TEN

The cool, wet dustiness flooded his back and he felt a jarring pressure on his shoulders and head that pulsed a few times then disappeared, leaving nothing. The familiar wheeling, dark sickness came suddenly, circulating and dispersing repeatedly. Keeping his eyes shut, he tried to control his forehead and eyebrows which he felt rapidly jolting up and down in a drunken, fatalistic rhythm. This failing, he dragged his fingertips towards his pelvis, sensing carefully the scratching of his nails but hearing nothing: that would take a while still.

His hair, filled with sweat and dirt, was tugging on one side just below his scalp and also above the back of his neck. He remembered, slowly and carefully, that he always wished for the standard crew-cut or even a shaven head at these times. His hair often seemed like a protective cushion around his face, but this illusion only placed him in more danger. A slight lifting and resetting of the head allowed him to find a more comfortable position. Lying back, he moved his hands very slowly to his thighs.

He knew that he would not be able to remember how he had got there, yet: that always came a few minutes, hours or sometimes days later. He did not worry about that; remembering only gave you more fear and did nothing for your chances. Others had told him it made them feel more powerful, gave a motive for revenge, increased the flow of blood and adrenaline. But no one was there to tell him that now, and he did not mind the not remembering. Better to recall only the times when it happened the other way, he told himself, and felt better. Telling yourself things, he told himself, always makes you feel better. Even when they’re not true.

Telling your wife things, he continued, is the same after a few years of being together. Like talking to yourself. He thought of her and tried to smile but could not tell whether his face had changed. It pleased him to know that she was not watching him - that would be embarrassing apart from the other things. But possibly his son watched; he had suspected - no, known, for certain - this for months. He could tell as soon as he saw his son’s face afterwards, always either pleased or sad besides anxious and shocked like his mother’s. If he was watching now, would he know his father was thinking about him? No - he could not know what I am thinking. He would suppose I wasn’t thinking of anything. I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about him now.

As if in punishment, a surge of pain swept through his temples and brain, so powerful and sudden that his legs shook for a second. The pain pulsed forward and back inside his head and felt slightly wet. Just an aftershock, he told himself inwardly, outwardly groaning, fists clenched. Like that earthquake this morning - where was it? - Los Angeles again or was it somewhere else… anyway there’s always an aftershock around the, the epicentre. His mind paused to allow the pain to run through again. After it stopped he realised in amazement that he could hear again, but not what he expected to hear, just the voice of a geography teacher, bearded and spectacled, from years back; "Epicentre," he said proudly, "five." The voice echoed around the classroom and all the pupils cheered and wailed in admiration. "Bastard," said the man on the ground, now hot, without moving his lips. He had always hated the teacher, remembered the time alone for two hours in the darkening classroom, being told he was going to fail. Sadistic bastard, but perhaps now he had been proved right. The pain came again, making his twitching brain wet and dark for another moment.

His parents, of course, had never liked the idea, although dad, off the record, must have felt proud at moments. He always smiled a bit after a good fight, smiled in congratulation or in commiseration; the old man just like his grandson. All the men in the family were the same. Except him, he used to think, considering himself braver than his tired father. Perhaps that was only stupidity, remembering the icy pool in Cumbria, the fifty foot rocks, the screams of his mother as he dived, the air rushing past him, through him. Even now he felt its coldness in his hair. That was life, he thought, and I lived it. That’s something. Whatever they say about me now. Twenty-five and two - that’s not bad for a long-haired white kid. Although he was no kid anymore at thirty-one, and it was true what they had told him; two losses tired a man more than a hundred wins, and this now looked like a third.

He remembered now the last punch, lived it again for an instant, felt it crash against his left temple, pushing its way through. The sickness, pain and humiliation came back to him and his head seemed to melt into the canvas. He heard the three through his right ear like a nail, hammered in by the referee looming above. He could not open his eyes but saw his family again, just the four of them, kneeling around him. He tried to laugh at the corniness of his mind, unhinged and unfocused, but the pain had become too strong.

He lay still and waited for it to stop, his eyes blinking open but snapping shut involuntarily against the light. Between the two and the one the ambulance men came into the ring, but when they saw the blinking eyes and the blood from the ears they understood the pointlessness. Back at home, hearing the bell, his wife wished she had not decided to watch that one.