Counterpunch

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “They’ll taser you if you don’t calm down,” Rose warned. “Please, Brooklyn, that helps nobody.”

  Brooklyn relented, too exhausted to fight on. The pain from his hands was so sharp it overrode the dull aches from his face and the rest of his body. He let Rose cut the tape off and remove the gloves from his hands. It hurt, but he didn’t say a word. Not even when Rose took off the bandages, which hurt more. He didn’t want to let him know he was injured. Couldn’t bear the thought of anybody fussing over him now.

  “We need a doctor for his hands,” Rose said.

  “Get him cleaned up.” Santos shook his head, tsk-tsking. “Silly boy.”

  Brooklyn turned his head. “What did you just call me?”

  Rose held him tighter, as if he were about to attack Santos. He wasn’t. The thought of hitting anybody made him almost ill. Santos didn’t flinch away, either. Instead, he came closer. “Odysseus did his job, as did you. He knew what could happen in the ring. It has happened before.”

  Like that changed anything. Making it sound like Odysseus had just collapsed from a bad heart or a stroke didn’t help.

  “He’s a slave. He fights when he’s told to fight,” Rose added.

  “You don’t fucking get it.”

  “Rose, help him clean up,” Santos said, heading towards the door.

  Brooklyn didn’t resist much when Rose shoved him towards the shower. Hot water might bring some relief, but his guts were churning, and the nausea had its claws buried in the insides of his throat. He tried to untie his laces but couldn’t manage. His fingers were shaking too much and hurt fiercely.

  Rose knelt down on the tiles and opened the laces, carefully removed the boots and socks. Brooklyn held his hands close to his chest, hurting too bad to even consider punching anything again. Not wall, not man. He just wanted to crawl under a rock and die there.

  Rose glanced at him and reached for Brooklyn’s shorts, pulling them down. Then his kidney protector, underwear, and the cup he wore against the low punches, until he was completely naked. Rose stood and started the water, turning the levers until it was hot enough, and Brooklyn stepped under the spray, keeping his sore face out of the water.

  “Need more help?”

  Brooklyn shrugged and let the water run down his body, trying hard to shed the memory of the man stretched out in the ring with all the medics around him. The stretcher being lifted over the ropes.

  Rose’s tender touch on his face came like a shock. “I’m just washing the blood off,” Rose said in a low voice, and Brooklyn noticed Rose had shed his tracksuit. He felt the brush of a lot of naked skin against him, and he kept his eyes closed, fighting the misery that was welling up again.

  Rose held him, but not to restrain him, just to hold him, their bodies well-matched, shaped by the same sport. Same weight class too. An equal in every sense, except Rose was possibly a little heavier.

  “Shit, you are not doing that now.” Not like he could stop the man, in his state, with his hands fucked up. It still didn’t make any sense. He’d always liked Rose, trusted him, even if the big Cuban could wipe the ring with him if he really tried.

  Rose kissed the side of his neck, an almost chaste, comradely touch. “I’m not doing anything, Brook. Unless that would make you feel better.”

  Brooklyn shook his head. “I should be in that ring.” It would only be fair.

  Rose ran his hands over Brook’s body, the touch paternal, not erotic at all. Not that Brooklyn could have done anything if it had been.

  Those human touches broke something inside him. He didn’t deserve that kind of tenderness but hungered for it all the same. Washing him, washing the sweat off. The blood. Brooklyn wanted to collapse somewhere, crawl into a corner, but Rose held him upright with that strong embrace.

  “Trust me, Brook. You’re not alone in this.”

  What a thing to say. Brooklyn turned around and hugged Rose close with just his arms, hands not touching anything. All he heard were his own pitiful sobs, and all he felt was the heat from the water and the firm body supporting his.

  All Brooklyn could think about was whether Odysseus was in the same hospital. Whether he was still alive. It was the closest to the venue. They’d driven him to the hospital, checked him in. The TV in the waiting room was full of tax talk. Who cared about a dead or dying slave boxer?

  After an x-ray, they waited—Santos sitting right next to him, Eric guarding the entrance. When they were called in, a doctor gave him a shot and set the bones in his hands. Two metacarpals in his left hand were broken clean, one in the right.

  They examined his eye, and thirty stitches later, that wound was closed. The doctor didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t tell him that she, on principle, was against boxing, but Brooklyn felt the censure in a place where people fought to save life. Risking it for sport and thrills couldn’t go down well here.

  Santos was called into the waiting room. When Brooklyn looked around, Eric was nowhere to be seen. Maybe in the toilets down the hall.

  For the first time in two years, he was completely unguarded. He stood, peered down the corridor, and expected the doors to open and Eric to step out, but several breathless moments later, nothing like that had happened.

  He walked down the corridor, forcing himself not to hurry. Then walked through the main entrance.

  Just like that.

  Out on the street, he ducked into the next alley against the traffic, and though he had no idea where he was, he kept walking. Expecting every time he heard sirens that the police would come and bag him.

  He never thought he’d understand how the young, hooded thugs felt at the sound of sirens, but now he did. He expected the bracelets to shock him, but that didn’t happen, either.

  He’d heard they were deactivated in hospitals, as the signal supposedly interfered with some of the more delicate machinery there. Or maybe they’d just deactivated them for the bout, and nobody had remembered to switch them back on. Maybe Santos simply wasn’t used to treating a fighter like a piece of meat. Maybe Eric was too good-hearted to expect a boxer with fucked-up hands and a fucked-up eye to make a run for it. Especially because he knew they could still track him with the microchip.

  He found one of those maps for tourists in the inner city and got his bearings. He vaguely considered mugging somebody for the Oyster card that would pay his fare on the night bus, but in his state, he wasn’t scary enough, and besides, he didn’t feel like inflicting more horror and pain on anybody today. Or ever again.

  He had no cash for a cab, and fare dodging would get him into more trouble. He might be able to talk a bus driver into letting him ride for free, but if any of the passengers recognised him, they could call the coppers, who’d collect him at the next stop. And the last thing he wanted was to see the sneering faces of his former colleagues when they picked him up as a runaway slave.

  Lewisham was only eight miles from here. He’d run.

  The door to the apartment building wasn’t closed properly. Ever since the ex of one of the tenants had kicked it down—three years ago—it only closed when you pushed hard against it. At least Mrs. Chatterton was too frail to do that, and several others in the building didn’t care enough, not even the landlord, as long as the rent was coming in on time.

  Brooklyn pushed the door open and reached for the pile of letters. Yes, some advertising from the local gym and Weight Watchers and DFI were still addressed to “Ms. Shelley Brown.” She never picked those up, often didn’t even take the bills, as if hoping they’d just thaw away like snow come spring.

  Her last name stabbed him in the chest, but at least he was reasonably sure now she still lived here. He headed up, aware of how the wooden staircase creaked under his weight. But no police. Then again, in the middle of a Saturday night, they had all their hands full with the drunks in the city.

  There. Flat number three.

  He breathed deeply and knocked with his elbow, though it still jarred his hand. No sounds. She was probably in bed.
Or out. He knocked again and waited.

  He heard movement inside—somebody coming down the stairs. He only hoped that it wasn’t the new boyfriend. He really wasn’t in a state to punch anybody.

  The chain inside ratcheted in place, and somebody opened the door. Shelley.

  He’d told her a million times that chain was absolutely no protection. Anybody determined enough could still kick the door open. The anchor of the chain was held in place by four tiny screws that would give in an instant. But right now, he was glad she’d never upgraded security.

  “Brook?” Her eyes went wide. “You look terrible.”

  “Could you let me in?”

  She hesitated but closed the door to undo the chain and then opened it again. She wore a bathrobe over a pair of pyjamas, her blonde hair dishevelled.

  Everything as he remembered. The dryer in the corridor, the flat too small and dark but the only thing they could afford while saving up for a mortgage deposit. What did she live off now?

  He sat down on the grey IKEA couch in the living room, noticed absolutely nothing had changed. His things were gone, of course. The photos on the mantle were the same—minus the photo of her in the white dress. And him.

  “Do you . . . uh . . . want a tea?”

  He shook his head. Why had he come here again? For so long, he’d wanted to ask her, even shout at her, accuse her. The sense of betrayal had been a lot of the pain of being a slave. Abandoned. Betrayed. Sold out.

  “I’ve run away.” He turned towards her because he saw fuck all through the swollen eye. “They’ll probably pick me up soon.”

  “The police called about an hour ago.”

  “Yeah, they do that. Runaway slaves always go back to their families. Very few remember how stupid that is, but most simply can’t resist.” Neither could he. There was no other place left to run. And even if he’d run somewhere else, the CCTV cameras would have been able to follow his path. Never mind the microchip embedded in his neck. It might take a while to track him, but eventually they always caught up. He knew that better than anybody else.

  “I said I hadn’t seen you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Should I . . . What if they come?”

  “You don’t want to assist a runaway slave. That’s criminal.” He let his head hang, stared at the beige carpet. “I guess . . . I guess I’m here because I don’t know.” Before Odysseus, he’d have accused her. You abandoned me. They’d said “until death” and “in good times and in bad times”—and what have you made of that? But seeing her stand there in the bathrobe, looking both tired and alarmed, he couldn’t do that. It was done. She’d not just divorced him—the marriage had been annulled. It had never happened. Their time together legally wiped out. She’d moved on, yet she’d still opened the door.

  “Can I stay here for a little?”

  “Shouldn’t you . . . I mean, if they come?”

  “That’s okay. Really.”

  She didn’t believe him. He didn’t believe it, either.

  He’d fallen asleep on her couch when the doorbell rang again. She came down the stairs and stood for a moment in the door to the living room, while he sat up. His head hurt badly, and his hands too. He’d still managed to fall asleep.

  “You know, I wanted a husband, I wanted to not be alone. When they sold you, I knew I could never have that. Everybody told me I should move on, but it’s not that easy.”

  Brooklyn nodded. “It’s fine. Just open the door and go upstairs. Don’t come back down until we’ve left, okay?”

  “What will they do?”

  “They might taser me. Just tell them up front I’m here, and you’ll be okay.”

  “God, I’m so sorry.”

  “Just open the door.”

  She slid the pathetic chain back. Heavy bootfalls on the stairs. Half the building must have heard those.

  “Yes, he’s here. In the living room. He wasn’t violent or anything, he’s just hurt. Don’t hurt him, please.”

  Brooklyn wiped tears from his eyes and stood. Even if he would have been able to fight, the tonfas and armoured vests discouraged the idea. Plus, he didn’t want to wreck her living room on the way out, didn’t want to step on scattered photo frames. He was too numb to be surprised when the coppers just eyed him, any kind of hostility notably missing.

  “Brooklyn Marshall?” one asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “What’s wrong with your hands?”

  “I broke them.” He shrugged. “You don’t have to handcuff me, I’m coming.” He could at least hope.

  The copper nodded. “Let’s go.” He stepped behind Brooklyn, and they filed out the door, down the stairs. One policeman opened the door of the patrol car for him. “Good fight, that. You showed that goatbanger.”

  Brooklyn closed his good eye and leaned back in the seat. Dismissing the Greek like that after the way he’d fought. Harebrained patriotism trumped human emotion every fucking time, but he was too tired and defeated to say a word.

  When they arrived at the old gym, dread choked him. The coppers had taken the drive in overall good spirits. Driving a runaway slave home was likely one of their more pleasant assignments for the night. “Home” was where he was registered. Not Nathaniel’s place. Where was Nathaniel, anyway?

  He stepped out of the car when one of the coppers opened the door.

  “I was with a man called Nathaniel Bishop,” Brooklyn said. “He’ll be worried.” Maybe frantic. But at least not pissed off like Les or Curtis or the others.

  “Yeah, that’s all over the press,” the copper told him. Whatever the press had written, it was enough for a dirty grin. “Do you have a phone number or address for your paramour?”

  “No.” Of course not. Brooklyn glanced to the entrance of the gym. “He might have called in to report me missing.”

  “We can check that.” The copper left him with his colleague and leaned down into the car. Brooklyn’s stomach knotted up when the copper returned, shaking his head. “No, no ‘Bishop’ on record. This is your registered address. Let’s go.”

  It was that or get tasered.

  Charlie was the guard on night shift and let them in. While Brooklyn stood in the dark gym with only the nightlights on and the smell of old, cold sweat pervading everything down to the brickwork, the coppers took a moment to remind Charlie that negligence regarding keeping slaves under control was a criminal offence, and this would have “consequences.” Likely a hefty fine. Charlie grumbled some kind of apology and closed the door behind the cops.

  “Didn’t think I’d see you again,” Charlie said. “Are you okay? Need a doctor?”

  “No, I had that.”

  “Well then, you know the way.”

  At this point, all Brooklyn wanted to do was sleep, even if it meant being chained to a bed in the communal sleeping quarters.

  Charlie walked behind him, disturbingly calm. But then, at four thirty in the morning, he probably only looked forward to the end of his shift.

  “Not that way,” Charlie said when Brooklyn headed towards his bed. “It’s the cage for you, Brook.”

  Brooklyn glanced over his shoulder. Yeah. Slaves that needed a short reminder about discipline were locked in alone. Usually, when they came back a few days later, they were docile and refused to speak about whatever had happened.

  The cage was deep in the bowels of the old Victorian structure. Surrounded on all sides by thick brick walls, this was a place without light or air. Like being buried alive. Charlie opened a heavy metal door and nodded for Brooklyn to go inside. “There’s a bed to the left. Do you need food?”

  “No, thanks.” Brooklyn stepped into the cell. “I just want to sleep.”

  “I’ll tell Les you’re here. He’ll come for you tomorrow.” Charlie closed the door, and Brooklyn stood in the darkness, completely alone.

  He reached out with his elbow, found the brick wall, and moved alongside it to the left until his knee bumped into a cold metal frame and rough clo
th, like canvas. A field bed. He sat down on it and found there was no blanket or pillow, but he really didn’t care. They could kill him in here, cripple him, or return his arse to the convict population. He didn’t give a toss.

  The door opened; light flared up. Brooklyn blinked against the wholly modern several-hundred watt lights screwed into the ceiling behind grills. The room wasn’t quite as barren as he’d expected: there was a pillory and a metal door sunk into the wall on the far end. But apart from the bed he was lying on, nothing else.

  Les walked in. Curtis followed. Brooklyn’s gut knotted up. Oh, this was going to be bad. Their faces were empty, immovable. But Curtis had taken off his sunglasses, and that alone told Brooklyn he was in for a serious beating.

  “Welcome home, Brook.” Les crossed his arms.

  “It wasn’t my choice, Les.” Nathaniel had simply waltzed in and changed his whole life, and Brooklyn could see that Les held him responsible. Why did everything he touch turn to shit? Why did he lose every single person he cared about? Why did they all end up turning against him?

  “What, running away?” Les shook his head. “You’ve never faced up to the consequences of your actions. It’s always somebody else’s fault. I’m amazed you believe your own lies.”

  Brooklyn got to his feet, knew he stood no chance against Curtis’s tonfa. And from the small smile on Curtis’s lips, Curtis knew it and savoured the buildup.

  Just a few days ago, that would have filled him with screaming dread. He knew what guards could do if they were allowed, if nobody watched them. But he’d always hoped—always, at least distantly, assumed—that Les was his ally in this hellhole. But then, he’d also assumed Shelley had loved him, and Nathaniel would actually find a way to free him.

  Where was Nathaniel now? Or had he turned away too? Seeing Odysseus die on prime-time TV might have shattered the last illusions Nathaniel’d had about him.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “The Greek? Yes. Massive brain haemorrhage. He had a series of strokes last night that finished him off. It’s all over the news.” Les grimaced. “‘Killer Cop Strikes Again.’ Not a headline you’d appreciate.”