AUSTRALIAN AUTHOR | Free Book | 'Clown Club: Chapter 2' by D. M. Wright
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VOLUME 1
CHAPTER 2. >>
I.
Dad was winning.
At least he was when I first spotted them across the carpark, ducking and weaving, yelling at each other.
A second later, Ryker slipped a jab through Dad’s guard and clipped his shoulder.
“Point.”
“Point, my arse!”
Dad lunged forward.
Ryker skipped backwards.
Dad shuffled after him.
Ryker skipped backwards again.
Then straight into the side of his car, claiming it as the edge of their ring.
His balance vanished, and Dad clipped him again:
“Two points for me.”
“That was only one connection!”
Dad dodged Ryker’s lunge and undercut his side:
“That’s another on top of those two.”
Ryker bounced away with a hand to his ribs, rubbing off the impact:
“I’ll give you that one but not the other.”
The pair of them circled again.
The rest of the Clown Club had spread themselves around, forming the other three ropes of the boxing ring.
Once the betting started, though, the ring began shrinking.
Dollar notes changed hands.
A bloke in the middle took wagers.
Men stepped closer.
Then closer again.
Before long, the ring had lost a good metre off each side, and Ryker finally slipped one through Dad’s guard, clobbering his painted nose.
Dad scoffed and cupped a hand over his face.
The club winced collectively.
He rolled his shoulders.
Rolled up his sleeves.
Then dug deep into his clown trousers.
Out came a mighty nose.
A very serious one.
He strapped it on.
Ryker stopped bouncing:
“Oh, we’re going down that road, are we?”
He held out a hand.
One of the guys tossed him another oversized nose.
Ryker caught it one-handed.
He slipped it on.
He raised his fists.
II. & III.
Dad raised his.
The crowd took three hurried steps backwards.
And the punches started coming a whole lot faster.
I had started towards them after coming out of the pub.
But now I’d stopped.
The closer I’d gotten, the larger the group seemed.
Not the men.
The audience.
People drifted through the carpark.
Couples exited the pub behind me.
A bloke wandered along the footpath carrying takeaway.
Cars rolled by on the road.
Every one of them felt like a potential witness to my public humiliation.
Because from where they stood, they weren’t looking at Dad and Ryker having a punch-on.
They were looking at a circle of grown men in costumes cheering it on.
And one empty space in that circle waiting for me.
My feet refused to move.
I didn’t want to get closer.
But I didn’t want to leave them either.
It was a strange sort of prison.
Embarrassment stopped me walking forwards.
Loneliness stopped me walking away.
So, I just stood there in the middle of the carpark, trapped between two equally horrible options.
But standing still had its benefits.
I started properly looking at the audience.
A young couple walking past me had slowed almost to a crawl.
The woman edged closer to her boyfriend every time a punch landed.
But he barely seemed to notice.
His eyes were fixed on the ring ahead.
They were lit with excitement.
Like he was watching something he wished he’d been invited to.
The bloke carrying takeaway had stopped entirely.
Standing on the footpath.
Watching.
Others did, too.
Some slowed their cars.
Some turned their heads for a second and third look.
Others kept looking over their shoulders long after they’d driven on.
Nobody seemed disgusted.
Nobody seemed embarrassed on their behalf.
If anything, they looked interested.
Invested.
Jealous.
The costumes weren’t the attraction.
The fun was.
From a distance, the Clown Club didn’t look pathetic.
It looked like a bunch of blokes having the time of their lives.
Like a costume party.
Or a buck’s night that had escaped containment.
I squinted.
Confused.
A smile twitched at the corner of my mouth.
Then I watched a stranger wander over from the pub.
One of the clowns took his bet.
Money exchanged hands.
Another fella produced a balloon from absolutely nowhere.
Blew it up.
Tied it off.
Handed it to the newcomer.
The balloon was raised above his head to support Ryker like a championship banner.
The betting ring erupted with cheers.
My feet tracked forwards.
Magnetically.
Inescapably.
Somehow, I’d gone from standing outside the ring to being part of it.
I hadn’t made a conscious decision.
My legs had apparently joined Clown Club before the rest of me.
The bloke beside me noticed first.
He grinned.
Slung a thick arm around my neck.
Then aggressively introduced his knuckles to my scalp.
“Atta boy!”
My hair received a thorough noogie before being returned in a condition best described as post-cyclone.
He released me and pointed to the fight.
He chanted:
“Braxtyn! Braxtyn! Braxtyn!”
Ryker smacked Dad’s oversized nose but the thing absorbed most of the impact.
Dad barely seemed to notice.
He glanced my way.
Smiled.
Then threw three quick hooks, pushing Ryker against his car.
Chants and claps rolled around the ring:
“Brax! Brax! Brax!”
“Ryker! Ryker!”
Louder.
Faster.
“Ryker!”
“Brax!”
IV.
Before I realised what was happening, I was clapping, too.
Chanting, too.
Cheering alongside a pack of grown men dressed like escaped birthday entertainers.
“Brax! Brax! Brax!”
I guess hearing my voice pushed Dad into dangerous territory.
His next few swings carried a little more weight behind them.
Ryker wasn’t expecting it.
What had started as taps and points suddenly started sounding like punches.
The mood changed.
Not by much.
Just enough.
Ryker barely slipped one hook.
Another clipped his shoulder.
A third came through much harder than it had any business doing.
The circle immediately imploded to stop the idiots from hurting each other.
“Woah, woah, woah! Time!”
One of the blokes jumped in and wrapped both arms around Dad’s chest just as another of his swings was loading up.
“Settle down, mate. Easy, easy.”
Dad’s eyes blinked rapidly as if he were coming back to reality.
Ryker took three quick steps backwards and bent over with his hands on his knees, looking very relieved to suddenly be on a break.
Dad looked down at his own fists.
Then at Ryker.
Then back at the men surrounding him.
“Sorry, mate. Don’t know where that came from.”
His aggression vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
He walked over and pulled Ryker into a hug.
Ryker grunted but accepted the apology.
The pair slapped each other on the back the regulation number of times required by male law.
Argument over.
Dad wandered back toward me with his hands on his hips, dragging deep breaths into his lungs.
Behind him, the men formed a huddle to argue over who’d won.
And, more importantly, who’d won all the money.
V.
Dad jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the argument:
“Did I win?”
“Dunno,” I said.
He shrugged:
“Fair.”
Another grin spread across his face:
“I’ve no idea what I’m doing, but I gave him a run for his money.”
My eyes widened:
“And then some.”
Dad winced:
“Yeah… my bad.”
He glanced between the flat tyre.
Ryker.
Then me.
“You ever done this before?”
“Done what?”
Without answering, Dad walked to Ryker’s car and yanked open the driver’s door.
He popped the boot.
Looking over the cabin at me, he jerked his head toward the rear of the car:
“C’mon, Jimbo.”
The boot rose with a groan from the struts.
Inside sat enough miscellaneous junk to suggest Ryker had been planning to clean out his car for the last five years.
Dad reached in and pulled out a folded picnic blanket.
He unfurled it with a snap.
One end landed in my hands.
The other stayed in his.
Together we stretched it out beside the car, laying it flat on the bitumen.
Ryker wandered over and, without a word, the three of us emptied the boot onto the blanket.
Once it all had been cleared out, Dad lifted the boot floor.
Beneath it sat the spare tyre and a small collection of tools.
“You know what you’re doing?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Good.” He nodded. “Today, you will.”
His eyes dropped to my pristine uniform.
Dad visibly disapproved.
Then he removed the oversized clown shirt he’d been wearing.
Before I could object, it was pulled over my neck.
“Stick your arms through.”
Annoyed but cooperative, I obeyed.
Dad stepped back to admire his work.
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