The Unspoken

by Don Zelma

Chapter Twenty-eight

  Ned looked at his watch as he rode in the dark. He had ridden for several hours and done a lot of thinking. As always, in times of distress, he turned to his passion for rescue. His honest story was well underway and, after sinking to perhaps the lowest point in his life, this now gave him hope. He changed down gear, slowed towards the intersection and pulled off onto a dirt track. His tailpipes splutter in the dark as his high beam cast a shaft of light through the dust. His motorcycle pulled up slowly in the roadside grass and in under a gum. He waited, thinking, then killed the engine.

  There were several cars parked far away between the trees and three or four men could be seen entering a marquee, their voices clear in the crisp cold air. He remembered the previous night with Dan on the river. Throughout his life he had always fighting – using his fists or, more recently, writing his book. Sometimes, a man needed to just surrender, but Ned knew he still had fight in him.

  A roar of a crowd broke from inside the tent, reverberating in the trees. He strolled towards the dim light, his feet crunching on the undergrowth between the parked cars. His fingers lifted the stiff canvas flap and he walked into the tent, humid as a greenhouse and loud with yelling. The room was lit by bulbs strung up between the tent posts and fifty or sixty men were standing around a square canvas mat. Ned sauntered up behind the back row and saw two men wander onto the mat. One wore boxing trunks and a singlet and the other blue jeans and a sleeveless flannelette shirt. The casually dressed man was breathing heavily – he had been chancing his luck. A tall man joined them wearing riding boots and carrying a megaphone, quelling the mob with little downward hand motions like Caesar to a crowd. He raised the funnel.

  ‘My guy ain’t that tough,’ he said, his voice loud from the megaphone. He glanced at his man in trunks. ‘Billy’s sweet; he keeps a photograph of his mother next to his bed.’ A few men laughed and the matchmaker turned to the man in flannelette. ‘You OK, son? You wanna try another round?’

  The challenger snarled and raised his fists victoriously. He was a bit of a comic and everyone cheered. It was a pretty good mood.

  The matchmaker reached for a bell on a tent post. ‘Righto, Billy,’ he said to his man. ‘Give him the good news.’

  The bell sounded and the crowd roared. Ned rose up on his toes and peered through the waving fists. Flannelette raised his gloves and danced like an idiot towards the centre. He was a joker all right – cranking his fists like an olden-day bare-fist boxer. Very soon he swung wildly but Billy ducked and came up with a nippy uppercut, spraying sweat from Flannelette’s head.

  ‘Oooooooo!’ came from the crowd.

  Flannelette doubled over and the tent went quiet. Billy stepped up, laid a gentle glove on his shoulder, spoke quietly and Flannelette nodded. He was out.

  ‘Give that bloke a hand!’ the matchmaker said. Everyone applauded. ‘He’s been a good sport.’ Flannelette slumped groggily onto his chair and the cut man began removing his gloves. ‘Now, we got big Copper Cody here,’ the matchmaker said, ‘and no one to fight ’im.’

  A man of about forty appeared from the tent flap. The matchmaker began pointing at young men in the crowd. ‘Mate?’ he murmured. ‘You wanna go?’ The onlooker shook his head. ‘Come on…’ the matchmaker said, scanning the many faces. ‘Who wants a go?’

  Ned wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Cody wouldn’t be a pushover.

  ‘There’s a hundred dollar kitty for the winner,’ the matchmaker said, ‘courtesy of the gate.’

  F—k it, Ned thought. This will sort me out.

  He raised a hand and the spectators looked around.

  ‘OK, son,’ the matchmaker said and waved him forward. ‘Out you come.’ The crowd began to part and Ned stepped onto the mat, feeling pretty good. ‘Well done, son,’ the matchmaker said. He shook his hand. ‘What’s ya name?’ Ned told him, removed his biker’s vest and dropped it on the floor. The matchmaker glanced down at his paunch. ‘A big heavy bloke,’ he said.

  The cut man guided him to the chair beside the tent post and everyone listened as the matchmaker told a story.

  Ned watched the cut man fit his gloves, gazing dreamily as tape passed over the laces. What Dan had said about letting go was on his mind. He thought about his previous passions and knew he had now arrived at a critical stage in his life – to give up on all of them and just live.

  The matchmaker stopped talking and looked around. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Here we go. Over you come.’

  Ned stood and the crowd applauded respectfully. It was pretty tense but he felt all right. Money started changing hands and the two men stepped onto the mat, the matchmaker joining them.

  ‘OK, lads,’ he said. He’d done this a million times. ‘Three rounds. No head-butts.’

  The men touched gloves. Ned stepped back and the matchmaker reached for the rope.

  The bell rang and there was an almighty roar. Ned stepped in, raising his fists like approaching a brawl.

  Fight like you would normally fight, he thought, but he was surprised at his racing heart and now knew more was at stake here than just the kitty. How does one give up on their dreams? There had been many of them. He knew he wanted the winnings, but mostly he still just wanted to win.

  He closed in, but Cody eased back. Cody was an outside fighter and that was fine with Ned, but he needed to break the distance to hit him, which is where troubled lied.

  ‘Get in first and hit fast,’ he thought, ‘and end the fight quickly.’

  He swung at once without a lead – it was cocky – but beat Cody’s guard and landed a strong blow against his cheek. Cody blinked and the crowd applauded.

  Get in now, he thought, and bring him down.

  He moved in, planning a straight right, but this time it got what it deserved. He was clobbered with something he didn’t see and it knocked him right back onto his heels. A second foray rapped his head and he opened his eyes to see Cody dancing back. He looked around to see who else had hit him and it drew a good laugh. He raised his fists, peek-a-boo style, and shuffled in. His front hand jabbed then he danced back. He jabbed again then swung a right and Cody ducked and sent up a powerful hook. It hurt; God – he was quick! After that, to his dread, his legs wouldn’t work and he started falling and couldn’t stop. Cody stepped back and Ned watched disbelievingly as he landed flat on his face. The audience stood and went crazy – no one expected Ned to fall so convincingly.

  He propped himself up on his hands and looked up with his hair hanging over his face. The matchmaker fell to one knee and started the count. Ned pushed up from the canvas.

  F—king hell, he thought. Here I am again – getting knocked down and trying to stand up again.

  The bell rang, the crowd applauded and Ned stumbled towards his chair. He only now realised that he might lose. He remembered his fascination with Lermontov and now it just seemed ridiculous. The cut man squirted water into his mouth and he just kept thinking about his book. The matchmaker addressed the crowd with another story, but Ned didn’t hear a thing.

  The bell rang and he stood quickly. He skipped up then suddenly sprinted across the mat like a man running out the room. He clenched his teeth and reached out for Cody.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouted. It was getting nasty and the tent fell quiet. Cody cowered in the corner and Ned began striking his forearms. ‘Come on, ya son of a bitch!’ he said, wanting to end things once and for all.

  Cody stepped sideways and away and Ned started chasing him. He claimed one then two good blows, seeing Cody’s head shudder. Finally – a little bit of justice. He had Cody’s measure and now and had plans for a coup de grace. The two clinched and he felt Cody breathing on his neck.

  ‘You’re not hitting as hard as I thought,’ Cody whispered. ‘You’re a fat f—k and no punch.’

  Son of a bitch – it was out of line and Ned wouldn’t wear it. He jabbed down at his ribs and several struck home. He began hitting high and the matchmaker separated them, but Ned went straight back in
. He was using his true strength now and was going to have his win. Then, seconds before the bell – steadily, and with astonishing control – Cody’s punches started coming. It surprised everyone and the crowd stood from their seats. Ned tried to defend, but his fists wouldn’t rise and the penny dropped – he had punched himself out. The rhythm of Cody’s punches quickened and Ned knew he was done. Cody had control and you just had to admire him. His glove hurtled towards him in slow motion and he felt it hit – harder than expected. The ceiling filled his vision then the crowd went quiet and he started toppling backwards like a felled tree. He lingered in mid-air, waiting to hit the floor, then smacked heavily onto his back. It knocked the air right out of his lungs.

  The tent was strangely quiet as if someone in the room had died. Ned opened his eyes and listened to the silence. He could hear the grumble of men that had lost money and blinked at the canvas roof. Copper Cody, his face dripping with sweat, stepped in above him; it seemed he was hardly breathing.

  ‘Had enough, mate?’ Cody said, confident and arrogant.

  Yes, Ned thought. finally, he reckoned he had – and bit his lip.

  ‘Had enough, Mr. Col?’ the matchmaker asked.

  Ned kept staring at the ceiling thinking about the preacher, and slowly unclenched his fists. Dan’s words were playing around his head. Sometimes, he told himself, there are fights you just cannot win. You just gotta face it – your ambitions are a little beyond you.

  Ned arrived at the house, his fingers cold from holding the handlebars. He opened the back door and stepped into the bright kitchen then wandered down the hall and into the bedroom. Edith was asleep, the top of her head showing between the sheets. He stepped to the window and flicked the heavy curtains open.

  ‘Hey, sweet stuff!’ he said. He felt great.

  Edith slowly pulled the duvet from her face and grimaced in the light.

  He peeled off his T-shirt and jeans, wet with dew. ‘It’s freezing out there,’ he said. ‘Me nose is stinging from the cold.’ He dropped his clothes into the laundry basket, picked out a towel and began drying his hair. ‘How are ya?’ he said. He heard his positive tone and it didn’t seem real.

  He slipped in under the sheets then glanced at Edith. She remained quiet, but her silence didn’t surprise him. She slowly turned and gazed at him. He guessed she didn’t know what to make of his new optimism.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘Things will get better.’ It was very interesting – the features of her face began drawing his attention and he began seeing beauties he had long been blind to. She no doubt saw his eyes, turned and pulled her head in under the duvet. She was dead suspicious.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. He stared at her hair sticking out from the sheets.

  She glanced back and he saw her eyes were moist. ‘Don’t give me false hope, Ned,’ she said. ‘You’ve done this before.’

  He knew what she was talking about. She turned towards the wall and he decided to let her be. He rested his head on the pillow and looked at the window. The room was filling with morning light and everything looked just a little bit different. Yes, he thought, he had turned a corner. After hitting rock bottom in the tent, he now saw, with this approaching dawn, the real chance to live harmoniously and of a genuine fresh start.