by Tom Wood
FIVE
The instructor was one hundred and ninety pounds of honed muscles. He had been fighting since before he could read and write. First in the schoolyard, and then on the wrestling mat and then in dojos and rings, and he’d been doing so ever since. He was a national champion in Muay Thai, a third Dan in Shotokan karate; he’d fought in Pancrase; he’d mastered Russian Sambo; been taught Krav Maga by Israeli masters; studied Brazilian jiu-jitsu in the back alleys of Sao Paulo where there were no rules. He was born to fight and lived to fight, but a detached retina ended any hope of a career as a professional fighter, so instead he taught. He owned three gyms in Amsterdam and ran self-defence seminars across Europe and sometimes overseas. The rise of mixed martial arts meant he was in demand more and more, and had made plenty of money teaching cage fighters refinements to their techniques, new moves, and putting them through their paces. He had private clients too – rich guys and girls who wanted to be a badass or ready for one.
The new guy was different. He was no professional fighter, and no rich kid looking for bragging rights. The advanced classes the instructor ran weren’t advertised. It was a word-of-mouth thing. You had to know someone who knew about them. Like a filter to ensure no time-wasters showed up. One glance at the new student warming up was enough to know he was no time-waster. He was too old, of course, to start any kind of career in the ring, but the way he moved, the way he fought, told the instructor he had done a lot more than just spar over the years. He hit the speed bag like a pro, but like a man half his size would, like a flyweight, his hands a blur of precision.
‘How many fights have you had?’ the instructor asked him.
‘I’ve never fought professionally.’
A careful answer from a careful guy. He was an American, with one of those deep, coarse voices, and the instructor figured him to be a businessman on a transatlantic trip. Given the sharp grey suit he had come in wearing he was probably one of those hot-shot CEOs of a tech firm who liked to burn off boardroom steam in a cage fight, wherever his work took him. The instructor was good at guessing weights and body compositions, and put the new guy at a lean but strong one hundred and eighty pounds. There was nothing on his frame that didn’t do a job. He was a natural light heavyweight in boxing terms, in the classic sense, but could maybe boil down as far as a middleweight and rehydrate back up on fight night.
‘I didn’t ask if you had fought professionally, but we’ll move on,’ the instructor said. ‘So, what’s your body fat? Seven per cent?’
‘More like eight. I like to carry some extra fuel around with me.’
‘In case of what exactly?’
The American raised an eyebrow. ‘Just… in case.’
The instructor left him alone to continue his workout. The gym had a boxing ring and grappling mats, plenty of free weights, benches and squat equipment, Olympic bars and plates, but no machines. The instructor didn’t believe in machines. He believed in compound movements and stabiliser muscles. More than that he believed in skipping ropes and flipping tyres, press-ups and pull-ups. He believed in functional strength. Boxing had proven again and again that building muscles wasn’t the same as building strength. A boxer could move up the weight categories just by adding mass, but did his punching power carry up too, did his punch resistance? No, was the short answer. Almost never. The young guys didn’t buy it. They wanted bigger guns to flex on social media. They didn’t realise that having them meant fighting guys who might weigh the same but were really that weight, who were that weight thanks to nature, until they were crying in the changing room and the instructor was doing his best not to say ‘I told you so’. It had taken the instructor twenty years to put on twenty pounds – twenty real pounds.
The new student worked out with bodyweight only. He performed handstand push-ups, one-handed pull-ups, plank bars and other feats of strength that made his fellow students’ eyes widen. It provoked them. They didn’t like being shown up by someone new, someone older.
The gym was small, but had high ceilings thanks to being formed under the arch of an elevated train track. It was a hot, sweaty establishment with no air conditioning save for large wheeled fans that were powered only on the hottest of days. The owner wanted everyone to sweat, all the time. He liked sweat. Sweat meant hard work. He wanted the body to work even while resting. He wanted sweat to pour like rain while exercising. Train hard, fight easy. It was said for a reason. The bare bricks of the arched ceilings glistened with perspiration, all day long and halfway through the night. Mould was a problem. He had developed his own mix of bleach and cleaning chemicals to deal with it. He had a telescopic brush used by window cleaners to reach. He made the prospects do it. They hated it, but it built character.
The place stank. That was the downside. No way to scrub the stench of body odour from the air. He was so used to breathing in the rank smell of stale sweat that inner-city air, choked with pollution, seemed fragrant and clean. Some people who tried out his classes couldn’t cope with it. They didn’t like to soak their own clothes any more than they liked to choke on someone else’s pit stink. There was a word for people like that. The instructor tried to watch his language these days. He felt it was a nice counterpoint to the tattoos and shaved head, the muscles and the scars. People expected him to swear. It caught them off guard that he didn’t. He liked that. He liked it more that in his mind every other thought was spelled with four letters.
It was an all-day seminar: strength and fitness in the morning, followed by lunch, then on to techniques, with sparring at the end of the day for those who wanted it. The new guy wanted it. He wanted it and then some.
‘You either have it or you don’t,’ the instructor said to the American at the end of the seminar, once the sparring was over and people were resting and chatting.
‘Have what?’
‘Heart. You can’t teach it. You can’t train it.’
‘You’re talking about instincts.’
‘Maybe. Whatever you want to call it, you got it.’
The new guy didn’t respond.
‘You tore through my best students.’
‘I lost every spar.’
The American was a born fighter, the instructor could tell, even if his advanced students didn’t get it. They thought they were kings of the mat when the new guy tapped out and they gasped in the corner, wringing the sweat from their shirts and trying to hide their pain. The instructor wasn’t fooled, however. He looked at his best guys and knew none of them would be turning up for the next class – they’d all have bullshit excuses to cover their absences while they waited for their swelling to go down and the bruises to fade. The instructor looked at the American, tired but still standing after three spars back to back; rolling his shoulders and stretching out sore muscles; looking like he could go another three rounds with a fresh opponent and maybe another three after that, but had somehow lost every sparring session he was winning; somehow making a rookie mistake and finding himself in an arm bar or choke he couldn’t escape from; forced to tap, to submit, to surrender to a man who needed help to stand.
No, the instructor wasn’t fooled.
‘None of the guys you sparred with will be in again this week. They might not be back next week either.’
The new guy didn’t respond.
‘You went easy on them, I know.’
‘I lost,’ the American repeated. ‘Every time.’
‘You know, I had just one pro fight, a boxing match,’ the instructor said. ‘And I lost. I was fighting some Mexican kid. A prospect, signed to one of the big promoters. They were looking to get him rounds, get him experience, but not put him at risk. They all do it. It’s how the game works. Twenty fights against no ones to build them up, to make their résumé. Well, this Mexican kid was beating up the tomato cans they put before him so badly no one wanted to fight him, at least not for the chump change they were paying. So, I agree. I figure I can put him on his skinny ass because A, I was a stupid kid too, and B, I could actually
fight. The promoter knew this too, so on fight night he takes me to one side and tells me that I’ll get double my fee if I get stopped. That was a lot of money to me then, but I was so pissed that this was going on in the sport I loved that I went after that Mexican kid with everything I had. I was gonna punch his head clean from his shoulders. I was raging. I was Jake LaMotta and Marvin Hagler rolled into one. You know what happened? He put me down with the first shot he threw. Perfect left hook, right on the chin. I jumped up, madder still, ready to make him pay, and he spent the whole four-round fight beating me like a piñata, but he never landed that left hook clean again. By the time the final bell rang I had two blown ear drums, four cracked ribs, internal bleeding and a detached retina. Turns out, just before the fight his promoter had told him I was going to take a dive. And just like me, it made him mad as hell, so he did everything he could not to put me down again after that first punch. He made me suffer. He made me pay like I wanted to make him pay. And me… well, I refused to know when I was beaten. I had heart – too much heart – and so I never fought again.’
‘Why did you tell me that story?’
‘I don’t really know. It’s not something I tend to share. Most people hear it and I can see in their eyes that they think excuses, excuses. But, and I could be wrong, I suspect you are one of the few people who can actually appreciate it for what it is.’
He nodded.
‘Fancy sparring me?’ the instructor asked.
It wasn’t often he found another natural-born warrior like himself, and he had never encountered one who threw away a victory, because what separated a warrior from a fighter was the will to win; the will to answer the bell for the twelfth round when he had a burst ear drum, cracked ribs and couldn’t focus; the will to climb off the canvas when the brain was trying to shut down and restart. That couldn’t be taught. That was heart. He wanted to see how much heart the new guy really had.
He didn’t hesitate, didn’t think. He said, ‘No, thanks.’
‘How come? Because you know I’ll kick your ass?’
The American smiled in good humour, showing he could take the joke, but he didn’t respond.
‘Or,’ the instructor said, ‘is it because you know I see through you and that you’ll actually have to kick my ass to stop me kicking yours?’
He collected his things. ‘Thank you for teaching the class today.’
‘Funny you say that,’ the instructor said, ‘when we both know I didn’t teach you a damn thing.’
SIX
It was the same two who’d come to see Raven the first time. One woman and one man. Both local cops in uniform. The man was short but had a big gut and fleshy face. He had a moustache – a dark hairy worm that covered his top lip. The woman was taller, and heavyset with broad shoulders and broader hips. She had a bruiser’s posture but had the eyes of a thinker. She made Raven uneasy. This wasn’t someone who would be deceived with ease. The woman was younger than the man, but she seemed to be the senior because she had done most of the talking last time, or maybe that was because of her youth – she was more interested in the amnesiac woman than the man, who had long since passed caring about the crazies he encountered.
The cute nurse left them alone.
‘You’re back early,’ Raven said.
The short fat cop shrugged. ‘Two weeks, ten days, what’s the difference?’
‘About four days, usually.’
He grinned at her. ‘Give or take.’
The woman said, ‘They say you’re well enough to talk.’
‘No point me arguing otherwise then, is there?’
She nodded. ‘They know best, don’t they? Doctors always know what’s best for us. You look much better, I can see that. You sound it too.’
‘Thanks.’
‘A whole different person, almost. What about your memory? How’s that? Better too? Must be.’
‘Not really,’ Raven said.
‘That’s a shame,’ she said back, the thinker’s eyes small and calculating.
The fat cop said, ‘Bummer.’
‘We’d better introduce ourselves again then,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Officer Heno and this is Officer Willitz. We’re from the local precinct.’
‘I remember your names from last time,’ Raven said, too busy paying attention to their body language and the weapons at their belts to focus on Heno’s words.
‘Oh,’ Heno said, ‘so your memory is improving after all?’
It annoyed Raven to get caught out in such a simple way, but she smiled through it. She wasn’t herself, after all.
‘What else do you remember?’ Heno asked.
Willitz was ready with a notebook. He licked the nib of his pen as if he enjoyed the taste of ink.
Raven shrugged. ‘It’s difficult. Before I woke up here, everything is blurry. Fragments. Shapes and sounds. I remember I’d had a few drinks. I can hear someone asking if I was okay… That’s about it.’
Heno glanced at Willitz. Willitz shrugged.
Heno said, ‘That’s what you told us last time. Anything further to add? Any details at all?’
‘I want to understand this as much as you, Officer.’
She nodded in solidarity – a bad pretence of it, at least. ‘What about yourself? Do you remember your own name?’
Raven shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Do you happen to know how rare complete retrograde amnesia is?’
‘I’m not a doctor,’ Raven said, then: ‘As far as I remember.’
‘You know, I’ve been reading up on amnesia since our last conversation. You’re the very first person I’ve encountered like it, beyond someone drunk, I mean. My library card is practically ash it’s been scanned so much. I’ve been trying to understand what could make a person completely forget who they are and what happened to them.’
Raven said, ‘Try dying.’
Heno’s smile was gone almost as soon as it had arrived. ‘It’s funny you should say that because almost all instances of complete retrograde amnesia are documented, and in most cases the person suffered a severe head injury or some other form of brain damage. Do you know how many cases resulted from cardiac arrest?’
She shook her head.
‘Zero.’
They were both watching her for a reaction, and watching hard.
Raven showed a surprised and intrigued expression, which was genuine because she had more than a professional curiosity as to her condition and the neurotoxin that had caused it.
She said, ‘What about in cases of nervous system failure, oxygen deprivation to the brain, and poisoning?’
The glimpse-and-you’ve-missed-it smile returned. ‘What I’m saying is that perhaps you do remember more than you’re telling me.’
‘Why don’t you seem very interested in whoever poisoned me? Why do you only seem to care about… me?’
Officer Heno took a step forward. ‘We’d love to hear all about the person who poisoned you. You see, we’d like to catch him. But there’s this little issue: you don’t remember anything. You don’t remember where you were, or who you are, let alone what actually happened. So, until we’ve established those little details, I’m afraid there isn’t a whole lot we can do to trace the person who did this to you. Unless there is anything you’d care to share with us that you haven’t already. Is there?’
‘You’ll be the first to know if I remember anything.’
Heno said, ‘Sure.’
‘Spend a lot of time in hotels?’ Willitz asked.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Maybe it means a woman fitting your description was seen in a hotel bar downtown from here on the same night you came in.’
‘I told you: I don’t remember where I was that night.’
‘Funny thing is this woman who looks like you was seen approaching a man drinking on his own.’
‘So?’
‘Doesn’t that seem odd to you? You just happened to pick out a guy to talk to who ended up spiking your drink. What
does he do? Hang around in bars waiting for women to come to him? Is he that hot?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’
Willitz folded his arms. ‘Maybe you do, maybe you don’t.’
‘I’ve read a lot about victim blaming,’ Raven said after a moment, ‘but experiencing it first-hand gives you a whole new perspective.’
‘You remember what you’ve read,’ Heno said, ‘how interesting.’
‘You must have a very dull life for all this to be so interesting to you.’
‘Officer Willitz, please make a note that Jane Doe is answering in a hostile manner.’
Raven said, ‘You have no idea what it means for me to be hostile. And you don’t want to.’
‘Officer Willitz, please add to your note that Jane Doe is now being threatening.’
She laughed and batted her eyelashes. ‘You’re not scared of little old me, are you? Don’t worry, they’ve given me so many drugs my mood is all over the place. You’ll have to forgive the occasional moment of frustration. I seem to have developed an incredibly low tolerance for BS.’
‘I guess that’s understandable,’ Heno said after a moment, taking the bait and trying a softer approach.
It was all textbook stuff and Raven was playing along as expected. She didn’t want to let the attempts to rattle her be ineffective and make herself into even more of a special case.
‘Listen, lady,’ Willitz butted in, losing his cool. ‘What we’re saying is that no one remembers nothing. No one doesn’t know who they are. You must know something. You must remember something. And if you don’t then that makes us think you have something to hide.’
Raven put a palm to her chest. ‘You’re saying I’m pretending?’
‘I’m saying you might be lying, sure.’
Raven said, ‘I don’t like your attitude, Officer Willitz.’
Willitz laughed, as if her opinion had no consequence and to voice it was somehow ridiculous. Heno wasn’t pleased with his reaction. She was trying to play it calm but menacing, and he was spoiling her rhythm.