Читать книгу Fox - Bill Robertson - Страница 13

The crowd before Darrigan’s platform swelled. Fitzroy Crossing in early July was warm and clear and people aplenty had come in off the stations for the annual rodeo. Many were Aboriginal people from the four main language groups and today the usual town population of about 1200 was almost 2000. It was an exciting time with the horses, the fights and a couple of nights of grog, dancing and good fun. This mid-afternoon, a good-sized mob had gathered for the fights and the dust was rising beneath impatient feet.

Start time was ten minutes away. Mardie, Joe’s wife, opened up the ticket box and the noisy, cheerful crowd bustled into the tent. One of Darrigan’s fighters marshalled the challengers off the platform and around to the back of the tent. There they had to sign consent forms and disclose if they were carrying injuries; it was also a final chance to withdraw. Darrigan was wary of the creeping tide of litigation.

Before they started, Darrigan spoke to the volunteers.

‘Righto youse blokes, listen up. The rules are simple: fight fair. That means no hittin’ below the belt, no hittin’ anyone with their back to ya, no hittin’ someone fallin’ down and no bloody kickin’ – this ain’t a pub brawl. I mean it. Some bastards ferget where they are! Just to make sure ya don’t ferget, Big Merv, me heavyweight here, will belt the livin’ shit outa anyone who sinks the slipper. And, at minimum, there’s twenty bucks fer youse all, whatever happens.’ Naturally, Darrigan’s unstated rule was: “never let the suckers win”.

‘Any questions?’

The eight men were silent.

‘Anyone wanna change their minds?’

Again, no response.

‘Okay. Shirts off, fight in bare tops or singlets. There’s a bunch of runners and clean socks in them boxes. Get some that fit. If ya wanna fight barefoot, that’s okay too. Five minutes we start. Lightweights first, workin’ up ta heavies. Okay?’

Fox strolled around the corner of the tent. He watched Rogers find and don some runners. Rogers was tanned and sinewy, his flat belly rippled like washboard. He wouldn’t be a pushover. Still, Fox had faith. Rogers looked up from tying his laces and nodded to Fox. Fox could see puzzlement lingering in his eyes. Inside the crowd roared and chanted as the fights kicked off. Fox went off for a leak. He closed his eyes: humiliate don’t retaliate, humiliate don’t retaliate. It was okay, his way was clear.

Soon enough, Big Merv stepped out and beckoned Fox and Rogers. They went in. It was a big tent, about thirty by twenty-five metres. In the centre, instead of a traditional ring of ropes and posts, there was a large tarpaulin painted with a blue square representing the ring. Anyone pushed or hit from the ring was thrown back again by willing and vocal spectators. A couple of light plastic chairs stood diagonally opposite each other in the ring corners – one red, one blue. The tarp, which measured about six by six metres, was tautly staked down over a spread of wood shavings some ten to fifteen centimetres deep, a surface that was firm but relatively soft. The shavings extended another metre beyond the tarp. Beyond the shavings, set back another couple of metres, tiered stands rose around all four sides of the tent. An aisle ran through the stand from the ticket box to the ring and then on from the opposite side of the ring out back where the fighters gathered. It was through this aisle that Fox and Rogers entered.

Inside, after watching three bouts, the crowd was good humoured, charged and clamorous. The tent, filled to capacity, was hot and steamy from the warm day. A potpourri of odours wafted around the tent space: stale sweat, pine shavings, perfume and tobacco smoke. Spontaneous raucous laughter bubbled up every so often like a geyser. Impeccably dressed in a white shirt, white cotton trousers and black sneakers, Joe Darrigan stood in the centre of the ring. Fox automatically went to the red corner. Rogers rolled his shoulders, whirled his arms, marched to the blue chair and sat. Each fighter’s white clad attendant was there to provide water, a towel and styptic pencil to staunch blood from cuts or scrapes.

Fox was composed and remained standing. He danced lightly, one foot to the other, eyes closed, breathing slowly – in through his nose, out gently through his mouth. The noise of the crowd receded to a low hum. His focus intensified: anticipation was heightened, clarity was brilliant and movement slowed. He opened his eyes and fixed on Rogers who was caught as clearly as a rabbit in headlights.

Rogers felt uncomfortable. He’d come to watch the fights, not participate. His reputation was already lethal among the locals and he didn’t need this to feel comfortable in his own skin. Yet, in some strange way he felt compelled to challenge this young kid. He didn’t know why. And there was something familiar about him, something he couldn’t pin down. He wasn’t worried about the fight – he could knock anybody sideways on sixpence into next week. Yet his opponent made him uneasy. Although he was moving he seemed still amid the din. Something about him made Rogers’ scalp crawl.

Darrigan waved them in. The chairs were whisked away. The crowd clapped and whistled and stamped. Rogers stalked to the centre, glowering at Fox. Fox seemed to glide across the tarp, so light was his step.

‘Righto boys,’ bawled Darrigan, ‘ya know the rules, fight fair. It’ll be three three minute rounds. If I say stop, stop! And step away. If either of youse get knocked down, I’ll count to eight, whether ya hurt or not. They’re me rules. Right, touch gloves.’

A bell clanged and they stepped forward to touch gloves. Before they’d even finished, a lightning left from Fox bloodied Rogers’ nose. He danced back out of the way. Rogers shook his head, he hadn’t even seen it coming. The crowd roared. This one was off to a good start. Rogers, a local hero was sure to retaliate. Rogers crouched, tucked his elbows in and went after Fox. He was at least fifteen centimetres taller with considerably longer reach; he was fit and much heavier than Fox. Bang, bang, left right combination to Fox’s head – except Fox was not there. He had already swayed right, ducked and installed a solid left rip to Rogers’ midriff and skipped away.

Fox circled Rogers. Everything Rogers did Fox saw in slow motion, even before it was initiated. Rogers whirled and shuffled towards Fox, eyes focussed keenly on his opponent, This kid’s good. I’d better watch him. He moved rapidly after Fox, trying to crowd him out of the ring. Jab, jab with the left, looking to plant a right cross. None of his blows landed. Again, Rogers tried to press Fox out of the ring, all the while his dynamite left pumping piston-like. Fox was elusive. He seemed to float around the ring, to tie Rogers in knots, to confound his sense of place.

The bell clanged. As Rogers returned to his corner he was aware the crowd had quietened, they sensed something different about this fight. Even Darrigan was baffled. He’d never seen Fox fight like this. He’d landed only two blows, both telling, yet he was overwhelming Rogers. Rogers’ approach was stolid, focussed and clearly professional. Fox was something else. He seemed ethereal.

Out again. Rogers decided to stay away from Fox, to draw him in, to make him box, not crowd him. Fox obliged. He entered Rogers’ fire zone and immediately bloodied his nose again, launched an upper cut and belted his ribs just under the heart. Rogers reeled. He could not believe Fox’s speed and dexterity. He’d had many fights but none like this. Fox was beginning to annoy him. He shook his head and charged at Fox, intending to clinch his neck and sink a hard right deep into his belly. Fox stood, waiting. Rogers cannoned into him, reached to imprison his head and was met by a straight left that sat him on his arse. The crowd roared and stomped their feet. This was something special. So far, although Rogers had swung many blows none had seemed to hit Fox. Rogers was purposeful and serious, Fox moved mischievously like thistledown. Rogers’ blows were ferocious and powerful. Fox was controlled, conserved his energy and exerted just enough power. His speed was dazzling. And now, Rogers had the indignity of having to wait for the count of eight.

The round ended as Darrigan bellowed eight. Last round. Rogers decided to demolish Fox. He was angry and knew that angry was not clever. He rushed across to the red corner ready to down the lazily rising Fox with a looping right to the head followed by a body rip. But, like smoke, Fox just floated away. As Rogers passed, he poked a stinging left under his guard and into his jaw. Rogers whirled and swung a long right hook at Fox that glanced off his gloves. Ha huh, he thought, he’s not invincible. Rogers stalked Fox. Left, left – left-right combination. Fox swayed, ducked and hammered Rogers’ ribs. And then, with ninety seconds to go, Fox attacked. Delicate, stinging blows surgically placed assaulted Rogers’ torso, head, arms and ears. It was not that the onslaught was brutal, just that it was fast and relentless. And Rogers could not escape. Before he knew it, he was on his back. Up again after the count of eight. Down again with his nose mashed for the third time. Up again after eight and down again with his head spinning from a cracking right cross.

The bell rang for the last time. For what seemed an eternity, the big tent was silent. Rogers, on his back, not hurt but embarrassed. Fox loped back to his corner, took a long draft of water and walked back to the centre of the ring. There, Darrigan proudly raised Fox’s arm as victor. He had never witnessed a bout like this before. He knew Fox was a great little fighter, but this … this was outstanding! The crowd yelled, whistled and bellowed their approval.

That night, Fox climbed the steps to his trailer.

‘Fox!’ A low voice called from the darkness. Fox waited, motionless; payback was known in the boxing-tent world. Rogers stepped into the light. ‘Fox. I’d like to talk to you.’

‘I’ve got nothing to say Rogers.’

‘So you know me then. Well, I’ve got things to say to you. Do you want to hear me out? Want to go for a beer?

‘I don’t drink. Come in but don’t do anything stupid.’

‘You’re safe with me, but I’m not so sure I’m safe with you.’ Rogers grinned ruefully and nodded.

They entered the trailer truck. The long caravan, divided into a series of tiny rooms, was towed by a prime mover. At the back of the trailer, off the drop down steps, was a small lounge area. It was Spartan-like and scrupulously clean. Darrigan style.

‘Well, what do you want?’

‘Like I said, I want to talk to you. First of all, I want you to know I didn’t come here today looking for a bout. Meeting you was the last thing I expected. I thought you were familiar but I couldn’t place you. It was only through the last half of the last round when you were whipping me that I remembered. It was your eyes. I remembered those grey eyes glaring at that bastard Mullett.’

‘I’m glad you remembered. You caused a lot of harm.’

‘I know. That’s what I wanted to talk about. Look, I’m not proud of any of that. I was just doing my job and it never bothered me. But I heard about Mullett and what happened. It made me sick to think I’d been part of that. That I’d just gone along without question. So, I wanted to say I’m sorry. And I know sorry doesn’t cut the mustard …’

‘Too bloody right it doesn’t.’ Fox’s eyes glittered, pain pummelled his face. ‘Lucy was murdered by that vile piece of shit employed by the state. Me mum is dead after wasting away and you think “sorry” fixes things? Piss off! You saw what Mullett was doing. You coulda kicked him in the balls at the time, you coulda prosecuted him. But we’re black. We aren’t worth it, so ya did nuthin!’

Rogers moved to the door. ‘Yes. It was wrong. After I heard about Lucy I quit the force. Couldn’t stomach it any more. I always knew Mullett was sleazy and rough with kids but I never caught him doing anything indecent. He was a bit too cunning. I should have followed up my instincts, but I didn’t do that either. I’m sorry about your mum, I didn’t know she’d passed on. What happened today was proper. You gave me a lesson I won’t forget. You had the skill and power to hurt me badly, but you didn’t. You were controlled, you embarrassed me in front of a crowd, you hurt my pride, but, at the end of the day, that’s nothing compared to what I did to you. I want you to know,’ he said softly, ‘I am deeply, deeply sorry.’ Rogers turned and left the trailer.

When he’d gone, Fox slumped into a chair, anger turned to sadness. Sad for all of Rosie’s losses, sad that Lucy’s bright spirit had been extinguished and sad for Rogers. Rogers had seen wrong and done nothing; he had accepted bad law and bad policy. It was too easy to argue that Rogers was only one against many of his kind, that he was only doing his job – he knew it was wrong and failed to act. Fox had always acted. And copped the consequences! Beatings, confinement, bullying, isolation and starvation. None of it had ever stopped him speaking out against wrongdoing. He had stood against paedophiles, rapists, sadists and intimidators – both black and white. Predators who concealed their behaviour under the guise of “good works”.

Grudgingly, he admitted Rogers was due some respect for coming to apologise. It changed nothing, but he had done it. Rogers would carry his demons about Lucy in his own way.

Fox rose and walked to his bunk. After today, he was done with Joe Darrigan. When they finished here they were off to Winnellie, in Darwin. He would leave Darrigan then.