‘Yup.’ Ando is smiling ear to ear.
‘And not the leg.’
‘Right.’ Ando lifts a finger. ‘Not the leg.’
‘I’ll hold him to that,’ Snowie says, all solemn.
Like this is a thing, a real thing. And it bloodyis, because I’m handing my right crutch to Snowie. Balancing on my good right leg while I try to put some weight on my left foot, which is – Jesus, so painful. I think my leg is swollen. I can feel it every time I put my foot down. This is a dumb, dumb idea. But I’m in the middle of it now.
I raise my fist, try to imagine landing it. ‘This is fucking ridiculous.’
‘Stop ya moaning!’ Snowie says. ‘Just sink one!’
I wind up and punch, my knuckles connecting with Ando’s rock-like gut. But my arms are limp, and I’ve got no manoeuvrability. I can’t even stretch and lean for more power. It’s a pretty pathetic effort.
And now it’s my turn to take a hit.
‘You gotta stand still,’ Ando says, stepping closer.
‘Well, fuck, I can weave a little, can’t I?’ I’m getting cranky, now. And there’s a strong possibility I was weaving before I ditched my crutch. ‘Unless you just want an easy target.’
That, according to Ando’s face, seems to be the preferred option. But he shrugs. I’m the one with the handicap. He doesn’t want the victory to appear too hollow.
‘Plant your feet,’ Snowie advises.
‘Thanks.’ I roll my eyes. The day I take tips from Snowie about how to take a punch will be the day I fucking die.
But the first hit from Ando, to my solar plexus, makes mefeellike I’m dying. He catches me off guard while I’m still eye rolling, and lands a solid jab to my diaphragm. The shock forces the breath out of me, pushes me into Snowie. A flush ripples up my face. My skin feels like liniment, hot and cold together.
‘Fuck. Way to go a bloke, when he’s not ready.’ I cough it out.
‘Then get ready for the next one,’ Ando says.
He raises his fist, but Snowie steps in. ‘Harris’s turn, mate.’
‘Right. Still taking turns, are we?’ I cough again. It’s no effort to keep my voice dry.
Ando shrugs. ‘I guess you can –’
I don’t wait to hear what Ando guesses I can do. I just do it, while he’s still talking. My jab clips him smack on the shnozz. It’s a better punch than last time – I wasn’t thinking too much about it, I just threw it. Ando’s head snaps back, and when he lowers his chin there’s a thin line of blood leaking out one nostril.
My leg aches but I laugh. Can’t help myself. Ando looks like one of those red-faced bulls in a cartoon. He’s not best pleased.
‘That was you, was it?’ he says. ‘You’re all done?’
‘Yep.’ I should really stop grinning. It’s only making things worse.
‘Right.’ Ando squares up. ‘My turn. Knock-knock, bitch.’
‘Hold on, I’m gettin’ outta the way.’ Snowie leaps aside.
And now I’m listing here, watching Ando wind up. This is not aimed at my gut. He’s coming right for my head.
Nothing can prepare you for a full punch to the face. Getting hit in training is not the same – you’re not trying to knock each other out of the ring with any malicious intent, you’ve got your gloves on. Knuckles bashing into your cheekbone and mouth at a million miles an hour is something entirely different.
The punch smashes a shower of drizzling fireworks into my head. I go down, of course, and I’m just glad I fall on my right side. If I fell on my injured leg now I’d black out. The pain seems to bounce around behind my eyes and my whole body resonates. But anger boils up from inside, too. Pain seems to do this to me sometimes, and Ando’s pissed me off now.
I find my crutch somewhere, lever up. Struggle to my feet. ‘Gimme another one.’
