnt down your tent.”
“This is nonsense,” Wheeler started, but before he could finish, Ginny bustled forward. She was angry, and her fists were clenched tight by her side.
“What would you know about aborigines?” she yelled. “What would you know about our troupe? Wheeler has given you the name of the man who burnt down our tent. Why don't you go and arrest him, or at least question him?”
“I don't need to,” Atkinson said smugly. “I went to Sanderson's show last night, and was talking to him afterward. He couldn't have burnt down your tent, because I was with him at the time.”
I thought Ginny was about to hit the cop. Tommy could see she was about to really fly off the handle. He put his hand on her shoulder to calm her down.
“It's okay,” he said to her gently. Tommy had heard more than his share of racist trash over the years, and knew this wasn't the place to put up a fight. And Aktinson, as a duly appointed officer of the law, was not a man to be trifled with, even if he was a blinkered racist, with the investigative skills of a muddle-headed wombat.
I figured that Atkinson had most likely been paid off by Sanderson. Whatever we said was going to fall on deaf ears.
The cop left, and we knew we weren't going to get justice from the police. Not around here. That left us without a tent, and without a livelihood. We all walked back to Wheeler's caravan. He was leading the way. We were looking to him for guidance.
It was his call now. If he wanted to, he could call it quits then and there. I didn't know where that would leave us.
“Are we shutting down Mr. Wheeler?” Killer Ken asked.
Wheeler took a drag on one of his cigarettes and ran a hand through his snowy white hair. I could
tell he was thinking about calling it quits. He wasn't getting any younger, and setting up from scratch was a big task for a man half his age.
After what seemed like an eternity, he finally spoke. “No, Ken, we're not quitting. We are not going to let ourselves be run out of town like some mangy flea-bitten dog. What we are going to do, is take the small training tent and re-jig it as a boxing tent.”
Wheeler was referring to a small five pole tent the boys used for training. It couldn't have been more than eight yards square. For a second, I thought Wheeler was mad. He couldn't fit a crowd in there. There was barely enough room to box.
However, Wheeler continued, “We need another eight tent poles, and what we are going to do is slice the corners of the tent from the hem of the roof down to the ground. Then we are going to lift these four flaps up, supporting them with posts. It'll be open air, but we'll have the ring in the center, and then we'll have four galleries off on each of the sides. From the top it'll look like a square cross.”
I had to give it to the old man. It could work. It wouldn't be pretty, but it would serve its purpose. At least in the dry top end of the country. It wouldn't go down too well in the cold, wet south in winter time. But if Wheeler could keep it all going and make some money, over time we could get a new tent, and get the show back on the road proper. But for now the top end and the red center would do me fine – after all, my leg didn't ache out there.
We were all pleased, and murmured our support for the plan. It was then that I noted Jaffa Teasdale was not among us.
I looked over at Tommy.
“Where's Jaffa?” I asked.
Tommy just shrugged. I guessed Jaffa would show up when he was ready.
“What about Sanderson?” Tiny asked. I guess it was the question we all had on our minds.
Wheeler didn't have time to speak. Killer Ken cut in. “I say we go down there tonight and burn his tent down!”
“Give him a taste of his own medicine is what I say,” Kevin Day added.
