The Mountain Shadow

‘Keep your gun on the Australian convict as you walk, lad,’ Concannon warned. ‘He’s a naughty one. If he moves an inch, shoot him.’

‘Yes, boss,’ Govinda said, smiling at me.

His eyes shone like opals in the half-light of the factory. When he reached Oleg, he shoved the gun into his stomach. Oleg was still smiling. It looked like I was the only guy in the place who wasn’t smiling.

‘I come in here, man to man, and you pull a gun?’ I said.

He was stung, because we both knew I was right. The fight was rising in him, fast.

‘Just a little insurance,’ he said, controlling his rage.

‘You do this the wrong way, Concannon, we won’t be the only ones who die.’

I said it for the benefit of the paid hands, the Afghan and Indian henchmen.

‘Govinda will certainly die,’ I said. ‘And the Afghan, too.’

I turned to the Afghan.

‘Salaam aleikum,’ I said.

He wouldn’t reply.

‘Salaam aleikum,’ I said, insisting on one of the kindest Islamic teachings, that a genuine greeting of peace should always be met with an equal or better greeting.

‘Wa aleikum salaam,’ he said, at last.

‘What’s your name?’

He opened his mouth to speak, but Concannon cut him off.

‘Don’t tell him that, you heathen half-wit. He’s just fuckin’ with your mind, don’t you see? He’s gone native, so he knows native talk. But it’s all just to fuck with your fragile heathen minds. Watch a master, while I fuck with his mind.’

He stood up and walked around the front of the car to stand close to me.

‘If he does anything at all,’ he said to Govinda, ‘shoot his friend. I’ll help you cut the body up meself, later on.’

‘Yes, boss.’

He stood opposite me, swaying from side to side slowly, his lips pressed into the shell of a smile.

‘I know what you want to know,’ he said, standing close to me.

‘I want you to stop. That’s all.’

‘Ha! No, you don’t. You want the answer to a very important question.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘A question,’ he sang at me. ‘A question, a question.’

‘Spit it out.’

‘Mind my words, Govinda!’ he commanded, looking at me. ‘If he makes a move on me, kill his friend. I’ll take care of this cunt.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘You only really want to know one thing,’ he said, leaning in close. ‘Did I fuck her, that sweet little American girlfriend of yours, before I left Ranjit with her that night, or didn’t I?’

Veins worked their clotted way upward from my clenched jaw through my eyes and into my forehead. I was sweating with the rage to hurt him. It was something else, something different, something I hadn’t brought through the door with me. When he put Lisa in the room, I was fighting for her.

‘You know, Concannon,’ I said, biting back to make him fight back. ‘If the Great Famine didn’t starve the English out of you, it’s because you’re really just an Englishman, with an Irish accent.’

He rushed at my throat, but I dodged away and backed off toward the car.

‘Why don’t we just do this?’ I said, loosening up. ‘My guess is, you’re all talk. Let’s find out, and get this over with. If you kick my ass, and you’re prepared to shake and be friends, I’ll be happy to admit you’re the better man. If I win, you stay the fuck away from me and mine. Sound fair to you, Govinda?’

‘Yes, boss,’ he answered automatically.

‘Shut up, you fool,’ Concannon snapped.

‘I think your gunman has his conscience on safety,’ I said. ‘Let’s do this without a gun, Concannon. Sound fair to you, Govinda?’

‘Shut up!’ Concannon shouted. ‘Shut up everybody!’

He looked me up and down for a while.

Am I right? Am I right, now, when I look back to that smile on my enemy’s face, and see reluctance, in a man who loved to fight?

‘Okay, if it’s a fight you want, Convict, then you’ve come to the right place. You don’t mind if I play a little music, do ya? I always play music, when I’m beatin’ a man black and blue. I’ve been thinking of bringin’ out an album, of my favourite hits, like.’

He snapped on a disc player, connected to speakers in the car. Irish music kicked from the red Pontiac. Concannon shaped up, his hands in front, on guard.

‘Let’s have at you, then,’ he said.

I ran at him, falling to the ground, and punching at his thigh, exactly where Abdullah had shot him. I got in two hard shots as I passed. He yelped in pain, and dropped his knee.

I scrambled up, and shoved in under his guard, reaching up for one of his eyes. I let him swing at the back of my head. I felt the blows hit, but didn’t feel any pain. I closed my fingers, digging into his eye socket.

He jerked away quickly. I scratched one socket enough to make him close it, blinking blood.

One eye closed, one knee bent, he swung at me in a combination from habit, just as Naveen had warned me. I dodged, ducked, and came in close enough to put my fingers in his collarbone. I pulled it down, putting all my bodyweight in a dead fall to the floor. The bone came loose and he screeched, his arm swaying in the pain.

Prison fighting isn’t about fighting. Prison fighting is about winning, and dead.