Fox presented himself to Darrigan and asked for a job. Darrigan thoughtfully sized up the slim young man.
‘Come to the next show and I’ll see how yer go in the ring. Ask me again after that.’
Two hours later, Fox volunteered for a bout with one of Darrigan’s team, another Aboriginal named Danny Stocker. Stocker, about thirty-five, was experienced, muscular and skilled. While Darrigan’s rules forbade the boxers from seriously hurting punters, they were still to look after themselves. At almost sixteen, Fox had no great strength to his punches but he out-paced, out-thought and out-boxed Danny Stocker.
And so it was he thumped the drum: Ba – boom, ba – boom, ba – boom. The steady rhythm throbbed. Rogers stared at him, a thoughtful, penetrating gaze. The drum pulsed louder: ba – boom, ba – boom, ba – boom. Silently, Fox called Rogers to him. Challenged him. Told him he would never win. Silently, Fox reeled him in. I will humiliate, not retaliate. Take your pride, not your strength. Lance your arrogance and sear your soul.
In the next pause, when Darrigan challenged the suckers to battle, Rogers’ rough voice called, ‘I’ll take the young darkie.’
‘Dunno about that mate, you look a bit too big and experienced to be takin’ the boy on. He’s for kids his own age and size.’
‘Yeah? You’re piss weak Darrigan. He’s up there isn’t he? Let him speak for himself.’
Fox grinned at Darrigan and nodded. Ba – boom, ba – boom, ba – boom!
Humiliate don’t retaliate; humiliate don’t retaliate; humiliate don’t retaliate. Fox’s grin spread slowly from ear to ear. His personal misery – Lucy’s death, Rosie’s death – all triggered by this man’s intervention. Joe Darrigan would never know the satisfaction Fox was anticipating. He was unbeatable. As Fox’s steely grey eyes bored into him, Rogers’ memory stirred. Familiar eyes. He couldn’t recall when, or where, or the circumstance, only that he remembered them. Fox laughed inwardly watching Rogers’ face pucker in concentration, memory chafing, recall working overtime. Fox playing mind-games.
Ba – boom, ba – boom, ba – boom. Humiliate, don’t retaliate!
CHAPTER 6
The crowd before Darrigan’s platform swelled. Fitzroy Crossing in early July was warm and clear and people aplenty had come in off the stations for the annual rodeo. Many were Aboriginal people from the four main language groups and today the usual town population of about 1200 was almost 2000. It was an exciting time with the horses, the fights and a couple of nights of grog, dancing and good fun. This mid-afternoon, a good-sized mob had gathered for the fights and the dust was rising beneath impatient feet.
Start time was ten minutes away. Mardie, Joe’s wife, opened up the ticket box and the noisy, cheerful crowd bustled into the tent. One of Darrigan’s fighters marshalled the challengers off the platform and around to the back of the tent. There they had to sign consent forms and disclose if they were carrying injuries; it was also a final chance to withdraw. Darrigan was wary of the creeping tide of litigation.
Before they started, Darrigan spoke to the volunteers.
‘Righto youse blokes, listen up. The rules are simple: fight fair. That means no hittin’ below the belt, no hittin’ anyone with their back to ya, no hittin’ someone fallin’ down and no bloody kickin’ – this ain’t a pub brawl. I mean it. Some bastards ferget where they are! Just to make sure ya don’t ferget, Big Merv, me heavyweight here, will belt the livin’ shit outa anyone who sinks the slipper. And, at minimum, there’s twenty bucks fer youse all, whatever happens.’ Naturally, Darrigan’s unstated rule was: “never let the suckers win”.
‘Any questions?’
The eight men were silent.
‘Anyone wanna change their minds?’
Again, no response.
‘Okay. Shirts off, fight in bare tops or singlets. There’s a bunch of runners and clean socks in them boxes. Get some that fit. If ya wanna fight barefoot, that’s okay too. Five minutes we start. Lightweights first, workin’ up ta heavies. Okay?’
Fox strolled around the corner of the tent. He watched Rogers find and don some runners. Rogers was tanned and sinewy, his flat belly rippled like washboard. He wouldn’t be a pushover. Still, Fox had faith. Rogers looked up from tying his laces and nodded to Fox. Fox could see puzzlement lingering in his eyes. Inside the crowd roared and chanted as the fights kicked off. Fox went off for a leak. He closed his eyes: humiliate don’t retaliate, humiliate don’t retaliate. It was okay, his way was clear.
Soon enough, Big Merv stepped out and beckoned Fox and Rogers. They went in. It was a big tent, about thirty by twenty-five metres. In the centre, instead of a traditional ring of ropes and posts, there was a large tarpaulin painted with a blue square representing the ring. Anyone pushed or hit from the ring was thrown back again by willing and vocal spectators. A couple of light plastic chairs stood diagonally opposite each other in the ring corners – one red, one blue. The tarp, which measured about six by six metres, was tautly staked down over a spread of wood shavings some ten to fifteen centimetres deep, a surface that was firm but relatively soft. The shavings extended another metre beyond the tarp. Beyond the shavings, set back another couple of metres, tiered stands rose around all four sides of the tent. An aisle ran through the stand from the ticket box to the ring and then on from the opposite side of the ring out back where the fighters gathered. It was through this aisle that Fox and Rogers entered.
Inside, after watching three bouts, the crowd was good humoured, charged and clamorous. The tent, filled to capacity, was hot and steamy from the warm day. A potpourri of odours wafted around the tent space: stale sweat, pine shavings, perfume and tobacco smoke. Spontaneous raucous laughter bubbled up every so often like a geyser. Impeccably dressed in a white shirt, white cotton trousers and black sneakers, Joe Darrigan stood in the centre of the ring. Fox automatically went to the red corner. Rogers rolled his shoulders, whirled his arms, marched to the blue chair and sat. Each fighter’s white clad attendant was there to provide water, a towel and styptic pencil to staunch blood from cuts or scrapes.
Fox was composed and remained standing. He danced lightly, one foot to the other, eyes closed, breathing slowly – in through his nose, out gently through his mouth. The noise of the crowd receded to a low hum. His focus intensified: anticipation was heightened, clarity was brilliant and movement slowed. He opened his eyes and fixed on Rogers who was caught as clearly as a rabbit in headlights.
Rogers felt uncomfortable. He’d come to watch the fights, not participate. His reputation was already lethal among the locals and he didn’t need this to feel comfortable in his own skin. Yet, in some strange way he felt compelled to challenge this young kid. He didn’t know why. And there was something familiar about him, something he couldn’t pin down. He wasn’t worried about the fight – he could knock anybody sideways on sixpence into next week. Yet his opponent made him uneasy. Although he was moving he seemed still amid the din. Something about him made Rogers’ scalp crawl.
Darrigan waved them in. The chairs were whisked away. The crowd clapped and whistled and stamped. Rogers stalked to the centre, glowering at Fox. Fox seemed to glide across the tarp, so light was his step.
‘Righto boys,’ bawled Darrigan, ‘ya know the rules, fight fair. It’ll be three three minute rounds. If I say stop, stop! And step away. If either of youse get knocked down, I’ll count to eight, whether ya hurt or not. They’re me rules. Right, touch gloves.’
