Shadowboxer Page 9

  In the air around them there was a change of pressure and light, like the rollover of clouds that comes with a rising storm. Kala Sriha.

  He must accept me. But he does not.

  ‘Kala Sriha, take me!’ cried Luck. ‘I may be only a ghost but you could put me in any animal body you like. I’d even be a turtle.’

  The hot smell of Bangkok blew into the forest. Mya could see through the base of the palm tree in Mrs. Fuller’s garden. She gave Shea a little push to guide him through, but Shea’s legs gave way. He crumpled to the tile floor.

  ‘Come on, Shea,’ Mya hissed, bending beside him. ‘Quickly, before Kala Sriha claims you!’

  I know his fate. I can see around the corners of time. Did you think you could escape me?

  On the other side of the carp pond sat an unusual-looking black cat with golden eyes.

  ‘Is that Mrs. Fuller’s cat?’ Mya heard herself gabble. Wishful thinking. Of course Mrs. Fuller did not have a cat; all that fur would not agree with her haute couture décor. The cat stretched and then gathered itself. It sprang across the fish pool in a graceful arc, landing on Shea’s back. There it lay down with a possessive air.

  He is mine.

  Kala Sriha was inside Mya’s mind like blood in her brain.Yet she pleaded.

  ‘Beloved Kala Sriha, he is still a living human.’

  The young man has the beginnings of a powerful voice. That is why I came to him. But there is a price to be paid.

  Beneath the black cat, a stain of darkness began to spread across Shea’s prone body. When it had crept over his entire body, the blackness drew inward toward the cat, until there was nothing left of Shea but an animal crouched upon the blue tile above the noise and fume of Bangkok.

  Mya’s heart pounded with a kind of dread. What about the phone? The phone that had called her, Mya, and spoken to her in her own language, with a voice so like her mother’s—what would become of it now?

  The cat turned its golden gaze on Mya. She ought to be afraid; but strangely she found that she was angry. She had come so close to saving Shea.

  ‘He won’t accept you,’ she said to Kala Sriha

  She was right. The cat began to twitch and shiver, as though something were biting it. Its fur stood on end as it startled and skittered sideways across the balcony. Snarling, it ran up the side of the banana tree and from there made a spectacular leap toward the roof. Mya gasped as the cat hung mid-air for a moment before it managed to catch hold of the gutter and scrabble its way up. Then it disappeared from view.

  ‘What is going on out there?’ The door to the penthouse apartment opened and Mrs. Fuller put her head out, wincing as heat slapped her in the face. She was speaking English. ‘Michael, is that you?’

  Mya was so startled that for a moment she couldn’t think. She had escaped Mr. Richard only to be stupid enough to return to his wife’s apartment! Her insides seized up as she waited for Mrs. Fuller to turn toward the banana tree and notice her, but at that moment a man’s voice answered from inside and Mrs. Fuller glanced fractionally in the other direction. Mya focused on stillness, so that she could slide into the tree and return to her forest.

  As she slipped away the last thing she heard was, ‘I heard a rat or something on the roof. Michael, can you call maintenance?’

  Bangkok was gone. Mya let out her breath in the safety of the forest.

  But the forest was not safe anymore. The hot breath of Kala Sriha was on her neck.

  You have meddled. You have disrespected. You forget what I am.

  Mya turned, and the lion’s golden gaze seared her face. The trees shivered in a powerful sound wave, low and droning. The beginning of the killing roar?

  Mya clapped her hands over her ears and bolted blindly into the underbrush. She had to get away from the sound. She had crossed this forest to visit so many rooms in so many countries—any living plant anywhere was all she needed to make a connection—but to do this required composure. She had none. The sound was attacking her mind, and she reeled sideways.

  With a painful jolt she collided with the half-fallen fir tree. Here was the shelter that Shea had made, close to the opening to Combat Sports Emporium. Here was the way out!

  The lion’s roar broke around her as she fell through the yellowing leaves of a neglected ficus plant and into a cluttered office in New Jersey.

  Channelling Rocky Marciano

  LUMPINEE STADIUM HAD a big reputation, but it didn’t look like no Madison Square Garden. It was scruffy and low-key. The atmosphere was something else. Even when the crowd wasn’t cheering or roaring, you could feel their background presence. I had the spooky sense that decades—maybe centuries—of fighting spirit had sunk into the walls, the floor, the canvas, the silk banners. I was part of history, now. The orchestra were playing their traditional melodies and sidewinding rhythms, just getting warmed up for the real action, and money was changing hands over me and Jorgensen. She was the odds-on favorite, obviously. But I wasn’t thinking about that.

  I was thinking about how I was going to beat her without getting disqualified. When I did my not-very-impressive wai kru I put my whole heart in it, praying I could do Pook and Coat proud.

  Beatta Jorgensen’s eyes were cold blue. She came out of her corner twitchy and predatory. I don’t know what they were feeding her, but she looked even bigger up close.

  When we first kicked off I fought her on the outside of her range. The strategy was to cut angles on her, to avoid her shots and land my own. What actually happened was that Jorgensen kept me away with her longer arms, and then when I was lining up for a round kick, she teeped me right in the chest, knocking me back across the ring. Her timing was better than mine. But she didn’t move in to capitalize. She was just letting me know she could get me.

  I struggled to adjust my strategy. As we moved around each other, each of us twitching and feinting, I could tell that she was just sizing me up. Letting me try out my moves so she could get my measure and figure out how to do me. Soon she’d be coming for real, and then I’d have trouble.

  The key in a Muay Thai fight, Coat had told me over and over, is to strike more and strike harder. Unlike in MMA, there is no ground game. There’s no punishment for being thrown or tripped, except the loss of a point—and in Muay Thai, you don’t usually win by points. The idea is to knock your opponent out. That’s what this audience was betting to see.

  I had to get to her before she got to me. Jorgensen started to work her low round kick against my thigh. I ignored the battering and charged in straight, punching all the way. Caught her with some body shots and I knew I had to be hurting her, but she hooked me up and clinched me almost immediately. Slick with sweat, we wrestled for positional control; I tried to knee her in the ribs to make myself some space, and she wrenched my shoulder girdle over and threw me.

  The ref separated us and re-started the fight—in MMA Jorgensen would have gone down with me and we would have gone into the ground fighting phase, but now we were back on our feet, moving around each other. And I was mad.

  I went after her with my kicks. She couldn’t shoot for a takedown, so I was free to assault her lead leg. I am blessed with a pain-seeking sense that lets me keep finding the same spot, so I knew it would be hurting her more and more each time. With every kick I imagined her femur cracking. Her leg didn’t actually break, but I could see the shock of the blow register on her face, even though she tried to hide it.

  Halfway through the first round, I was getting good and hot. But I still had the New Jade noise in my head. I wasn’t going to break a rule. I didn’t come to Lumpinee to get disqualified.

  The music was speeding up, reflecting the increased pace in the ring. I was sucking air in through the holes in my gum shield, biting down with my jaw on every blow. Pook and Coat were shouting at me from my corner. ‘No kick, go straight, go straight!’

  In the rush of the mix, I didn’t know what that meant. Did it mean ‘go straight’ like ‘become a decent human being for once in you
r life? Do your homework, clean your room, stop running around making trouble?’ Because I’d heard that before.

  I was still bashing Jorgensen’s legs enthusiastically with my shins when she kicked me in the face.

  The teep, or front kick, is a move you do to keep the other fighter off you. It’s a push-kick. But in Muay Thai, when you teep somebody in the face, that’s an insult, because showing someone the bottom of your foot is symbolically saying ‘I’m stepping on you, dude.’

  I got the message. Jorgensen was telling me I was a joke. I’d heard that before, too.

  The gum shield had saved my teeth, and I was so high on my own body chemistry that I wasn’t feeling any pain. I charged in with my guard up, punching hard, and again she clinched me.

  The first round bell rang.

  Then came the moment of truth.

  As the ref broke us apart, Jorgensen turned her back on me, but I still had her in my kill sights.

  The urge came over me, so strong.

  I wanted to push past the ref, jump on Jorgensen’s back, and choke her out. Pay her back for the insult. I wanted to do it so bad.

  How could she be so trusting? On the street you’d never turn your back on an enemy.

  ‘Jade!’ Pook was screaming at me like she could read my mind. ‘Jade, get in corner! Now!’

  I passed the test. Stomped over to my corner and flopped down on the stool.

  ‘Listen, Jade.’ Coat was talking to me now. ‘Forget kicks. She can take every kick you throw, easy. You go straight. Straight in, keep hitting. Overpower her with punches. If she kicks, you catch it. We worked this—remember?’

  Yeah, I remembered. You cover up the head against the high round kick, and this leaves an opening at your ribs. So when she kicks you in the ribs—and she will—you catch it and drive her back. It was simple in training.

  But this was the fight, and Jorgensen was built like a rhinoceros. How do you drive that back?

  ‘OK,’ I gasped.

  Pook said, ‘The chance will come. You will see it. Remember how we trained.’

  I wanted to laugh, but I was still getting my breath back. They squirted water on my face. They slapped my shoulders.

  The bell rang and we were back in.

  The clean hot rush of anger had done something good for my brain. Now I could think. Coat was right. I’d been stupid to try to beat Jorgensen at her own game. She was too tall, too skilled. But I always could hit hard. My dad had trained me to box since I was five. ‘You don’t got to be tall to knock somebody out,’ he used to say to me, and we’d watch old Rocky Marciano fights and try out his style.

  Like Marciano, I went in slugging. Coat was right; why worry about the clinch? Jorgensen couldn’t take me down, all she could do was stop me momentarily. I’d just charge in again.

  After this happened once, she tried to keep me away with her round kick. I covered up my head and she couldn’t get through, so she went for my ribs and I caught the kick.

  So many moves you work in training come to nothing in the ring. But this was sweet. With her leg under my left arm I ran her back, punching her face with my right. Spilled her on the mat and was about to instinctively jump on her when the ref pushed me back.

  With a supreme effort, I restrained myself from attacking the ref. Supreme effort.

  I champed on my gum shield and waited for her to get up. My flanks were heaving and the sweat was pouring off me. I was slippery, harder to clinch now.

  Up she came again with those ice-blue eyes and I went for that sore lead leg of hers, catching her right on the bruise with a nasty round kick, and for a moment she dropped her guard just an inch or so as she flinched.

  And there it was, gleaming like a diamond: the opening. I tasted it. It only lasted a fraction of a second, but for me the moment hung frozen, glinting with possibility. Jorgensen’s head was exposed and lined up for my right hand. She had probably judged herself out of range. But she wasn’t—not for the kind of wild overhand Marciano-style shot that my dad had taught me when I was little. I stepped in deep with my left leg and swung that right overhand from the outside, and maybe it was all those childhood lessons, but now it was like Marciano was in my body for just that split second.

  My hand came over the top of Jorgensen’s guard and I felt my fist accelerate through her jawbone and there was a jolt as I hit the resistance point and kept going. Then my hand was flying free through space and sweat was hanging in the air like a bead curtain, flung from Jorgensen’s skin. Her head whipped to the right, and her body paradoxically started staggering left because her middle ear was confused. She was only half-conscious as she reeled and went down.

  See that? There goes your champion. Down, baby.

  The ref pushed me away and knelt at Jorgensen’s head. It was over, and the entire stadium knew it. The crowd was on its feet. Ladies may be officially unwanted in this sport. We may have to fight last on the card so we don’t make the ring unlucky, but people bet on us and cheer for us and the musicians play their hearts out for us, just the same.

  I raised my arms in the air and howled along with the crowd.

  We went to a nightclub afterward. Someone gave me a drink. It was the first time I’d had alcohol in months and after a few sips the room was bending and stretching.

  Pook stayed close to me. I think she had the idea that I needed protecting, which is pretty funny.

  ‘I’m not supposed to be happy, but I am happy,’ she said.

  I laughed. ‘Why not happy?’

  ‘My husband died recently.’

  I stared at her, shocked. She didn’t meet my eye.

  ‘I much sorry,’ I blurted. I mean, what? Dude must have keeled over in the run-up to the fight. Why hadn’t she said something? I didn’t know how to respond. My Thai was so terrible that half of what came out of my mouth was probably offensive and the other half just stupid. I knew Pook had left her husband but I didn’t know how she would feel about him dying.

  ‘Don’t be sad for me,’ she said. ‘It could be an opportunity. Remember I asked Coat to visit the farm near Chiang Mai? It belongs to my husband’s family. He hated it there, he took jobs overseas to get away. He left Cake this farm in his will.’

  Why was she telling me this. ‘You go back there? Or sell?’

  ‘I don’t know. If Cake were here he could start a boxing camp up there.’

  ‘But Cake do engineering degree in America.’

  She nodded. ‘Probably we will sell. We don’t have enough money for a camp. You should see it. So beautiful, on the edge of the bamboo forest. A peaceful place. Not like Bangkok.’

  She waved her glass around the loud, smelly room.

  ‘You miss Cake, yes?’

  ‘Every mother misses her child, Jade.’

  That made me feel guilty. What time was it in the Dominican Republic? Should I call?

  Just then, Coat pushed his way through the crowd and handed me his phone.

  ‘For you.’

  He was frowning. Had Mom bawled him out? I knew she was worried about me, but—

  ‘Hello?’

  Mr. B said, ‘I need you on a plane back.’

  ‘Mr. B... hi. Um...What? Why? What happened?’

  ‘Tommy Zhang is offering you place on fight card for Klaxxon.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘You know. His new MMA show. In Vegas.’

  ‘I know what Klaxxon is! Are you sure he wants me?’

  ‘Oh yeah, he wants you. He’s not mad anymore. He likes your skills. He wants to get a piece of your career.’

  ‘I must be drunk. Are we talking about the same guy?’

  ‘Jade, don’t ask no questions. I tell him, Tommy, I say—’

  ‘Tommy? You’re on a first name basis? I thought everybody had to call him Mr. Zhang.’

  ‘I said, Tommy, my friend, Jade is not interested in fame or money.’

  ‘I’m not?’

  ‘Jade is interested in the fight, I tell him. I say, Jade can be a great fig
hter if somebody gives her a chance. She’s got a big heart, I say. She wants it. He tells me he knows you can’t fight pro yet because of your age, but he’s having a special exhibition match at end of men’s event. He can get around the age rule that way. You’ll be on pay-per-view, second to last event before the final round. He’s getting Gretchen.’

  I couldn’t breathe. I was going to fight K-1 star Gretchen Van Der Hoef? On TV? MMA rules?

  ‘Jade? You still there?’

  I tried to talk but only a squeak came out.

  ‘W-wait. What’s the catch?’

  ‘Catch? No catch.’

  ‘But... Mr. B, why’d he change his mind? Did you pay him?’

  ‘Jade! Bite your tongue. I never pay nobody. I simply go to him with news of your win and what Eva showed me.’

  ‘Eva? What does she have to do with this?’ Even as the words came out of my mouth, I remembered Eva and her phone behind Mattress World.

  ‘Eva got video of you and Tommy. I tell Tommy it can be our secret. Eva is gonna be Ring Girl of the Month for The Cage this October. Two birds, one stone, right?’

  ‘Mr. B, you dark horse.’

  ‘I don’t drive no Hummer for nothing.’

  Hungry Ghosts

  MYA SHOT ACROSS the messy office like a wild animal, half-expecting Kala Sriha to pursue her, hunting her down. She found herself in a hallway. To the right was an emergency exit, to the left a door leading back toward the gym, where music thumped. Opposite her were two doors with male and female symbols. As she stood hesitating, the door with the man’s symbol started to open.

  Mya hit the metal bar on the emergency exit and plunged outside, onto a colorless, glaring expanse of asphalt that smelled of diesel and garbage. A blue dumpster loomed to her left, and she ran around behind it. There were concrete buildings and engine noises all around, and the only growing things she could see were a line of weeds sprouting from cracks in the pavement. Planes moved in the bald gray sky. She cringed from the sense of exposure. She flattened herself to the ground like a frightened animal.