Free The Best Thing by Margo Lanagan Page B

either of the fighters gets a scoring blow in there’s this—it isn’t a roar and it isn’t a cheer—it’s a big
rush
of male voice noise. A roar of joy? And then the advice goes up to a new pitch, and after the next blow and rush of noise, an even higher, louder one. Guys are practically climbing into the seat in front of them, their faces red and yelling, veins popping out in their necks—their eyes focusedwithout blinking on the ring. It’s absolutely one of the weirdest things I’ve ever seen, heard or experienced.
    I never thought two minutes could last so long. When the bell goes I’m really ready for a break.
    Oriana stops screaming and sits down. ‘How do you like it?’
    ‘It sucks,’ I say, my eyes on Pug. He’s aglow with sweat on a stool in his corner, Jimmy talking in his ear.
    ‘Don’t faint, willya?’ Oriana grins. She looks up at the ring, turns her head away sharply. ‘Now
this
bit sucks.’
    A little
doll
of a girl, dressed in a tight, tight, sequined, very short mini dress, comes tottering up to the ring on spiky heels. When she bends down to climb through the ropes whistles and shouts explode all over the hall because one half of the crowd can see down her front and the other half can see up her backside.
    ‘What’s she doing?’ I ask Oriana. Neither fighter takes a scrap of notice of her.
    She stands up and smirks her way around the ring, holding up the round number written on a little card. The feral kids whistle and clap. Some man in the crowd yells encouragement, and she pauses and lifts her skirt so he can see her sequined knickers—she gets lots of applause for this.
    What the
—‘Does that happen every round?’
    ‘Different bird every time,’ says Oriana. ‘It’s off, isn’t it?’
    But the bell’s gone and everyone’s melted off the ring except for Pug and Magnum and the referee.
    They’re a perfect match; for every good blow he puts in, Pug gets one in return. He takes a couple of smacking body blows and the crowd
howls
, echoing the little howl of fear in my innards. But he pushes forward straight away, and lands a really solid blow to the side of Magnum’s head. Magnum doesn’t even stagger; his head pops up and he comes in close and locks it into Pug’s shoulder. It looks weird, almost affectionate.
    The referee has to tell them to break quite a few times this round, and the boxing seems messy, with Pug basically fending off the other guy and not getting any openings. When the bellgoes he swings away to his corner. Both guys are glossy and beginning to drip, with red patches where they’ve been hit, and Magnum’s black frizz is draggling onto his shiny forehead. He still looks massive, and angry now, dangerous.
    The Round 3 girl, in a gold-beaded bikini, trips past him, delicate as an insect, cheerfully flashing a breast at one of her supporters. ‘Oh, gross,’ says Oriana, turning away. Beside her Luciano is watching the girl and grinning.
    ‘Onyer, Dino! Don’t wait for ’im!’ someone yells when the bell goes for the third round. Magnum locks Pug into that embrace again and forces him back towards his corner. Pug shakes himself free. He steps back and sideways and puts four neat, hard blows into Magnum’s ear and jaw. Half the crowd hollers with outrage and the other half hollers with joy. Oriana and Lu are jumping in their places. Magnum turns and tries to push in on Pug again, but through his elbows Pug slips a blow to his chest. He gets hit on the forehead for that, but comes back so quickly that Magnum’s up against the corner pad, taking a bunch of blows full in his face before he butts his way out. Pug’s face over Magnum’s charging back has no emotion on it at all; then it disappears; it reappears red where their foreheads have connected and the brow-bones have squashed the flesh apart, and there’s still no emotion—no shock, no pain, nothing. The crowd is no longer voices, but a surging sea of noises, Oriana’s screams lost in it.