by Paul Collis
Blackie noticed, and was satisfied, when Tegan ever so slightly lowered her eyes to indicate that she understood, and that she had been acknowledged as a country person from his mob. He was too wrecked to have a battle of wits with her at this point in time, to protest his innocence, so he left it at that. He straightened himself to an upright position at the table and casually reached for the fast-emptying pack of cigarettes.
With his head down, staring at the bubbles in his beer, nothing got past the keen eyes of Rips. He noticed the subtleties of what had transpired between Blackie and the woman that he was hoping to sleep with somewhere between then and morning, but he said nothing. The first chance he could get, he was gonna grab Tegan and scarper.
Carlos was interested in what Blackie and the woman were on about too. He raised an eyebrow towards Fingers to ask, ‘What was that all about?’ But Fingers had no idea why Blackie and the woman were in such a deep and meaningful convo. He shrugged his shoulders in an ‘I don’t know’ gesture towards Carlos, leaving the matter unresolved for the Spaniard.
Carlos felt a tinge of jealousy towards Blackie. He wondered how it was that Blackie was able to have a special relationship with the woman while he wasn’t even getting a look-in.
Staring at Blackie, Carlos spitefully asked himself, ‘What the fuck have you got? Ya bastard!’
Chapter 8
Fighting in the Dingy Bar
The crowded bar was becoming louder and hotter by the minute. Blackie felt his mouth dry from cigarettes and ran his tongue over his lips to relieve their dryness. Someone new was crooning the Hank Williams classic ‘There’s a Tear in My Beer’ – badly – but good enough to get the crowd in on the act. Everyone at the table joined in the chorus together. Beer spilled everywhere as they sang and swayed. They sculled their beers like there was no tomorrow, and by the end of the song, the men’s glasses were empty.
Blackie said, ‘My shout! Gimme a hand, Fingers. Gimme a loan, Rips. Wait here bud till I git back. Jest in case …’
Rips looked at Blackie and nodded. He knew Blackie had scores to settle, and might need backup if a fight started in the pub. Rips laughed hard and long and then told Blackie to ‘’urry up, cause there’s a far, far, fucken drought on in the bush, and a man could die of thirst!’
The last time in Dubbo some local boys double-banked Blackie and gave him an awful flogging.
‘Payback time tonight, boys,’ he softly murmured, hoping to run into at least one of the dogs. ‘Hey Rips, we might be sick, sad and sober in the morning, but we’ll have a bit a fun tarnight,’ Blackie warned.
Rips was feeling great, feeling Tegan, and having Blackie back on deck, cash in his pocket, music in the pub, and love in the air, ran his hand up higher on her thigh and smiled back.
‘Fucken oath, brother, we will,’ Rips answered.
Fingers and Carlos watched with interest all that coded work going on between Blackie and Rips, and between Rips and Tegan. But Rips had too many other pleasures on his mind to be bothered waiting around for Blackie and beer all night. As soon as Blackie was out of sight, he told Carlos to mind the table, that he had to go outside for a smoke and that he’d be back in a minute. No sooner he spoke than he was off with Tegan, outside and across the road into her car, loving her up all the way. He knew he was going to get lucky and delighted at the thought.
Nearing the bar, the speed was beginning to lose its effect on Blackie. He deftly felt his pocket, felt the satchel still there, smiled. He looked with a disconcerted eye towards the ever-swelling crowd filling the bar room. It was way overcrowded. He gently pushed his way through with Fingers sticking close behind.
‘I gotta do a piss, mate. Wait here till I git back,’ Blackie told Fingers.
Blackie disappeared into the men’s room and had another slice of the speed inside the locked, pissy toilet cubicle.
After he had his swallow, he walked out from the bathroom and pushed through the sweaty sods and would-be entertainers, making his way towards the bar. Gassed up, he looked out to find Fingers. The moving crowd annoyed him and pushed up against him, making him feel angry. He pushed back, hard.
‘Fucken people – move!’ he yelled.
He began to struggle for air. He decided he’d grab Fingers and Rips and take them and their drinks outside for a line just as soon as he got back to the table. But, as he approached the bar again, he heard a voice raised in anger. He saw the crowd move in unison to make more room for what appeared to be a fight that was about to begin. As he broke through the crowd to see what was what, Blackie saw skinny Fingers being pushed and shoved around by a big, angry black man. Fingers was standing there, hopelessly outgunned by the bigger Koori man and being threatened by the black crowd as well; it appeared to Blackie that he was shaking in his boots.
‘Whatcha fucken think you’re doin ’ere, ya white prick?’ the Koori yelled through pearl-white teeth.
Though he felt his heart weaken, Fingers stood his ground. He recognised the stand-over merchant as Tyrone Thompson, the Golden Gloves Champ – the local show-off. Tyrone, with the reputation as a cruel and dangerous brute. As good as he was with his dukes, he wouldn’t let an opportunity pass by to rack up another cheap victory by flogging a drunken man who was too wasted from the booze. Nor would he let a chance slip by to stand over a man either too old or too small to make an equal fight of it. Fingers knew that if Tyrone threw a punch that landed, he’d be kissing the deck a second later. Tyrone towered over Fingers like a waterfall, feeling big.
Stuttering, words failed Fingers and it looked as though slaughter of the white man was on the cards for the entertainment of the bar. Fingers, sweating from fear, breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Blackie stick his head through the crowd. Tyrone clenched his right hand into a hard fist and was about to let fly when Blackie caught his arm and pulled him up. The crowd, eager to see blood, drew breath together and gasped in an expression of excitement as what appeared now to be a fight that would be worth watching, began to play out.
‘What the fuck?’ the bully exclaimed. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he yelled.
Blackie pulled hard on Tyrone’s arm and swung him halfway around to face him.
‘Never mind who I am bud! What’s goin on ’ere?’ Blackie said, wildly.
‘None-a-yar bizness!’ Tyrone piped back.
Tyrone – surprised to see a man almost twice his age standing red-eyed, dirty and unshaven grabbing him – jerked his arm free from Blackie’s grasp as he began to assess his chances.
Being just a little unsure of the situation he blurted, ‘Who ya think ya are, man? You not from ’ere, so why don’t ya fuck off?’
Blackie was in no mood to put up with the stand-over merchant before him. Blackie thought that the man loved himself, in the way Carlos admired himself, playing with his hair, grooming himself.
Having had enough of being told, Blackie teased, ‘Where you from, brother?’
‘Um from ’ere!’ the bully replied, thumping his chest hard. He pumped himself up to his full height (all of six foot two), and looked down upon Blackie as he repeated himself, ‘Um from ’ere! This is my country … and this is my pub!’
He thumped his chest hard again to show that he meant what he said, to show all that he was king of his own domain. Blackie knew the man’s game and he’d become sick of listening to the fool. He felt the old familiar rush of blood as his legs began to shake and his heart thumped hard. He could hardly breathe. The only way he knew he’d stand a chance was to get the younger man outside where at least he’d be able to move freer.
Blackie had no idea who the young black man was, but he’d seen many bullies and tough guys who – mostly when push came to shove – were weak as piss.
‘Your pub, ay? Well … you can shove your pub up your arse! Better still, git out the back and I’ll shove it up there for ya. Or ya too weak, “brother”?’ Blackie challenge
d, hoping to shame the bully into it, outside.
Blackie wasn’t waiting for a reply. He began unbuttoning his shirt as he pushed people sideways out of his way, making his way towards the back door. The crowd spread apart making room. The car park was muddy and big milky-coloured puddles lay cold and still upon the softened gravel ground. The crowd spilled out through the doorway and splashed all over the car park like spilt fizzy drink from a bottle. By the time the younger man walked out, a circle had been formed and in the middle of it stood Blackie, shirtless, and ready to rumble.
The younger man took his time to prepare himself. He ever-so-casually made Blackie wait until he removed his beautiful shirt, whilst a woman, his sister, claimed it and made herself useful as a coat hanger, further adding to his air of importance. The younger man was strong! Was fit. And Blackie was very quickly to learn that he could really fight. As they both swung into action, the younger man moved like a beautiful dancer. Well trained and confident in every move and gesture. Youth and good looks, on show. A black man involved in the dirty business of fighting another black man.
Blackie moved fast too. Wondered why it always seemed to come to this. He remembered really good boxers he’d trained with when he’d learnt the game. Different faces flashed through his mind. From the look of him, Blackie thought that the young man before him there was ready for a hard dig. He looked fit and powerful. But Blackie should have been paying more attention to the job at hand instead of thinking about other things.
Whack.
A punch caught Blackie. Blackie tasted blood. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and saw that it was covered in it. He felt dizzy. He felt sick. He needed time to get himself together again, so he played the oldest trick in the book: he stepped away from the younger man and, through bloodied lips, forced a smile. He then dropped his hands, and said:
‘Good shot mate!’
Tyrone wasn’t expecting praise or acknowledgement from Blackie. Oh no, not at all. In fact, what he had expected was for Blackie to have bitten the dust, and to be laid out cold, like a bathroom tile. Tyrone’s chest swelled with confidence.
But Tyrone had become a tad overconfident, and took more time out for all to acknowledge his power.
It was all the time Blackie needed to get his head back together and get back to business.
Blackie knew that he couldn’t go punch for punch with the bigger man. He had to find some other way to stop him quickly. Tyrone moved towards Blackie, throwing punches so wild that they missed their mark. Blackie spoke silently to himself:
‘Oops! Look out blackfulla! Nuther one on its way … duck and move. Go southpaw, Black, see if he can handle that …’
‘C’mon big arse, where’s all ya fight?’ Blackie questioned.
Tyrone, enraged by Blackie’s words, threw a big right cross that missed Blackie by a mile.
Blackie was in full swing at this point. He wasted little time in squaring up the fight.
Smash!
Blackie’s left hook landed on Tyrone’s jaw.
Up on his toes, Blackie mustered the strength left and said, ‘Like that, ay? Try this, then!’ Another punch hit Tyrone, hurting him more and confusing him at the same time.
Tyrone shook his head and made a savage snarl.
‘If that’s the best ya got, you’re in a lota trouble, fuckwit!’ Tyrone boasted.
Blackie followed the punch with a fast two-punch combo. His left rip caught Tyrone by surprise, landing hard in the soft pocket under his right arm. Tyrone winced, surprised at the speed and power that the blackfulla had. Attempting to cover his body from more shots, he dropped his right hand. That left him with his face wide open for serious damage. Too late he realised his mistake, and went crashing to the ground from the huge right-hand haymaker that Blackie had already let go.
Tyrone immediately sprang to his feet, full of energy and rage.
Through clenched teeth, he screeched, ‘I’m gonna fucken kill you, ya black cunt! Then, I’m gonna fuck ya!’
Tyrone’s blood was boiling and Blackie thought he meant every word he spoke. But Blackie knew too that he had the younger man in serious strife. Blackie prepared himself for the counter-attack. He didn’t have to wait long.
Tyrone rushed forward, swinging madly. A trickle of bright red blood seeping from the outside corner of his left eye caused the eye to close from the swelling. Tyrone threw haymaker after haymaker as he chased Blackie in hope that he might connect and down the bastard that was fighting.
He caught Blackie with a hard right hand. He was trying to land another big bomb on Blackie’s head, to destroy him. To teach him just who was king. But in being too wild to be careful, most of his hard punches fell on Blackie’s back and shoulders and caused no real damage. The weight of the whole affair, however, was beginning to tire Blackie. He felt his legs begin to tire and he gasped for breath.
Tyrone noticed the fatigue begin to take control of Blackie. This was the chance he was waiting for.
‘You fucken cunt! I got ya now!’ Tyrone swore. But Blackie moved just a little too fast for Tyrone to land the knockout hit. Tyrone grew wilder, throwing punches into thin air. The whole thing was wearing him out.
Blackie felt tired. He knew he didn’t have much gas left in his tank.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to take another bone-jarring, soul-destroying hit from the other man. His eyebrow was pissing blood that ran hot, down his face and into his mouth. He felt himself beginning to choke and he wanted to spew. He’d have to finish this quick, or he was dead for sure. He remembered his former boxing coach, old Keith, teaching him: ‘Let ’em chase ya, son. Git outside and move fast. Hit ’im fucken ard! Take his ’ead off, and, then git outa there before he sees it!’
‘C’mon and fuck me then, soft cock! Come on big-boy!’ Blackie stirred.
All he thought he’d need was for Tyrone to make that one last mistake. So he teased and taunted Tyrone, to stay inside Tyrone’s head and so he called to him again saying:
‘C’mon! Here I am … Fuck me!’
The teasing worked as Blackie hoped it could.
‘Fucken kill you!’ Tyrone screamed. He rushed blindly, head down, trying to tackle Blackie.
Blackie had him beaten and ’twas only a matter of seconds before it would be ended.
Blackie led Tyrone into a position where his face was completely unprotected. The opportunity that Blackie had been waiting for had arrived. Blackie let fly with a savage flurry of good punches that found their mark. The young man fell, crashing to the muddy ground.
The hard game of life left Blackie with little option other than to finish the fight, to get the business done and dusted. He didn’t hate the young black brother he’d dropped, but he couldn’t afford to let him up again either. Blackie’s right hand felt as though it had a broken knuckle, and in any case, he knew it was useless as a weapon for he could no longer make a fist out of it. The only thing he could think of to do was to iron the other man out and get this over and done with once and for all.
Blackie’s right boot landed straight on the man’s mouth … the ‘sleeping sickness’ arrived on time with its devastating effect, sending Tyrone into instant unconsciousness.
Laying in the mud, all splattered, Tyrone presented a sad and pathetic picture. Just for a moment, Blackie stood there in silence, looking at the foul, terrible thing he had done.
The hometown crowd stood shocked and silenced. Blackie thought that the last thing on their minds was to see Big Tyrone destroyed and fucked up in the mud.
A sobbing woman ran forward, screaming, ‘Isn’t there a fucken man ’mongst youse? Look at my brother!’ she cried, pointing at Tyrone.
‘You mongrel black cunt!’ she screamed at Blackie.
The crying woman tried to rouse her brother. She held Tyrone’s head in her arms. She sobbed for him, shaking him, trying to bring him
around. But his head flopped from side to side. He bled all over her arms and dress. Her insults stirred the crowd into a collective action. From every direction they rushed Blackie to exact some revenge on behalf of their wounded warrior.
Blackie was too tired to fight anymore and he knew he was done for. As soon as the first punch from the maddened crowd found its mark on him, it splattered him. The mob attacked savagely, without sympathy. Their intention was to cause as much damage as possible as they proceeded to kick the shit out of him. They fell over themselves in their rush to get in the action. They each wanted to take home their own ‘special’ story of how they smashed Blackie to bits. They would then feed off their made-up and extravagant yarns for weeks after. Exhausted, brave, but beaten, Blackie collapsed in a heap as punches and boots rained from above. He did his best to cover his face and groin as he tried to curl tightly into a foetal position. But it was impossible to protect or to defend himself in that moment. There were just too many. So Blackie took the medicine. Splat! Kick! Oh!
At one point during the beating, he knew there was something dreadfully wrong; he felt a sharp burning pain in his side.
‘Fuck!’ he cried.
Heavy boots found their mark on him. They knocked Blackie out in the rush and though he was out cold, still the crowd kicked him, their sense of pleasure being fuelled with every blow they’d land. It was only the distant sound of rushing cop sirens that saved Blackie in the car park. The police cars sped with their lights flashing through the mid-western night.
Gathering Tyrone up, the mob scattered quickly. The motionless body of Blackie lay blood-soaked and still, in the emptied car park. Fingers rushed in and tried to carry Blackie away. But Blackie was too heavy for Fingers to carry by himself. Fingers kept slipping in the mud and, just when it looked hopeless, Silvia, the woman Blackie and the boys had helped out at the cemetery (who had been buying cigarettes at the drive-through), saw Fingers, and rushed to help. Together, they managed to drag Blackie off into the dark and away to safety just as the first police car arrived on the scene.