Underdogs

  He pats Miffy happily when I hit it the second time.

  He claps when I get Rube a good one on the jaw. Just a good, solid clip.

  After fifteen minutes we stop.

  Rube says, "I told you, didn't I?" and Perry nods.

  "Show us a bit more," he states calmly, "but swap gloves." He looks like he's thinking hard. Then he watches as Rube and I go at it again.

  It's tougher with the other glove. We both miss more, but slowly, we get into a rhythm. We circle the yard. Rube throws out his hand. I duck it. Swerve. Make my way in. I jab. Hit his chin. Shoot one at his ribs. He counterpunches. His breath is stern as he stabs his fist through my cheekbone, then gets me in the throat.

  "Sorry."

  "Okay."

  We resume.

  He gets one under my ribs and I can't breathe. A yelp escapes from under my breath. Rube stands. So do I, but crooked. "Finish him off," Perry tells him. Rube does it.

  When I wake up, the first thing I se Miffy's dog-ugly face pressed into mine. Then I see Perry, smiling. Then I see Rube, worried.

  "I'm okay," I tell him.

  "Good."

  When they get me back up, we all walk back into the kitchen and Rube and Perry sit down. I slump down. I feel like death warmed up. A strip of green flanks my vision. Static reaches through my ears.

  Perry motions to the fridge. "Y' sure you don't have a beer?"

  "Are you an alcoholic or somethin'?"

  "I just like a beer now and then."

  "Well." Rube is forthright. "We don't have one." He's a bit upset about knocking me unconscious, I can tell. I remember him saying, The only things I care about in this life ...

  Perry decides to get back down to business. What he says is a shock. It's this: "I want both of y's."

  Rube sniffs, with surprise, and rubs his nose.

  Perry looks now at Rube and says, "You ..." He smiles. "You can fight, all right. That's a fact." Then he looks at me. "And you've got heart.... See, one thing I didn't go into detail about before was the tips. People throw money into the ring corners if they think you've got heart, and ... it's Cameron, isn't it?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, you've got it in spades."

  Trying not to, I smile. Damn guys like Perry. You hate them, but they still make you smile.

  "So what will happen is this." He looks at Rube. "You're gonna win fights and you'll be popular because you're fast and young and you've got a rough but somehow attractive head."

  I look at my brother now as well. I examine him, and it's true. He is good-looking, but in a strange way. It's sudden, rough, rugged. A wayward kind of handsome that's more around him than on him. It's more of a feeling, or an aura.

  Perry looks now at me. "And you? You'll most likely get hammered, but if you keep clean enough and stay off the ropes, you'll get close to twenty bucks in tips, 'cause people will see your heart."

  "Thanks."

  "No need for thanking. These are facts." No more time-wasting. "So do you want in or not?"

  "I don't know about my brother," Rube admits to him, with caution. "He can take a beating in the backyard, but that's different to taking it week in week out by some guy who wants to kill him."

  "He'll fight someone new each week."

  "So what?"

  "Most of 'em are good fighters but some are dead average. They're just desperate for the money." He shrugs. "Y' never know. The kid might win a few."

  "What are the other dangers?"

  "In general?"

  "Yes."

  "They're these." He makes the list. "Rough guys watch the fights and if you back out of a bout they might kill y'. Some nice girls come along with these guys and if you touch 'em those guys might kill y'. Last year, some cops were getting close to raiding an old factory we were using in Petersham. If they catch y', they'll kill y'. So if that happens, run." He's pretty happy with himself, especially for the last one: "The biggest danger, though, is leaving me in the lurch. If you do it, I'll kill y', and that's worse than all the others put together."

  "Fair enough."

  "You wanna think about it?"

  "Yeah."

  To me: "How 'bout you?" "Me too."

  "Right," and he stands up, handing us his phone number. It's written on a piece of torn cardboard. "You've got four days. Ring me on Monday night at seven sharp. I'll be home."

  Rube has two more questions.

  The first: "What if we join and then wanna quit?"

  "Up until August, you have to give me two weeks' notice or find someone to take your place. That's all. People quit all the time because it's a rough game. I understand. Just two weeks' notice or three legitimate names of blokes that can fight well. They're everywhere. No one's irreplaceable. If you make it to August, you've gotta finish the season, into September, when the semifinals are on. See, we do a draw, a competition ladder, the lot. We have finals and everything, with more money in 'em."

  The second question: "What weight divisions will we fight in?"

  "You'll both be in lightweight."

  This triggers a question in me.

  "Will we ever fight each other?"

  "Maybe, but the chance is pretty slight. Once in a while, fighters from the same team have to fight each other. It does happen. You got a problem with that?"

  "No really." It's Rube who says it.

  "Me neither."

  "Well why'd y' ask?"

  "Just curious."

  "Any more questions?"

  We think.

  "No."

  "Good," and we see Perry Cole out of our house. On the front porch, he reminds us. "Remember, you've got four days. Ring me Monday night at seven with yes or no. I'll be unhappy if you don't ring -- and I'm not someone you want unhappy with you."

  "All right."

  He leaves.

  We watch him get into his car. It's an old Holden, done up well, and it must be worth a bit. He must be rolling in money to have both his van and this car. It's money earned off desperates like us.

  Once back inside, we hang around with Miffy, feeding him some bacon fat. Nothing. Not yet. Miffy just rolls around and we pat his stomach. I go to our room to try and find out once and for all what stinks in there. It's not going to be pretty.

  "Yes, I'm awake."

  "How'd y' know I was gonna ask?"

  "You always do."

  "I found out what the smell was."

  "And?"

  "Remember when we got that job lot of onions from the fruit shop?"

  "What? The ones my mates stole? Last Christmas?"

  "Yeah."

  "That was six bloody months ago!"

  "A few strays must have got out of the bag. They were under my bed, in the corner, all disgusting and rotten."

  "Oh, man."

  "Damn right. I chucked 'em in the compost, up near the back fence."

  "Good idea."

  "I was gonna show 'em to y', but they stank so bad, I fully ran out there with 'em."

  "Even better idea ... Where was I?"

  "Next door, returnin'

  "Oh yeah."

  Change of topic.

  "Are y' thinkin' about it?" I ask. "About that Perry character?"

  "Yep."

  "You reckon we can do it?"

  "Hard to say."

  "It sounds ..."

  "What?"

  "I d'know -- scary."

  "It's a chance."

  ... Yes, but a chance at what, I wonder. Our bedroom seems extra dark tonight. Heavy dark.

  I think it again. A chance at what?

  CHAPTER 5

  It's Friday evening and we're watching Wheel of Fortune. It's rare for us to watch a lot of TV because we're usually fighting, doing something stupid in the backyard, or hanging around out front. Besides, we hate most of the crap on the telly anyway. The only good thing about it is that sometimes when you watch it, you can get a bright idea. Previous bright ideas we've had in the midst of TV are: Attempting to rob a dentist.

 
Moving the small lounge table up onto the couch so we could play football against each other with a rolled-up pair of socks.

  Going to the dog track for the first time.

  Selling Sarah's busted old hair-dryer to one of our neighbors for fifteen dollars.

  Selling Rube's broken tape player to a guy down the street.

  Selling the telly.

  Obviously, we could never carry out all of the good ideas.

  The dentist was a disaster (we pulled out, of course). Playing football with the socks resulted in giving Sarah a fat lip when she walked through the lounge room. (I swear it was Rube's elbow and not mine that hit her.) The dog track was fun (even though we came back twelve bucks poorer than when we left). The hair-dryer was thrown back over the fence with a note attached that said, Give us back our fifteen bucks or we'll bloody kill you, you cheating bastards. (We gave the money back the next day.) We couldn't end up finding the tape player (and the guy down the street was pretty tight anyway so I doubt we'd have got much for it). Then, last of all, there was just no way we could ever sell the TV, even though I came up with eleven good reasons why we should give the telly thop. (They go like this: One. In ninety-nine percent of shows, the good guys win in the end, which just isn't the truth. I mean, let's face it. In real life, the bastards win. They get all the girls, all the cash, all the everything. Two. Whenever there's a sex scene, everything goes perfectly, when really, the people in the shows should be as scared of it as me. Three. There are a thousand ads. Four. The ads are always much louder than the actual shows. Five. The news is always kind of depressing. Six. The people are all beautiful. Seven. All the best shows get the ax. For example, Northern Exposure. Have you heard of it? No? Exactly -- it got the ax years ago. Eight. Rich blokes own all the stations. Nine. The rich blokes own beautiful women as well. Ten. The reception can be a bit of a shocker at our place anyway because our aerial's shot. Eleven. They keep showing repeats of a show called Gladiators.)

  The only question now is, What's today's idea? The truth is, it's more of a decision to conclude on last night, as Rube speaks over at me. He starts with an "Oi."

  "Oi," he says.

  "Yeah?"

  "What are your thoughts?" "On what?"

  "You know what. Perry." "We need the money."

  "I know, but Mum and Dad won't let us help pay the bills."

  "Yeah, but we can hold our own end up -- pay our own food and stuff so everything lasts longer." "Yeah, I s'pose." Then Rube says it. It's decided. Concluded. Ended.

  He speaks the words, "We're gonna do it."

  "Okay."

  Only, we know we won't pay our own food. No. We have no intention. We're doing this for some other reason. Some other reason that wants inside us.

  Now we have to wait till Monday so we can ring Perry Cole, but already, we have to think -- about everything. About other guys' fists. About the danger. About Mum and Dad finding out. About survival. A new world has arrived in our minds and we have to handle it. We have decided and there is no time to stick our tail between our legs and run. We've decided in front of the telly and that means we have to give it a shot. If we succeed, good. If we fail, it's nothing new.

  Rube's thinking about it, I can tell.

  Personally, I try not to.

  I try to focus on the woman's brilliant legs on Wheel of Fortune. When she swivels the letters, I can see more of them, just before she turns around and smiles at me. She smiles pretty, and in that split second, I forget. I forget about Perry Cole and all those future punches. It makes me wonder, Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or forget things? Do we spend most of our time running toward or away from our lives? I don "Who y' goin' for?" Rube interrupts my thoughts, looking at the TV. "I d'know."

  "Well?"

  "Okay then." I point. "I'll take the dopey one in the middle."

  "That's the host, y' idiot."

  "Is it? Well, I'll take the blonde one there on the end. She looks the goods."

  "I'll take the guy on the other end. The one who looks like he just escaped from Long Bay Jail. His suit's a dead-set outrage. It's a dis-grace."

  In the end it's the guy from Long Bay that wins. He gets a vacuum cleaner and has already won a trip to the Great Wall of China, from yesterday apparently.

  Not bad. The trip, that is. In the champion round, he misses out on a ridiculous remote control bed. In all honesty, the only thing keeping us watching is to see the woman turning the letters. I like her legs and so does Rube.

  We watch.

  We forget.

  We know.

  We know that on Monday we'll be ringing Perry Cole to tell him we're in.

  "We better start training then," I tell Rube. "I know."

  Mum comes home. We don't know where Dad is. Mum takes the compost out to the heap in the backyard.

  Upon returning she says, "Something really stinks out there near the back fence. Do either of you know anything about it?"

  We look at each other. "No."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Well," I crack under the pressure. "It was a few onions that were in our room that we forgot about.

  That's all."

  Mum isn't surprised. She never is anymore. I think she actually accepts our stupidity as something she just can't change. Yet she still asks the question. "What were they doing in your room?" However, she walks away. I don't think she really wants to hear the answer.

  When Dad arrives, we don't ask where he's been.

  Steve comes in and gives us a shock by saying, "How y' goin', lads?"

  "All right. You?"

  "Good." Even though he still watches Dad with contempt, wishing he'd get the dole or Job Search payments or whatever you please to call it. He soon changes clothes and goes ou Sarah comes in eating a banana Paddlepop. She smiles and gives us both a bite. We don't ask for one, but she knows. She can see our snouts itching for the gorgeous sickly cold of an iceblock in winter.

  Next day, Rube and I begin training.

  We get up early and run. It's dark when the alarm goes off and we take a minute or two to get out of bed, but once out, we're okay. We run together in track pants and old football jerseys and the city is awake and smoky-cold and our heartbeats jangle through the streets. We're alive. Our footsteps are folded neatly, one after the other. Rube's curly hair collides with sunlight. The light steps at us between the buildings. The train line is fresh and sweet and the grass in Belmore Park has the echoes of dew still on it. Our hands are cold. Our veins are warm. Our throats suck in the winter breath of the city, and I imagine people still in bed, dreaming. To me, it feels good. Good city. Good world, with two wolves running through it, looking for the fresh meat of their lives. Chasing it. Chasing hard, even though they fear it. They run anyway.

  "Y' awake, Rube?"

  "Yeah."

  "Jeez, I'm a bit sore, ay. This runnin' in the mornings isn't much chop for the ol' legs."

  "I know -- mine are sore too."

  "It felt good but."

  "Yeah. It felt great."

  "It felt like I'm not sure what. Like we've finally got something. Something to give us -- I d'know. I just don't know."

  "Purpose."

  "What?"

  "Purpose," Rube continues. "We've finally got a reason to be here. We've got reason to be out on that street. We're not just out there doin' nothin'."

  "That's it. That's exactly how it felt."

  "I know."

  "But I'm still sore as hell."

  "Me too."

  "So are we still runnin' again tomorrow?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Good." And in the darkness of our room, a smile reaches across my lips. I feel it.

  CHAPTER 6

  "Bloody hell."

  The phone's been cut off because we don't have the money to pay the bill. Or really, Mum and Dad don't have the money to pay it. Steve or Sarah could pay, but there's no way. It's not allowed. It isn't even considered.

  "Well, up this, then," Steve r
ips through the kitchen air. "I'm movin' out. Soon as possible."

  "Then they miss y' board money," Sarah tells him.

  "So what? If they wanna suffer they can do it without me watchin'." It's fair enough.

  As well as being fair enough, it's Monday night, and it's close to seven. This is not good. This is very not good. Very not good at all.

  "Oh no," I say across to Rube. He's warming his hands above the toaster. This means we can't use the phone in Sarah's room to ring Perry. "Hey Rube."

  "What?" His toast pops up.

  "The phone."

  He realizes.

  He says, "Bloody typical. Is this house useless or what?" and the toast is forgotten.

  We go next door with Perry's number in Rube's pocket. No one home.

  We go the other side. The same.

  So Rube runs into our house, flogs forty cents out of Steve's wallet, and we take off. It's ten to seven. "You know where there's a public phone?" Rube talks between strides. We pant. This is close to a sprint.

  "Trust me," I assure him. I know about phone boxes in this district.

  I sniff one out and we find it hunched in the darkness of a side street.

  It's bang on seven when we ring.

  "You're late," are Perry's first words. "I don't like being kept waiting."

  "Calm down," Rube tells him. "Our phone got cut and we just ran close to three Ks to get here. Besides, my watch says seven sharp."

  "Okay, okay. Is that y' breathing I can hear?"

  "I told you, we just ran nearly."

  "All right." Business. "Are you in or out?"

  Rube.

  Me.

  Heartbeat.

  Breath.

  Heart

  Voice.

  "In."

  "Both of y's?" A nod.

  "Yeah," Rube states, and we can feel Perry smiling through the phone line.

  "Good," he says. "Now listen. Y' first fights won't be this week. They'll be the week after, out at Maroubra. First though, we gotta get some things organized. I'll tell y's what y' need and we've gotta give you some hype. Y' need names. Y' need gloves. We'll talk about it. Can I come over again or do y's wanna meet somewhere else?"

  "Central," is Rube's suggestion. "Our old man might be home and that won't be apples."

  "Okay. Central it is. Tomorrow, four o'clock. Down at Eddy Avenue, where it leads into Belmore Park."

  "Sounds good."

  "Good."

  It's settled.

  "Welcome," is Perry's final word, and the phone runs dead. We're in. We're in and it's final.

  We're in and it's final, because if we back out now, we'll probably end up at the bottom of the harbor. Down near the oil spill, in garbage bags. Well, that's exaggerating, of course, but who knows? Who knows what kind of seedy world we've just entered? Our only knowledge is that we can make money, and maybe some self-respect.