in the bottle blistered my throat. I coughed convulsively and would’ve puked but there was nothing in my stomach.
Dunk took the bottle. Not only did he keep it down, he took another sip.
“It does taste like medicine,” Dunk said.
“When I was your age I believed totally in the power of medicine,” said Mahoney. “One time my grandfather was coughing. I gave him a cough drop. My grandfather had lung cancer. By the end he was hacking up spongy pink bits.”
“Teach me to wrestle,” Dunk said.
“A fucking
cough drop
… What?”
“To wrestle,” Dunk said. “Teach me.”
“Why? You want to grow up to be like me?”
“I do.”
Mahoney sucked at the bottle and then wiped the shine off his lips. His teeth were the colour of old bone in the firelight.
“Up, then!” he cried. “Stand and fight!”
He leapt across the flames and landed nimbly. Dunk was crab-walking away on his palms and heels. Mahoney hauled him up with no more effort or regard than a man lifting a sack of laundry.
“Lock up,” he snarled, setting himself in a wrestling pose. “Damn you, you wanted to learn so lock up with me!”
Mahoney got down on his knees. He grabbed Dunk’s hands and slapped one on the back of his neck and the other on his shoulder.
“Like that,” he said, settling his hands on Dunk’s own neck and shoulder. “You control the other man this way, see? Now control my head.”
The muscles flexed down Dunk’s arm. Mahoney’s head sat on his neck like a tree stump, moving nowhere. Dunk linked his fingers around the back of Mahoney’s neck, screwed his heels into the ground and pulled as hard as he could.
“Has a butterfly settled on me?” Mahoney asked acidly.
“Owe,” Dunk said, his face contorted with effort, “
help
.”
I wrapped my arms around Mahoney’s bull neck. He wore the same aftershave my father did, the one with the blue ship on the bottle. The hairs on the back of his neck were as soft as the white spores on a dandelion before they blow away in the wind.
Mahoney said: “You’re
huuuurting meeee
…”
His hands shot up, grabbing a fistful of our shirts. He pushed us backwards and we landed hard on our asses and elbows.
“Oldest trick in the book,” he said, whapping dirt off his knees. “Never trust the wounded dog, boys.”
Dunk’s elbow was torn open, blood trickling to his wrist. His hands flexed into fists at his sides. Mahoney was by the fire, bent over his bottle. When he stood up Dunk was right there.
“What?” Mahoney said.
Dunk showed Mahoney his elbow. Not for sympathy, just so the man could see what he’d done.
“Sorry about that,” Bruiser said. “Let’s patch it up.”
Mahoney found a box of Band-Aids in the glovebox and stuck one on Dunk’s elbow. He took the bottle of pills from his pocket, shook a quartet into his palm and chased them with rum.
“That’s wrestling, boys. Want to see what it earns you?” He rolled his trouser up past his knee. “I always wear tights in the ring. Now you see why.”
His kneecap was shattered. The two halves of it lay under his skin with one half twisted to one side, the other sunk beneath his knee joint. It looked like a lunar landing photo. The cratered surface of the moon.
“A steel chair.
Whappo
. Some kind of no-holds-barred contest. The promoter didn’t bother explaining it too well. He was drunk. Anyway, so was I. The guy who chair-shotted me, the Sandman, he was drunk too. I heard the bone crack. Sounded like a starter’s pistol—
pow
!” Mahoney shook his head. “That was Texas. Never wrestle in Texas, boyos.”
He ran his hands through his hair, parting the dark locks. A scar ran across the top of his skull. Pink, ribbed and shockingly thick—it looked like a garter snake frozen under his scalp.
“Razorwire,” he said. “Some kind of crazy thing in Japan. Opened me up to the bone. Blood pissing all over the mat. That’s how they like it over there.
Messy
. I kept wrestling. The both
Dunk took the bottle. Not only did he keep it down, he took another sip.
“It does taste like medicine,” Dunk said.
“When I was your age I believed totally in the power of medicine,” said Mahoney. “One time my grandfather was coughing. I gave him a cough drop. My grandfather had lung cancer. By the end he was hacking up spongy pink bits.”
“Teach me to wrestle,” Dunk said.
“A fucking
cough drop
… What?”
“To wrestle,” Dunk said. “Teach me.”
“Why? You want to grow up to be like me?”
“I do.”
Mahoney sucked at the bottle and then wiped the shine off his lips. His teeth were the colour of old bone in the firelight.
“Up, then!” he cried. “Stand and fight!”
He leapt across the flames and landed nimbly. Dunk was crab-walking away on his palms and heels. Mahoney hauled him up with no more effort or regard than a man lifting a sack of laundry.
“Lock up,” he snarled, setting himself in a wrestling pose. “Damn you, you wanted to learn so lock up with me!”
Mahoney got down on his knees. He grabbed Dunk’s hands and slapped one on the back of his neck and the other on his shoulder.
“Like that,” he said, settling his hands on Dunk’s own neck and shoulder. “You control the other man this way, see? Now control my head.”
The muscles flexed down Dunk’s arm. Mahoney’s head sat on his neck like a tree stump, moving nowhere. Dunk linked his fingers around the back of Mahoney’s neck, screwed his heels into the ground and pulled as hard as he could.
“Has a butterfly settled on me?” Mahoney asked acidly.
“Owe,” Dunk said, his face contorted with effort, “
help
.”
I wrapped my arms around Mahoney’s bull neck. He wore the same aftershave my father did, the one with the blue ship on the bottle. The hairs on the back of his neck were as soft as the white spores on a dandelion before they blow away in the wind.
Mahoney said: “You’re
huuuurting meeee
…”
His hands shot up, grabbing a fistful of our shirts. He pushed us backwards and we landed hard on our asses and elbows.
“Oldest trick in the book,” he said, whapping dirt off his knees. “Never trust the wounded dog, boys.”
Dunk’s elbow was torn open, blood trickling to his wrist. His hands flexed into fists at his sides. Mahoney was by the fire, bent over his bottle. When he stood up Dunk was right there.
“What?” Mahoney said.
Dunk showed Mahoney his elbow. Not for sympathy, just so the man could see what he’d done.
“Sorry about that,” Bruiser said. “Let’s patch it up.”
Mahoney found a box of Band-Aids in the glovebox and stuck one on Dunk’s elbow. He took the bottle of pills from his pocket, shook a quartet into his palm and chased them with rum.
“That’s wrestling, boys. Want to see what it earns you?” He rolled his trouser up past his knee. “I always wear tights in the ring. Now you see why.”
His kneecap was shattered. The two halves of it lay under his skin with one half twisted to one side, the other sunk beneath his knee joint. It looked like a lunar landing photo. The cratered surface of the moon.
“A steel chair.
Whappo
. Some kind of no-holds-barred contest. The promoter didn’t bother explaining it too well. He was drunk. Anyway, so was I. The guy who chair-shotted me, the Sandman, he was drunk too. I heard the bone crack. Sounded like a starter’s pistol—
pow
!” Mahoney shook his head. “That was Texas. Never wrestle in Texas, boyos.”
He ran his hands through his hair, parting the dark locks. A scar ran across the top of his skull. Pink, ribbed and shockingly thick—it looked like a garter snake frozen under his scalp.
“Razorwire,” he said. “Some kind of crazy thing in Japan. Opened me up to the bone. Blood pissing all over the mat. That’s how they like it over there.
Messy
. I kept wrestling. The both
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