Shadowboxer (9 page)

I couldn’t believe it. Coat kept reassuring me, telling me
You’re OK
and
mai pen rai
—I mean,
mai pen rai
, come on! What isn’t
mai pen rai
with you guys? I wanted to say.

But you know, honestly? I wasn’t that upset. It happened. I got knocked out. I wasn’t dead. She caught me. That’s all. She was the tougher fighter.

It was almost a relief. Got that over with. I was just going to have to get better.

A
FTER THE BAR
closed, we all hung out while our coaches gossiped. Our camp would go to the bus station and sleep on benches because Coat was too hard-up to get us rooms somewhere. Flexmaster’s camp would go to some hostel, where they’d get to sleep a few hours before the bus came.

Pink came out of the bathroom wearing a maid’s uniform for a hotel. She sat down next to me, got me a Coke from the bar even though it was closed, because she knew the owner. Her voice was soft and she smelled of limes and something floral.

I asked her why her ring name was Pink. She smiled and showed me her nails. They were bubblegum pink.

‘Favorite color,’ she said.

A Ghost Called Luck

M
YA FOUND HERSELF
on a steep hillside in the silver twilight. The land sheared away to her right, and from below she could hear the echo of water falling between rocks.

The air was warm, but she couldn’t stop shaking. Her teeth were chattering. She had disobeyed. She had stolen. What would he do to her when he found her?

Because he would find her. He knew everything. He controlled people.

Mya stumbled to a halt, doubling over with a stitch in her side.

‘You can slow down,’ the ghost said in her ear. ‘He isn’t coming after you. He can’t.’

Mya flinched. ‘Are you sure?’

‘He can’t come by himself. He’ll need a new helper.’ The ghost was markedly friendlier now. ‘He’ll have to find a child who can bring him here. That will take him some time.’

Mya had never thought about it that way. Mr. Richard
couldn’t
follow her!

‘He will be lost without you,’ the ghost said. ‘He seeks immortality for himself. He was going to use your body to house his spirit.’

While she was thinking about that the ghost pointed to the phone Mya was holding.

‘Didn’t that belong to the reporter?’

Out of the corner of her eye Mya could see a huge serpent sliding through the trees from the direction of the river. The being had the face of a serene infant.

‘Open the phone,’ the ghost urged. ‘Does it work? Are there numbers in it?’

‘I didn’t have time to try the password.’

‘Show me. I want to see.’ He was too eager, which alarmed Mya. Ghosts had their own appetites. But in the end she turned on the phone and entered the password. Lights came up and thin music played. The writing on the screen was Western.

‘It has video,’ the ghost said. ‘Cool! Let’s see!’

There was only one clip in storage. When she opened it, the camera was moving jerkily; then the person filming set it between some crates so that you could only see through a slit. The view was dim, but it looked like an industrial setting: steel roof girders, stacks of boxes, machine background noise. These were known to Mya only from TV and photographs. She had never been to a big town.

An old monk wearing glasses came into the shot.

‘It’s Som,’ Mya breathed. ‘He brought us across the river in a big inflatable tube. To the orphanage.’

A tall, handsome young man approached Som, apologising for the delay.

‘Your translator,’ said the ghost.

‘I didn’t recognize him.’ Mya struggled to match her memory of the filthy, battered body to this living image. Then a linen-suited white man stepped into the line of the camera and began asking questions. The young man translated into English for the older one, who nodded a lot, his wispy hair stirring in the breeze. Som spoke softly about the records of the children at the orphanage, and how Mr. Richard had been abusing his privilege as a patron and removing children without ‘proper authorisation.’ He handed the older journalist something small... a flash drive?

The young man kept glancing at the camera, as if he knew it was there and he was worried about it. After a moment he excused himself and disappeared from the shot. The monk and the middle-aged man were left standing awkwardly, unable to communicate.

A whisper up close to the camera.

‘It’s not a good shot. The light’s weak...’

A finger passed across the aperture, then the camera shifted position a little. It steadied, and there was the linen-suited man nodding and trying to thank the monk in clumsy Thai.

Offscreen, someone shouted. Som shrank back in fear, and the linen-suited man stepped in front of the monk protectively. Then Johnny was in the frame. He drew his arm back and hit the older journalist across the side of the head in a whipping motion. She glimpsed some kind of weapon—whatever it was, the man crashed to the ground, out cold.

‘Oh shit,’ whispered the young man into the microphone.

In the shot, Som tried to scuttle away, but Johnny caught the monk by one skinny arm and stopped him.

‘I regret ever helping Mr Richard,’ the monk said. ‘The children are not his to take—’

Johnny cuffed Som across the head with the same violence he’d used on the journalist. Now there were two men on the ground.

Mya cringed, biting her lip.

Then Johnny reached into his jacket and took out a hypodermic needle. He injected the white-suited reporter in the neck. The man’s image blurred a little in the camera’s view; then he simply vanished.

Close to the camera, there was a sharp intake of breath from the young man.

Johnny turned his attention to Som and performed the same act; the monk, too, was gone. Johnny straightened up, looked around, ran his fingers through his brown hair, and walked away.

‘Jesus Christ,’ whispered the young man into the phone. The recording shook, then cut off.

Mya closed the phone and stared at it. This phone had taken those images. This phone had witnessed two people die.

‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘Mr. Richard has killed a monk.’

‘I told you,’ said the ghost. ‘Som passed through the forest, but he has moved on now. So has Marco.’

‘And the younger one tried to spy on Mr. Richard, but Johnny caught him.’

Mya’s heart clenched. She had brought the young man here; his family would have no body to bury, no explanation.

‘Oh, him. He is still here. Barely. Kala Sriha has been sniffing around him. I’d wish
I’d
been taken by one of the immortals. Then I wouldn’t be stuck here. But no. I have to stay and watch everyone else move on.’

Mya was only dimly aware of the ghost’s self-pity as she held the phone. It was warm, like a living creature. She felt as if some echo of Som’s spirit was moving into her fingerprints and capillaries.

‘What am I going to do?’

‘Well,’ said the ghost. ‘If you want to survive, you need food. And not the food of this forest. That will turn you into an animal like the others. You must find a door back to the human world. Follow me.’

The ghost led her to where blue-tinged light flickered through a gap in the forest. Mya must have left this way open after she delivered medicine to the shadowy person in Combat Sports Emporium. Not far from the gap, Mya could make out the humpy outline of a shelter where someone had propped branches against the slanting trunk of the fallen tree. It was not much; Mya could have done better herself. The ground had been trampled by man-sized shoes, and there was a shallow fire pit with flat stones around the edges.

‘Your translator made this,’ said the ghost. ‘He seems to sense he is close to an opening to the mortal world, but of course he can’t get through it. Now, listen, Mya. You have a good door here. If you are careful, you can pass through, find food, and come back to the forest. Just find a tree or any living plant on the other side, and pray to return. The forest is connected to all plants, everywhere in the world. You can be free to travel.’

‘I want to go back to my family.’

‘You don’t know where your family are now? None of them?’

‘A military camp somewhere across the river. It didn’t have a name.’

‘That’s too bad. They could be dead by now.’ He said the words without pity. ‘Still, you have plenty of options. Mr. Richard’s children have already made many passages, and some are easy to open. Most of them go to places in Europe or the US. People want the powers his medicines can give them. He keeps it all secret. No border control, no paperwork, no government. He’s killing people because those reporters were close to finding out what he’s doing.’

‘I just want to go home.’

‘Forget it,’ said the ghost. ‘We all wanted to go home. It can’t happen.’

Mya was close to tears.

‘Why?’ she said. ‘What happened to you, anyway? Why are you hanging around haunting this place?’

‘I’m not finished with my anger for what he did to me. They call me Luck—that’s pretty funny, right?’

Mya didn’t laugh. She turned the phone over in her hands again.

‘But I can help you...’ Luck smiled again. ‘Really, I know a lot of stuff.’

‘No, thank you.’

Even as she said it, she was distracted. Someone else was here. Someone was watching her. She scanned the undergrowth until she saw two golden points of light; wide-set eyes were tracking her from the shadows beside the shelter. Although they were some distance away she felt as if whatever intelligence was behind them had slipped inside her mind already. The golden irises had vertical pupils like a cat’s, and thick black smoke surrounded the eyes. As if the smoke were congealing to become solid, the body of the animal developed an outline: it was a black lion of enormous proportions. It had some sort of prey drooping from its jaws, dragging between its legs as it walked.

Luck released a series of curse words and shot up among the branches.

‘Heads up, Mya!’ he called to her. ‘It’s Kala Sriha, and he’s got your translator!’

Gecko Me Up

to: [email protected]

from: [email protected]

subject: Quinton

att: Quinton.jpg

It is my duty to tell you that Senor Quinton has been to the vet and his tomcat days are over. Aunt Christina took him to Yonkers. Also, we de-flead him. He seems OK with it. See photo.

to: [email protected]

from: [email protected]

subject: re: Quinton

I won four fights in a row BABY!!!!! That makes my record 4:1. Coat says I’m coming along. So I forgive you for going behind my back with Quinton. Is that shrimp he’s eating in the picture?

I
WAS DOING
sit-ups with a weight plate when Coat interrupted me, clutching his phone and practically jumping up and down inside his own skin. It was like he barely had himself under control.

‘I got you in Lumpinee,’ he whispered, beaming.

I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. I stared.

‘No way.’

He nodded like a jackhammer. There were practically sparks flying from his white teeth. He motioned for me to follow him into the kitchen, where Pook was doing dishes.

‘Me? Lumpinee?
The
Lumpinee Stadium? I mean, there isn’t another one, is there? Like at a strip joint or a sugar plantation?’

Pook snorted. ‘Only one Lumpinee Stadium.’

Then Coat started talking so fast I couldn’t keep up. I looked at Pook helplessly.

‘You only have three rounds to do the job,’ she told me, scrubbing the rice pot. ‘You want a knockout. She is bigger than you, but slow. Use your high kick. Keep the fight fast, keep pushing her.’

‘Her? Her, who?’

‘Beatta Jorgensen,’ they said in unison.

I put my hand to my mouth.

Jorgensen is a Dutch former champion. Turns out her American opponent had broken her hand in training. Jorgensen still wanted to fight, and apparently I was the best girl available in Bangkok on three weeks’ notice. We weren’t even in the same weight division, but the promoters wanted two Western women and Coat said I’d been very, very lucky.

I wasn’t asking questions. I was too ecstatic. Lumpinee Stadium? Forget
Battle of the Bitches
. Lumpinee Stadium is the Carnegie Hall of Muay Thai fighting. It’s got the prestige factor.

Coat looked worried. I guess it was understandable. Jorgensen is a seasoned fighter and I’m... well... not.

‘Jade,’ he said slowly. ‘Don’t be afraid to hit her.’

‘Afraid? Me?’

Coat and Pook talked softly among themselves. Then Pook said, ‘In your last three fights, you won on points. We feel you are holding something back. This time your opponent is bigger and more aggressive. She will dominate you. You need an early knockout.’

‘OK,’ I said.

They were still looking at me. Pook had that uncomfortable face, like Cake when he’d tried to tell me how to act.

‘When our cousin sent you, he said you are like his daughter. That’s why we let you come. He told us you have anger problems. You are angry, but this is not coming out when you fight. Maybe you are afraid to hit a girl?’

I snorted. ‘Of course not!’

I’d hit plenty of girls in my life, in the ring and on the pavement. They were crazy if they thought I was afraid. I took a deep breath, searching for words in a language I was only beginning to learn.

‘I not stop. I hit, I no stop.’ In my first fight I’d actually tried to attack the ref, but luckily Mr. B had intervened before I could get going. ‘Mr. B say, Jade, be good. Or he throw out me. I try, I want stop, listen rules. Become real pro like that.’

I waved at the wall of photographs of former champions who had trained here. They had started with nothing. Their smiling faces and gold championship belts filled the wall.

‘You must
fight
Jorgensen,’ Coat said. ‘Fight, not spar. Fight to hurt. You have to want to hurt her bad. Or you lose. Can you do this?’