The Bat(15)

‘Yes, I know Robin Toowoomba,’ Andrew said.

The gong went again and this time Bobby stood waiting in the corner for Toowoomba, who approached with determined gait. Bobby was holding his arms high to protect his head and Toowoomba fired a body punch. Bobby collapsed backwards against the rope. Toowoomba turned and looked imploringly at the MC – who was also working as a kind of referee – to make him stop the fight.

Andrew screamed again, but too late.

Bobby’s punch sent Toowoomba flying and he hit the canvas with a thud. As he staggered to his feet, dazed, Bobby was on him like a hurricane. The blows came straight and true, and Toowoomba’s head was batted to and fro like a ping-pong ball. A thin stripe of blood issued forth from one nostril.

‘Shit! A hustler!’ Andrew shouted. ‘Bloody hell, Robin, you fell for that one.’

Toowoomba had his hands in front of his face and was retreating as Bobby went after him. Bobby’s left arm was pumping in and out, followed by powerful haymakers and right uppercuts. The crowd was in ecstasy. The woman in white was on her feet again, screaming the first syllable of his name and holding the vowel in a long, shrill tone: ‘Boooo . . .’

The MC shook his head as the gang of cheerers quickly launched its new chorus: ‘Go, Bobby, go-go-go, Bobby-be-good!’

‘That’s it. It’s over,’ Andrew said, dispirited.

‘Toowoomba’s going to lose?’

‘Are you crazy? Toowoomba’s going to kill the bastard. I’d been hoping it wouldn’t be too gruesome today.’

Harry concentrated, to try and see what Andrew could see. Toowoomba had fallen back on the ropes; he appeared almost relaxed as Bobby pummelled away at his abdomen. For a moment Harry thought Toowoomba was going to sleep. The woman in white pulled the ropes behind the Murri. Bobby changed tactics and went for the head, but Toowoomba avoided the punches by moving his body forwards and backwards in a slow, lazy glide. Almost like a hooded snake, Harry thought, like a . . .

Cobra!

Bobby stiffened in mid-punch. His head was half turned to the left, with an expression suggesting he had just remembered something, then his eyes rolled back, the mouth guard slipped out and blood spurted in a thin, even jet from a tiny hole on the bridge of his nose where the bone was broken. Toowoomba waited until Bobby fell forward before hitting him again. The marquee went quiet, and Harry heard the awful crunch as the blow hit Bobby’s nose for a second time, and the woman’s voice as she screamed what remained of his name:

‘. . . bbyyy!’

Red spray composed of sweat and blood flew off Bobby’s head and showered the corner of the ring.

The MC charged over and signalled, somewhat superfluously, that the fight had finished. The marquee remained silent, just the clatter of the woman in white’s shoes as she ran up the central aisle and out of the tent. Her dress was spattered at the front, and she wore the same surprised expression as Bobby.

Toowoomba tried to get Bobby to his feet, but the two assistants shoved him away. There were scattered claps, but they faded. The whistles increased when the MC went over and raised Toowoomba’s hand in the air. Andrew shook his head.

‘Must have been a few blokes who put their money on the local champion today,’ he said. ‘Idiots! Come on, let’s collect the cash and have a few serious words with this Murri drongo!’

‘Robin, you bastard. You should be locked up – and I mean it!’

Robin ‘The Murri’ Toowoomba’s face lit up in a big smile. He was holding an ice-filled rolled towel over one eye.

‘Tuka! I could hear you out there. Have you started gambling again?’ Toowoomba spoke in a low voice. A man who is used to being listened to, Harry thought instantly. The sound was pleasant and gentle, not like someone who had just broken the nose of a man almost twice his size.

Andrew snorted. ‘Gambling? In my days betting money on a Chivers boy could never be called gambling. But now I suppose nothing is certain any more. Fancy allowing yourself to be taken in by a bloody white yahoo. Where’s it all going to end?’

Harry cleared his throat.

‘Oh, yeah, Robin, say hello to a friend of mine. This is Harry Holy. Harry, this is Queensland’s worst hoodlum and sadist, Robin Toowoomba.’ They shook hands and Harry felt as if his hand had been trapped in a door. He groaned a ‘How are you?’ and received an ‘Absolutely magnificent, mate – how are you yourself?’ and a gleaming smile by way of an answer.

‘Never better,’ Harry said, massaging his hand.

These Australian handshakes were crippling him. According to Andrew, it was important to say how unimaginably well things were going; a bland ‘fine, thanks’ could be interpreted as very cold.