Only If You Have To

Fighting

It's the cool of the night that wakes me up. An hour or two must have passed at least. Everything that was once empty is has now filled with broken glass.

Doyle has his back to the shelter wall in front of me. A tall, clear bottle is in his hand, half empty. I catch a revolting whiff of vodka. The first breath I squeeze out is a long sigh. Everyone knows that Doyle and his crew always pay cash and have been known to even settle other people's outstanding tabs. As long as they keep doing that Thompson will let them do whatever they like.

One of Doyle's browner teeth is missing. A crude plaster covers his nose. The three silver arrows are each piercing a button hole on his jacket. His smile is pure filth when he notices I'm awake.

“Must say, the Phantom I remember always went down swinging, but never swung quite so wild as that.”

He stands up, managing to keep his feet and swig from the bottle while he's at it. A few strides gets him close enough to offer me his hand.

“I get the impression I pushed it a bit far with the comment about Gina. My apologies of course. Now would you like to hear about the job.”

I bite my tongue. The only words I can think of come laced with far too much profanity.

“I wasn't lying before” Doyle continues, “my friend's friend is very rich. She's also very, very serious about this. Nobody but the Phantom will do for her. Gotta have you Al, one way or another.”

His hand is awfully tempting, but if he pulled me to my feet I don't know how I'd do at supporting my weight. It's enough to endure the sloshing feeling in my skull as I get to a sitting position.

“There is no way I am coming back. I quit, I got out. You and your friends did your damage, I did mine. I'm out.”

“Let me try and put this more delicately.” Doyle says, taking his hand away and fingering the bottle. “There is always more damage my friends can do. And what exactly can you do Al? You'll call the cops on us?”

“That” I cough in reply “is exactly what I'll do. And I will tell them everything.”

“Everything?”

“I will detail every robbery that you and your friends dragged me along for. I will tell them your names, your addresses and how many cars each of you have. I will tell them where your safe houses are, where you hide your loot, which businesses you have ties to. I remember it all. I will tell them what you did to Jane, I will tell them what you did to me. And I will tell them that you just threatened to do the same to my wife.”

“If you tell the cops about my friends and I you'll have to tell them all about yourself too Al. You might be able to put us away, but there's no way you'll get off either.”

“I'm counting on it. Every cop in this state worked highway patrol at some point, every one of them would love to be the one who put the Phantom away. If I turn myself in and ask nicely enough they might just arrest you and your friends out of gratitude.”

Hard as it is to believe Doyle's face looks genuinely sad.

“Ten years you were with us Al. Ten years, hundreds of jobs. We were friends. Now this is what it's come to.”

“You shouldn't have hurt my little girl.”

I think everything I said in that conversation would have sounded intimidating were I standing tall and looking Doyle in the eye. But I still couldn't trust myself to stand. So, I glare up at him through puffy eyes. Doyle in return squats down to look directly at me.

“Look, no hard feelings Al. Think about it ok. If you change your mind you know where to find me. I'll need an answer by the end of the week.”

He gets up, leaving the bottle sitting open next to me.

“Consider that a down payment on the hundred grand you'll get for this job. Simple delivery run, take goods to Melbourne, come back with cash.”

With that he puts a hand on my shoulder, withdraws it before I can react, and walks inside. Music blares, people cheer, the fight is already forgotten. It takes a few minutes for me to get to my feet, eyeing that bottle the whole way up. Hatred crystallises in me, directed squarely at it. So, I kick it savagely against the wall. The shatter of glass sounds like gunfire in my sore head. The smell makes me want to retch.

But the night I walk into is cold and welcoming. I'm late for tonight's meeting.

For the first time since my first visit to this group, years ago now, I have to open the door myself. I'm late, nobody's holding it, and Ricky Fencer is obviously drunk from the second I step inside. Sweat and mud cover his skin like blisters, open sores in which his hair has gotten stuck. Everyone in the room is quiet, seated, looking at him. There is a certain relaxed posture you can see in a man who has already spoken at an AA meeting, every man in the room had it except for Ricky. By the time I've made apologise, sat down at my chair and made the obligatory joke about seeing the other guy when the bruise on my face is pointed out, Ricky has checked his watch five times. All the while he keeps mumbling at the floor. Patient smiles abound, Ricky will talk when he is ready.

All these facts are easy digest but extremely difficult to process when the urge to hit something is still gripping on to you. It's even harder when you're gripped from the other side by hatred for the urge to hit something, and yourself for the way its grip feels welcome. Violence is easy to understand and sometimes more intoxicating than drink. I remember a sermon about how humanity came to view violence as a last, uncivilised resort. It represents the most direct and least effective problem-solving method and serves as an outlet for extreme frustration. From the fruit of their lips people enjoy good things, but the unfaithful have an appetite for violence. Proverbs chapter thirteen, verse twelve. Or in plain English, to use violence is to exhibit corruption. To take a jackhammer to the wall holding back the end of your own world. Even when it is self-serving I believe it to be self-destructive. At heart, the fact that I decided to punch my way out of that bar was nothing more than my admittance that I had no power over the situation, so I chose to cause as much destruction as possible to escape that situation.

I have a personal theory about it too. It comes from days spent evading police chasers. There comes a point where a less experienced pursuit driver will give up on trying to out drive you and simply ram you without rhyme or reason. Often, they'll do more damage to themselves in the process. I've thought about that a lot. There comes a point where everybody accepts that no plan they can make will work. But you never know what a random act of violence will do, do you?

In this moment Ricky Fencer seems the victim of a different kind of violence. Spiritual, personal attacks on himself, by himself, seem to cover his every inch. Yellow bruises, red eyes, black marks on his hands.

“My name is Ricky Fencer” he says at length “it has been, it has been...” he breaks off. After several minutes and a dozen checks to his watch he tries again. His mouth opening up for a mudslide. The air in the room feels thinner, everyone is suddenly tense.

“My name is Ricky Fencer. I am a f*****g alcoholic. It has been four f*****g hours since my last drink. Yesterday I lost my f*****g license for speeding. Tonight, I got drunk. Any f*****g questions?”

If a droplet of sweat were to land on the floor on the floor it's almost certain I'd be able to hear it. Ricky stands up.

“Guess I'll see you fuckers tomorrow, maybe.”

I’m the f*****g salt of the earth. Why did I do this? And since I did that why did I f*****g COME HERE?! Nobody wants to hear about how bad I f****d up. They just want to come here and tell everyone how f*****g GOOD they’re doing and have people congratulate them for what everyone else managed to do without EVEN f*****g TRYING. It’s a joke. It’s all a f*****g joke… And so am I… I need some air. I need another bottle.

After he leaves the meeting carries on, but the volume is turned way down. The hard plastic under my posterior seems grating and harsh. I can hear something that sounds like dogs howling, or maybe it's someone's stomach growling. Maybe it's mine.

For the first time in the span of memory I feel grateful when the meeting ends. But that uncomfortable seat doesn’t let me go until the last of my fellows leave and the lights go out. The darkness is comforting. Nobody but God can see me. I still want to hit something, or maybe I want to throw up.

Maybe if I try to stand my feet won't take my weight. Everything is just so heavy. There's no way up or out. I have to try at some point, but it can be eased into. Surely that's not too much to ask, it's been one truly abominable day.

Cross, lighter, deep breath. I'm on my feet and walking.

“Alan!” the voice jumps out at me from the cool night outside. My shoes make little puffs of dust, my body flinches at the sound, tired arms raise in something resembling a defensive move. Or maybe it's a sign of surrender. Hands barely raised above shoulders.

“Down here.”

Ricky is slumped against the church wall, eyes fixed on the dirt.

“You got a light mate?”

He's graduated from mumbling to slurring. Bloodshot eyes droop. He looks ready to fall into the ground as I fumble for Jane's lighter. When he hands it back he offers his pack as well.

“I don't smoke.”

“You just carry a lighter?”

“Yeah, for safe keeping.”

That's all he's getting out of me. All I have the energy to say. The night is just a little too cold, and it's a long way back to the mine.

“I saw you at the Canyon a few hours ago. What did Doyle want with you?”

That stops me in my tracks. I can neither say anything, nor leave. What did Ricky see, what did he hear?

“Never liked that son of a b***h. He dresses too nice, and he talks weird. Like a motherfucking alien who always has more money than the rest of the town combined.”

“Would you please stop with the profanity.”

In my head it sounds level headed, a reasonable request. But there's not enough moisture in my throat or energy anywhere in me. To Ricky it probably sounds like a plaintive whisper, if he even hears me. He keeps talking regardless.

“Saw that fucker come on up to you. Saw you throw a drink at him. You threw one hell of a punch a bit after. Then he was going for a knife.”

“That was when Thompson pulled out his rifle, wasn't it?”

“Yep. But Thompson's a f*****g coward. He wouldn't have stopped Doyle if the bastard actually meant you harm. So, I threw a bottle at the fucker's head. Not quite sure what happened next, but I broke the golden rule. No more Canyon Booze for me, nor you now I think on it.”

The stool, I remember. Something else as well, a scratch on the edge of my mind, a fingernail on a window. Ricky spits on the ground and fumbles at his packet.

“Gotta hand it to you Alan, after I threw that bottle the whole place went f*****g nuts for a bit. You fought like a God-damned animal. Mind if I borrow that lighter again?”

“It's on the ground next to you.” I point out, turning to face him. So numb is the inside of my head I'd forgotten about it as I tried to leave. A sudden shiver, like second hand regret and embarrassment. Middle finger and ring finger sink into the palm where that lighter is so often clutched. Ricky lights up again. I can't remember exactly what happened after Ricky threw the bottle, so that's what I ask him.

“Everything fu...everything happened at once.” He looks at me apologetically then continues. “Doyle and his mates formed a circle, people were lining up for a swing at the bastard. I jumped into the middle of it and everyone took a swing at me. Then you came charging in faster than the Phantom would drive in his day. I don't think half the blokes you hit even saw you coming.”

He smiles grimly. I try my best not to wince. The fact that I spent so many years violating every law of God and man is bad enough. The fact that it was decided, without my input, to turn my nefarious deeds into folklore is, well it's very annoying. Need to change the subject. Thankfully Ricky's still talking.

“Guess that makes us even, what with the bottle. I'd have a fair few more bruises if it wasn't for you.”

I try to smile like it's nothing. “Any time. I didn't much fancy a knife wound, so I say I still owe you one.”

“Pro bono mate. I'd have thrown it just for the joy of it. Amazed I hit him though, I could barely see, barely think. But I reckon I'd have thrown that bottle no matter what. It got me thrown out of the Canyon for life.” He spits on the ground again. “Should make it easier to stick with the program this time.”

Did he know that in the moment? Is he rationalising it? It's strange, I don't think it makes a difference. Much like how the first turn in a bend often starts with a movement of the shoulders you barely even feel. Sometimes a thought manifests in action first. Think about it later. I take in Ricky's slumped form, his shabby look, his wiry build. I don't know whether to be sorry, amazed or grateful. He might just have given me an answer, so I offer him my hand.

“I'll give you a ride home.”

Of course it's a half hour walk back to where my car's parked first. I keep silent until we reach it. Ricky keeps trying to whistle. Every time the tune starts to become familiar he runs out of breath, or stops to ask me again for the lighter.

I'm trying to wrap my head around it. Is it possible that despite everything going on Ricky threw that bottle because he knew it would get him banned from the Canyon? In a moment of blind rage and drunken haze might he have actually locked himself into a future where he had to progress along the steps. Did he realise that? No way of knowing.

Only a habitual drunk can walk straight it seems, and the cloying smell leaves me light-headed. Ricky keeps striding ahead of me. Eventually slowing and offering his shoulder. Between the two of us we only sway a little.

This is the closest I've ever so much as stood to the man, and only now is it clear how strong he really is. Loose fitting clothes and an often-slumping manner belie a tough and wiry frame. In the world of the starving and weak, even a moderately built man is more than you'd want to take in a fight.

How in heaven do I explain a barfight to Gina? How indeed when so much of it seems a white-hot blur?

The more the road passes slowly underfoot the more weight leans on Ricky's shoulder, as he talks more about the incident at Canyon Booze. He just seems to talk because it's something to do. There's a deliberate pace to his words, not just because he's still slurring every now and again.

“You got everybody's attention when you hit Doyle like that. Nobody messes with Doyle, you want to mess with him you make an appointment, mess with all his friends first. Everybody knows.”

Everybody does know.

“The whole day it'd felt like something was waiting to happen in there. Even when there was only a few of us drinking in there. Nobody moved except when they drank but everyone had sized the other people up. You just knew it. Then some faces from town showed up, a few girls waiting for the mine crowd. A few raised voices. Then you got dragged in. For a moment there we all thought you were dead. Never thought I'd see a black guy go white but you almost managed it. You looked like your skin was made out of bone. Once you sat yourself down I stopped paying attention to you. Truth be told I hoped you wouldn't notice me. But there was a lot happening around. Lots of loud voices, somebody had made a top forty playlist. It sucked.

When Doyle sat down with you he almost looked like it was him trying to help you. It was still Doyle, all weird angles, moves and faces. He was either buying your soul or selling you something. Couldn't have said. Then you hit the bastard and everybody stopped moving for a moment. And that feeling, like everyone was there waiting for something. That kept going. Guess everyone who felt that way decided this was what they were waiting for and went for it. Old Thompson just stood there waiting for it to get out of hand so he could lose off a round or two. Fight looked to be between Doyle, his mates and anarchy. Long story short that was the bottle got thrown at him when he started reaching for his boot. That was all it took for the room to forget Thompson loosing off a shot. Afterwards there were fists everywhere. One of Doyle's friends went to grab you, a few of the boys grabbed him. Everyone wanted a piece of Doyle himself. Oh, and get this, some smart boy sent a few plates spinning at Old Thompson's head, he spent the rest of the fight hiding under the bar. Everyone wanted a piece of Doyle and he decided he wanted a piece of me. Figured you were down for the count see. There was a big scrum just near the corner of the bar. Lots of fistfuls of clothing and hair, copped a juicy one in the ribs too. It was quiet for a second, figured that'd be the time Thompson chose to reappear.

Instead you came flying over the bar, had a full bottle of vodka in one hand and I swear it was some kind of murder in your eyes. Everyone who was just there to ruin Doyle's day melted back a little, let you push through. You weren't just there to ruin his day. I don't want to know what he'd said to you, he threaten you?”

“Something like that.”

“He threaten your family? Honestly, I'm happy not knowing. You firing off some serious threats yourself. He ought to remember that nobody can touch you, this would be what happens if someone tries. Never heard so much fury coming out of your mouth. You had him on the ground with a headbutt, seized him by his shirt and sent him sliding backwards on the floor. He was crawling to try and get away, nobody else was moving. The place was full of eyes and they all wanted to see what you'd do next. You walked right past him, you trod on his hand when you did but that was all the follow through you gave. More than a mite disappointing if I do say. You got about half way through saying 'stay down mother....' well that's as far as you got anyway. Doyle hadn't heard the bell.”

The mine is in sight now. More weight than I expected to put there is on Ricky's shoulder now. He's breathing a little harder, so am I, but he keeps on talking.

“Doyle got up and everybody got shocked. He was lunging for your back, thought he had you by surprise but I don't know. I think you were expecting him to do just that, you sidestepped him, threw him at the door. Actually no, you threw him through the door, damn thing just fell open when he hit it, out into the shelter he went. Now this is the part I don't get, you haven't had a drink in what, three years? Still I saw you heading through that doorway, heft the bottle in your hands and take a giant swig like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I was watching someone different, someone who beat people up in bar fights while knocking back straight spirits for fun. Then you hefted the bottle like a club. 'Stay inside everybody' you said 'Mr Doyle and myself need some private time.' Then the booze hit you, you started wobbling on your feet and Doyle came up with a rock. He had the bottle out of your hand before you hit the ground. After that Thompson found his spine again, I got thrown out on my face, so did everybody else who threw a punch after he'd fired the first shot.”

“Except for Doyle's friends.”

It's not a question. Ricky doesn't bother answering. He doesn't bother doing anything at all for several moments. We stand half leaning on each other, the carpark is just over a sandy ridge.

“Honestly I thought he would kill you out there. But Thompson said you and him 'needed to talk'. Just what is it a respectable guy like you has to say to Peter Doyle besides 'f**k off'....”

“Language” I cut in. “And you know what Doyle likes to say.”

“A friend of a friend needs a favour?”

“Well I wouldn't do it for him.”

“You sure Alan? A man round here does a favour for Peter Doyle that man breathes easy for a few months at least, drinks clean water too.”

“You know do you?”

“Might have done him a few favours now and again. You can't trust him, but he pays cash so you don't have to.”

I fetch my sun clothes. Ricky is leaning on the bonnet when I get back. Flat and wiry frame stretched out like a long, thin cat. And even sprawled across the bonnet he still looks like he has further to unravel. I indicate inside the vehicle and he joins me there with murmured thanks. The sound of the motor starting jolts us both. I was planning on driving in silence for a little while, waiting until Ricky got home before I took this any further, but the sound of the engine was driving me mad.

“When you threw that bottle, you knew it would get you locked out of the Canyon, didn't you?”

“Might've known, might not have cared too much though. It's been a good thousand days and change since you were properly pissed Alan, you remember what it's like? You know something but you don't know. You care but you don't care.”

All I knew is that fucker was missing some glass in his face. Maybe I threw it because I knew it would get me banned. Maybe I knew that the guy had a knife. Maybe I just had something to prove, but maybe I could see just how much you hated him, and maybe I regretting not fighting him myself before now. All I know is that the bottle was out of my hand before I could think about it. I did know that he f*****g deserved it. Bastard has hurt too many people already. Didn’t need to add Alan to the list of people I regret not helping.

“I know what you mean, still it might be putting you on the right path, even if that wasn't your plan?”

“Suppose so.”

Ricky is trying for an easy grin, but it keeps slipping sideways along his face like the wind is blowing it away.

“I might be in the same situation.” Beginning something like this, a proposition nobody would expect, is always difficult. “I want Doyle to leave me and mine alone. Not sure if I mentioned this at meetings or not, but my little girl, Jane, she ran away about a year ago. Doyle's the reason why.”

“About a year ago?” The shock on Ricky's face is real. “You never mentioned.”

“It's not something I enjoy talking about. My point is, Doyle will leave me alone if I can't drive. That's what he needs me for. So, I have a proposition. Give me the stat dec form that came with your speeding fine. I'll sign it, say I was driving when it happened.”

Seconds past, spent wondering whether Ricky even heard me. Everything about his face still says 'fine, get to the point.' Then he nods.

“My speeding ticket, you'll lie and cop it for me.”

It's hard to say if the conversation is going to plan. On the one hand this line of thinking has been following me all the way from Canyon bar. If I can't drive, I'm no good to them. Perhaps the idea simply met some friends along the way. Maybe I feel a small, sinful twinge of regret from saying nothing in Ricky's defence when the judgement of the whole AA group was on him. No matter whether they showed it, or he deserved it. A man's word is his bond, however, and the truth I was willing to speak out loud sounded just right in my ears.

“Ricky, for the first time in my memory I can see a genuine win-win situation. It will be a little harder to get to work, but it will be worth it.”

“You won't have to worry.” Ricky says with a widening grin. The time since I first vocalised the offer seems to have grown him outwards. Every part of him rests securely on a solid centre that wasn't there before.

“Every morning I'm not on runs you ride to the mine with me. I owe you for this big time. Same deal if the missus needs anything. Hell I'll...”

A quick look into my eyes.

“Sorry Al.”

“Call me Alan, please.”

“Sorry Alan, this has come out of nowhere. What I was going to say is this; you mentioned your little girl ran away. You have a picture of her that I can borrow.”

I have one hard photograph of Jane as a vacant eyed sixteen-year-old. It was taken for her learner's permit. She hated driving.

Hates driving.

I drop the photo into Ricky's hand. He juggles it in his palm as if it's hot. No, Ricky's entire body is shaking just a little. Even his words sound like they're jittering out of his mouth. But his eyes are wide, layering enthusiasm and sudden purpose onto the words pouring from his mouth.

“Let me make some copies of this. For posters. I’ll ask everybody I pass on the highway about her too. Not as many as there used to be but some, and they all drive the same routes. If she left town by vehicle then someone will have seen her. Alan! You were talking about a win win situation; I should have done this for you ages ago. This is a chance to get your girl back!”

The only other time in my life anyone has worn a smile like Ricky's the person owning it had been a very young apprentice priest. Long before Gina had lead me back to church. I'd slammed the door in his face, unable to believe that smile was genuine. Ricky however, Ricky makes it look real. Something about the way his whole face widens a little, his eyes too. As he breaths in it's like some of the air stays when he breathes out. He becomes upright and squares his shoulders, it's like the smile is dragging him up. Maybe it is?

Before I can open my door at Ricky's place he has bolted inside. On the porch he emerges, beckons, closes the door behind him. Hands visibly shake as he hands over the form that will save his livelihood. One of them is mine. Then Ricky Fencer embraces me.

It's not a good hug, it's unexpected and comprised of too many shoulders and elbows. But it gets the point across.