Beyond the circle of light and smoke haze were vague shapes and the pinpoint glow of cigarettes.
When Eddie stepped into the ring, clasping his hands above his head, the crowd rose to its feet and bellowed. He stretched his arms high and wide; pivoted to face each side in turn. The loudspeakers blared. ‘In the blue corner weighing eleven stone ten pounds wearing red shorts, the battler from Footscray, Eddie “Baby Face” Bell.’ Buoyed by the chant of Eddie, Eddie, Eddieeee, the stamping, bellowing and finger whistling, he was ready.
‘In the red corner weighing eleven stone seven pounds wearing purple shorts, Joe “Tar Brush” Morrison.’ Screaming, whistling and stamping—barracking louder for him.
Eddie touched gloves with Tar Brush, nodded at the referee’s instructions then, back in his corner, listened to Arnie’s hoarse whisper. ‘Stay out of his way. Tire him out. Don’t take him till the third.’ The bell rang.
Eddie came out of his corner on the balls of his feet. Fleet-footed and nimble, Eddie danced out of reach, weaving, ducking a fast right, a left jab. Cocky now, he grinned at Tar Brush. Bugger sneered. Hadn’t raised a sweat, muscles taut, gritty bugger broke through Eddie’s guard, slammed a left into his face, split an eyelid. Eddie staggered, shook his head. Tar Brush closed in, drove a strong right then another hard left into Eddie’s jaw. His head snapped back, he tried to dodge punches, but the bastard followed every move with a left, a right, right again, a left to the body a right jab to the head until Eddie was on the ropes. Egged on by pain and rage, Eddie pushed himself back into the ring and managed to shuffle on the spot. He had to win. He’d kill the mongrel. He rushed in, threw a weak left, missed. Groggy now, blood-blinded, unsteady, he was on the ropes again. Had another go. Tangled his right arm in the top rope. He swayed, sagged then pushed himself clear. The crowd screamed as Tar Brush moved in. Enraged, blood pounding behind his eyes, Eddie threw wild punches at Tar Brush, now just a bouncing blur. Roaring, he went after the blur swinging left, right, connecting nowhere. Cool-headed and steady, Tar Brush knocked him out.
Arnie climbed into the ring, pulled Eddie’s head back by his hair, prised an eyelid open, hauled him to his feet and dragged him to his corner.
Eddie came to in the dressing room with Arnie slapping his face, yelling at him, ‘You’re a drongo, a prize galah, you lost your flamin’ temper. I thought you had more bloody brains. Jesus, Ed, you could’ve won.’
Eddie’s guts were sore, his head felt as if someone had parted it with a pickaxe, his eyes were swollen shut and his nose gushed blood.
Except for an old wino in the corner nursing a bottle of plonk, the train carriage was empty. He’d been a bloody fool. When rage hit, he couldn’t think, never could. He’d been on top of the world when he treated the blokes in the pub, watched them drown their pots and heard them shout, ‘Good on yer, Ed.’ Made him feel like he was somebody that did, belonged somewhere; he’d blown any chance with Arnie.
Early next morning as he waited for his roster, a couple of blokes slapped him on the back and offered a bit of cold comfort, but most of them looked seedy, down in the mouth and turned away. He drew a shift with Lofty.
The girder they straddled swayed as it was hoisted to the top. Eddie looked across at Lofty, at the smirk on his stupid face. He’d have won a bundle last night. The crazy, cocky bastard couldn’t keep his lip buttoned.
‘Reckon Tar Brush got the shortest fight ‘e ever ‘ad.’
‘Leave off.’
‘Thirty seconds an’ you’re out like a light.’
‘Shut your fuckin’ mouth.’
They climbed onto a platform between concrete pillars and settled in for the shift, but it wasn’t long before Lofty sneered. ‘You still trackin’ with Ida Murray?’
‘None of your flamin’ business.’
The bastard leered. ‘I reckon she’s everybody’s business.’
Sweat broke out on Eddie’s palms. ‘What are you gettin’ at?’
‘Got ‘er pants orf yet?’
He tried to ignore Lofty, but his head began to pound. His gut tightened as he waited for the next taunt.
‘If you don’t stick your dick in ‘er soon, some other bugger’ll do it for you.’
‘Button your filthy gob.’
‘Maybe you don’t know ‘ow.’
Eddie hurled his hammer. It missed. Arms hanging at his sides, fingers curled, Lofty faced him. Eddie charged, tackled then straddled him, gripped the bastard’s ears and bashed his head on the planks. On the shuddering platform Lofty kicked, twisted and bucked until with one decent right to the jaw Eddie flattened him.
The foreman bellowed, ‘Get out of here you dago bastard. Do your killin’ on your own fuckin’ time.’
Eddie headed for Ida’s house. He’d talk the boss round; get his job back. There weren’t many blokes could work like him. He’d marry Ida and they’d manage. She should’ve been pleased when she opened the door, but she backed into the hallway, hesitated before letting him in. He followed her into the kitchen where she busied herself at the sink and avoided looking at him.
‘It’s good to see you, Ida.’
‘I heard about the match.’
‘I s’pose you’re crook on me for keepin’ away.’
Ida didn’t answer and went on clattering dishes. Eddie walked up behind her and kissed her on the back of her neck. She shrugged him off. ‘Stop it, Ed. Don’t touch me.’
‘Come on Ida. I know I’ve been a mug, but I’m packin’ it in. I just did it so we could get a place of our own.’
Ida faced him. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘We can still get spliced. We could live with Gran. You’ll like her when you get to know her.’
Ida turned and faced him. ‘It’s not that, Ed.’
Eddie tensed, stepped away, the room silent and still. He shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘What is it then?’
‘I can’t marry yer. I’m gunna ... I’m gunna ‘ave a baby.’
Baffled, he shook his head. ‘But I never touched yer.’
‘Maybe you should’ve. You’d get me all stirred up and then I’d come inside and Mr Cameron, him that rents the front room, used to sit and talk to me. And then a few weeks ago, it just happened. You were trainin’ and ... I’m gunna marry Mr Cameron.’
‘Jesus!’ Eddie swayed and stared at Ida.
She hid her face in her hands and rocked, moaning. ‘I’m sorry, Ed. I’m sorry.’
‘But you’re my girl, Ida. I wanted us to do it right. I never did the wrong thing by yer. Treated yer right, didn’t I? Didn’t I?’
Ida reached out and touched Eddie’s arm. He shrank back. He was seeing Ida naked with that fat bastard’s hands on her body. Sticking his dick in her. Fucking her. Ida, Ida, Ida. She’d cheated on him. Taken him for a fool. He clenched his fists and took a step towards her, but froze then turned away when she cowered like a whipped dog.
Eddie slammed out of the house, ran faster and further than he had ever run. He crossed roads and heard himself cursed; he knocked over a peddler’s cart and heard himself damned. He ran until he reached the Maribyrnong River where he collapsed on the bank and cried in great sobs that wrenched his body and tore at his throat. He’d been a stupid, bloody fool. How many others had there been? How many bloody others? Why couldn’t he be like his mates? They just took what they wanted from sheilas.
He sat up and looked across the river to the other bank. His breathing had slowed and although he still shuddered a bit, he’d cried himself out. He wandered along the bank