Counterpunch

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Brooklyn laughed. “Right. So you’ll just book me after each fight, and eventually, you’ll dare touch me when I’m not tied up?”

  Nathaniel regarded him in silence and then turned away. Brooklyn wasn’t sure whether the man was struggling for control or actually that blasé. He wanted to fight that control, break it. Have Nathaniel beg. See him flustered, vulnerable, even broken. But he wasn’t there, not by a long shot. And what was it about Nathaniel that brought that side of him out?

  Love me rough, baby.

  Yeah, a wife that went for rough sex might explain some of it. But there was something wrong with him too. Just because she’d loved that didn’t necessarily mean he’d get off on that.

  Always uncanny how much he’d enjoyed holding her down, even bruising her—God, women bruised so easily—fucking her until she cried.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the bastards that fucked him for money.

  He understood them too damn well.

  “No, you’re not a masochist,” Nathaniel said, as if he’d reached right into Brooklyn’s brain.

  “I’d be a bad boxer if I was.”

  “Strange, I’d think you’d need a certain amount of welcoming physical discomfort to even consider such a career.”

  “I’m a fighter. And when they hit me . . .” If it hurts, I find more strength. I get mad. I want to kill.

  But yeah, he’d done that. And that had got him into this fucking mess. The best that rage could do was get him through this fucking mess too.

  “When they hit you, at least you can hit them back?”

  “Yeah. Fucking Curtis belongs to a whole tribe of Neanderthals, but in the ring, it’s one man against another. Doesn’t matter if they are black or white or slave or freeman. The only thing that counts is who’s standing at the end of it.”

  “I understand.” Nathaniel smiled. “You’d prefer a Brünnhilde thing, right?”

  “What?”

  “Brünnhilde. Nibelungenlied, inspired by a Nordic saga. A Valkyrie condemned to live as a mortal woman and sleep in a circle of fire unless a man frees and marries her. In another version, she only agrees to marry King Gunther if he’d fight her. Siegfried won the fight, invisible.”

  Brooklyn squinted. “You read a lot?”

  “Wagner. Music.”

  “I don’t think I’d want to fuck a guy who’d fought me and won. I certainly wouldn’t want him to fuck me.”

  “But the other way round?”

  Brooklyn hesitated. Why on earth was he telling Nathaniel this? And what exactly was he telling him? “Maybe. Why not? If he fought well?”

  Nathaniel crossed his arms. “I understand.” He lowered his gaze for a long moment, glancing to the side as if he saw something in his mind’s eye and needed to stare into the distance to see it properly. “Well. I think that may change some things.”

  “Like?”

  Nathaniel exhaled audibly. “Brooklyn.” He met his eyes again. “You know what you can expect from me. I do believe you know what I want. I think we should meet again but only if you want to see me.”

  “What? Like a date? I’m a fucking slave. I can’t just go out there and ‘meet’ people. I can’t take one step without my handler!”

  “Tell your coach, Leslie. I’ll make arrangements through him if you’re willing to meet.”

  “You’re mad, you know that?”

  “Maybe you’ll find I’m the lesser of several evils.” Nathaniel sat down at his Mac again. “Eat your breakfast, Brooklyn, and then get dressed and go.”

  “Fuck you.” Brooklyn turned to, yes, follow that order, but he wasn’t touching any of the food or sitting down at the same table.

  He was fuming when he left the suite and was back in Curtis’s control. What did that fucking freeman think he was doing? They weren’t exactly having “dates” or “meetings.” Hell, Nathaniel was probably the type that called meeting a hooker an “appointment.”

  Maybe he needed that for his ego. I’m not paying for sex; I’m just having an appointment with that boxer. As if they had anything in common. Fuck him. He was an ignorant wanker, even for a freeman.

  Brooklyn was pummelling the bag hard, barely seeing anything through the sweat running into his eyes. Fuck Nathaniel. Fuck him hard. He only wished the man would make a mistake, just one.

  If he’d received a lesser sentence, he might have avoided conscription and slavery and ended up in prison. Unless somebody spilled the beans about his previous job, he might even have been okay. Under other circumstances, he might even have made it out after ten years if he had managed to keep his nose clean (which was doubtful in Dartmoor, despite the recent cleanup).

  Right now, all of that seemed like one gigantic, fucked-up mess with no way out.

  “Brook!”

  Brooklyn grabbed the bag and turned. It was the only thing he could do to not attack Les. “What?”

  “You listening to me?”

  “No.” Brooklyn bared his teeth. “Okay, now I am.”

  “Take it slow. Too much strain isn’t good, either.”

  Brooklyn released the bag and gave it a double-fisted shove. “Right. What now? Any more appointments?” Fuck, wouldn’t that be a Nathaniel word? “Any more perverts to fuck me?”

  “Actually,” Les gave him a stare. “I’m tempted to say I’ll tell you when you’ve calmed down.”

  Maybe he could get a punch in before Curtis tasered him. If it was a good punch—smashing nose and/or teeth—it might be worth it. No, not Les. But God, it was hard.

  “Your attitude stinks, Brook.”

  “So I’ve been told. You think I’m temperamentally unsuited to being a slave?”

  Les shrugged. “Management just called me. No more appointments.”

  “Oh really? And why not?”

  “They want you to focus on beating Esch.”

  “I’m not beating him with my dick.”

  Les laughed, clearly despite himself. “That’s a thought.”

  Brooklyn managed a smile. “Yeah.”

  The tension went down a notch. That was good news. Well-timed too. He didn’t have to make any decisions about Nathaniel. That episode was over, and good riddance, especially to the pillory and the St. Andrew’s cross. Though the man maybe wasn’t too bad, especially considering the alternatives. Even if he was freakish about getting Brooklyn off and not himself. He was pretty sure Nathaniel hadn’t been impotent. The man had been hard too.

  Whatever. Done and dusted.

  He’d focus on beating that German piece of shit and then move on to the Greek.

  “Cash says it could be a title fight.”

  “I don’t want Esch’s title. German champion? That’s like Emperor of Vanuatu. He can keep his bloody title.”

  “No, the one after that.”

  “Oh?”

  Les smiled. “Seems the presales are going well.”

  “That’s great.”

  He’d still fight even if there was nobody watching. There were really only two people that mattered. The enemy—and him. And why didn’t Les know that? He’d been a boxer himself.

  “Have a cooldown, Brook. You’re done.” Les took his hands and helped him pull the gloves off. “I’ve copied you Esch’s fights on DVDs. I think we should have a look.”

  “Sure.” Esch was an uninspiring boxer if there ever was one. Mechanical, precise, dutiful rather than passionate, everything Brooklyn would have expected from a German. Maybe he’d be a bit more exciting in front of his home crowd. That was the biggest challenge. Not to lose his nerve in a venue brimming with hatred. “I’d rather watch Ali.”

  “You know Ali’s fights by heart, Brook.” Les laughed. “Or are you with Norman Mailer, who said Ali was the ‘most beautiful man’?”

  “He certainly moves like it. Moved, even.”

  Les smiled. “Let’s go, champ. Have a shower, then come to my room.”

  “You got something to show me, uncle?” Brooklyn teased.

  “O
nly if you’re a good boy.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he sat on Les’s bed in the sparse room Les sometimes used when he stayed overnight. TV, DVD player, narrow bed, walls the same grey they were in the slave quarters. But just enough privacy here to breathe a little easier. Curtis was nowhere in sight. Probably lying in wait to beat up some other slave.

  Les made him tea—no milk, no sugar. Hydration, low fat, low calorie. Brooklyn accepted it, slouched down until only his shoulders touched the wall, and lowered the mug carefully onto his stomach, soaking up the heat radiating from it. Les pushed the DVD into the player and sat near Brooklyn, but not close enough to invite touch. Finally, his coach seemed to have learned.

  “So this ‘no sex’ rule, is that so I keep my testosterone for the fight?”

  “I told them it’s a distraction. They saw the point.”

  “Damn, and I thought you wanted to keep me for yourself.”

  Les glanced over. “You didn’t look too happy the last few times. It’s certainly not venting your stress.”

  “No, it’s not.” Apart from the few hours after he’d come, it did absolutely nothing to make him feel at ease or relaxed. The tension was damn near permanent. Had been ever since the trial, and he wondered if he’d ever be truly relaxed again, as he’d been back as a freeman. When the world hadn’t been out to get him, hadn’t been full of perverts drooling over him. Fuck this—his body was a weapon first and primarily. He’d be okay if nobody ever used it for anything else.

  “And the guy, that fan?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Brooklyn shifted on the bed, sat up a bit straighter, and then grabbed the pillow and stuffed it in the hollow between the wall and his neck. “But yeah, he’s a ‘fan’ all right. Freak.”

  “Well.” Les fiddled with the remote, increased the volume. End of conversation.

  The DVD was pretty comprehensive and included the weigh-in. Esch was bulky but not as defined as Brooklyn. All the good food, probably. Or maybe he didn’t have a coach like Les, who could recite the amount of carbs in any of ten thousand different food stuffs. “He could lose some weight.”

  “Yeah, he looks a bit spongy. That’s water trapped in the muscles.”

  “Steroids?”

  “Possibly. They caught Esch a couple of years ago for human growth hormones too. His coach certainly knows his way around a medicine cabinet.”

  Brooklyn scoffed. “Yeah. Doesn’t matter. We’re just slaves, right?”

  “Matters to me. I’d much prefer you getting old and fat than dying of some cancer or other.” Les leaned towards the TV. “The other fighter here is a fall guy hired to make Esch look good. He’s badly outclassed.”

  “Do you have anything on where he struggles?”

  “He takes some pretty heavy punches in the sixth round.”

  “Good, then fast-forward. I don’t need to see him toy with his opponent. He surely won’t with me.”

  “You ready?” Les checked his signed and sealed gloves one last time.

  Brooklyn tapped them together. “Ready.”

  The door opened into the darkened hall—the ring a square of glaring light. A sudden roar rose, tightening his guts. Jesus fuck, he’d never get used to a hostile crowd, that unnerving sound it made. Thousands of shouts merging into one utterly terrifying growl. Die, die, die, it chanted in his head. Bleed and die.

  Ten thousand people, some on their feet, some on their chairs, even, shouting at him as he made his way down the alley. No more than thirty, thirty-five steps, all in all, but it was like wading through molasses.

  Okay, that was a lie. I’m not ready.

  Once in the ring, though, the nervousness faded. Gloves up to protect his face, he circled Esch, watched him, but when Esch seemed not really committed to the fight, Brooklyn went in to drive him into a corner.

  Esch struggled from early on, opening himself up when he attacked, and Brooklyn felt it was going well when his own counterattacks came in true. He kept pushing, drove Esch through the ring. By round three, Esch was beginning to fade. First knockdown in round five. Esch then recovered a little, and the sixth round was hard on them both. In the seventh round, Esch went down and was counted out.

  The hostility reached fever pitch. The hall booed Brooklyn, who forced himself to stare at them when the judge lifted his arm. It was like defying rolling thunder. The hatred was so thick, it was hard to breathe. This wasn’t about boxing at all.

  Brooklyn spotted a TV camera. “Thorne, you’re next!” he shouted into the camera, shaking the belt, and then joined Les, who immediately ushered him out of the ring.

  The interview went by in a daze. Of course it was Cash who answered the journalist’s questions, spoken in comically accented English. A slave speaking live, in front of the camera, was a risk the management wasn’t about to take. Brooklyn kept his face straight, looking as imposing as he could with shaking legs and adrenaline still burning through him.

  “Absolutely. Brooklyn will become champion. No doubt about it. He’s singularly talented and utterly committed. We’ll see a lot more of him—prime time,” Cash said with a smile.

  Back in the changing rooms, Les made him sit down and took the gloves off, then unwrapped Brooklyn’s hands. He was oddly gentle, every touch considerate, polite, and caring.

  “Damn, I need something stronger than this,” Brooklyn muttered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Any chance you’d fuck me?”

  Les froze. “We’ve been through this, Brook.”

  “I’m just asking. Fuck, I’m almost begging.” Brooklyn laughed. “I’ll take care of it under the shower. Shit, where’s that crazy fan when you need him?”

  Les looked up into his eyes. “Do you mean that?”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” Despite what he’d said, it wasn’t like Nathaniel had followed him to Germany. “It’s just . . .” I trust you. I know I’d take it from you and not hate you afterwards. I know you’d take care of me.

  “Get showered. The car’s waiting.” Les stepped away and tapped his watch. “Five minutes.”

  Instead of back to his quarters near the event hall, Les took him farther into Hamburg. Curtis was in the car with them, as usual, but he didn’t comment. Brooklyn blinked when the car stopped at a red light and he saw the posters for the fight. Himself with balled fists, facing off Esch, and a big, neon square with the name and date. There were many posters. The city was full of them.

  Brooklyn stared, and despite the heaviness in his muscles, that gave him a huge buzz. That’s me. I’m all over the city. Maybe this little tour by car was his reward for winning.

  The car stopped outside a restaurant. Steaks. Pseudo-American steak restaurant of some stripe or other. Les guided him out. It was a bit late for the place to be crowded, but the restaurant was still doing brisk enough business. “Eat whatever you want,” Les said and indicated the back of the restaurant. Possibly towards the toilet.

  Brooklyn settled in the fake red leather seats. “You think they’ll take my order?”

  But Les was already off.

  He studied the menu, considered all the things he should, strictly, not eat—just about everything was battered and fried—when somebody slid into the booth opposite him.

  The protest died in Brooklyn’s throat.

  Nathaniel. The man wore his usual grey suit, but no tie, top two buttons open. “Please, by all means, I don’t intend to spoil your meal.”

  Immediately a waiter dashed close, smelling money.

  Hard not to take the twelve-ounce medium-rare steak and the potato skins when they were offered. Brooklyn ordered a salad too, and a large bottle of water. He watched Nathaniel’s fingers slide down the menu, noticed that his first finger was somewhat crooked. And he wore no rings, no jewellery.

  He turned in his seat, spotted Les and Curtis a few tables away, Curtis watching him closely.

  “Don’t worry about them. They are my guests, but I did ask them to give us a little privacy.�
��

  “Like we’re on a date?” Brooklyn lifted an eyebrow. The waiter gave them both a broad smile and sashayed off.

  Nathaniel’s gaze followed him and then fixed on Brooklyn. “Yes, just like we’re on a date.”

  Brooklyn huffed. “Wine and dine and then fuck?”

  “If you want to.” Nathaniel folded his hands on the table before him. “Your coach obliged me and mentioned you might be amenable to a meeting.”

  “I really wanted to fuck him.”

  Nathaniel pushed back a bit. “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh.” Nathaniel looked downright stricken. “You didn’t think I have feelings of my own, eh? That I might be otherwise involved? You thought I was just waiting for somebody like you to fuck me? Well, you’re wrong.”

  Nathaniel stared at him, then through him. He didn’t make contact, looked distracted, and then shook his head and gave a smile. It looked very professional. “I apologise for presuming, Brooklyn. I wasn’t aware of the situation.”

  He didn’t speak much during the meal, commented politely on the food and on the fight.

  “I have no doubt you’ll beat the champion.”

  “What are you doing in Hamburg?”

  “I came over to watch you fight.” Nathaniel patted his lips with the serviette. “I have a subscription.”

  “To my fights?”

  Nathaniel nodded. “I secured it early, so I’m rather optimistic I’ll be able to enjoy seeing you take the championship.”

  Damn, it was hard to hate the man if he was so convinced Brooklyn would win. He wasn’t always sure himself, but there was not a hint of doubt in Nathaniel’s eyes or voice. It wasn’t fawning, wide-eyed admiration, either. Nathaniel wasn’t a “fan,” not one of the screeching people that jostled to catch a glimpse of him when he went into the ring or to the car. In his own way, he was as matter-of-fact about this as Les was.

  “It’s weird knowing somebody in the audience.”

  “I can imagine.” Nathaniel soaked some of the juice up with a slice of baguette. “You have to concentrate completely on the fight. It’s not like you can afford to worry about anything else. I can see that. You become one with the fight. All the things that close off your face normally, they’re all gone when you fight.”