The soft babble of many people talking. At last he emerged into a scene that was like nothing he had ever experienced before—and something he would never forget.
It was an arena, circular in shape with dozens of narrow pillars holding up the ceiling, a raised boxing ring in
the middle and wooden seating slanting up around the sides. It was lit by neon strips that dangled on chains, and there were twenty or thirty fans turning slowly, trying to redistribute the hot, sticky air. Thai music was blaring out of speakers, and, bizarrely, there were old television sets facing outward, each one showing a different program.
The ring itself was surrounded by a wire fence that had been built either to keep the players in or the audience out. There must have been about four hundred Thais in the room, chattering excitedly among themselves as they swapped bright yellow slips of paper. Alex had read somewhere that betting was illegal in Thailand, but he recognized at once what was going on here. He had arrived just at the end of a fight. A young man was being dragged feetfirst across the ring, his arms splayed out, his shoulders painting a red streak along the canvas as he was carried away. And the members of the audience who had bet on his opponent were collecting their winnings.
Alex was at the very back of the auditorium. As he arrived, another man—dressed like him in shorts—was led down to the ring, his entire body taut with fear. Seeing him, the audience laughed and applauded. More yellow betting slips changed hands. Someone put a hand on Alex’s shoulder and pushed him down onto a plastic seat.
There was a crack in the floor, and he caught a glimpse of silver, the river water lapping at the concrete posts un-112
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derneath. He was sweating, and the mosquitoes had picked up his scent. He could hear them right inside his ear. His skin crawled as he was bitten again and again.
The new challenger had passed through the audience and reached the wire fence. Someone had placed a laurel of flowers around his neck. He looked as if he was about to be sacrificed. It occurred to Alex that in a sense he was. Two burly Thai men led him through a door in the fence and helped him climb into the ring. They forced him to bow to the audience. Then, in the far corner, the champion appeared.
He wasn’t big—very few people in this country were—but he emanated power and speed. Alex could see every single muscle on his body. They were locked together like metal plates, and he didn’t have a single spare ounce of fat. His hair, very black, was cut short. His eyes were black too. He had a boy’s face, completely smooth, but Alex guessed he was in his mid-twenties. His name—
Sunthorn—was written in white letters on his shorts. He bowed to the audience and danced on his feet, raising his fists to acknowledge their applause.
The other man awaited his fate. The flower garland had been removed, and the Thai men had left the ring.
The music stopped. A bell rang.
At once, Alex understood what he was seeing. He had been expecting the worst, and this was it.
learned karate, but he knew that it was a world apart from
from the top of the head to the rear calf—on your opponent. And this was a dirty, illegal version. Neither of the fighters had hand wraps, shin pads, or abdomen protec-tors. The fight would continue until one of them was carried out unconscious . . . or worse.
Alex watched the first round with a mixture of fasci-nation and horror, knowing that he was going to be next.
The fight had begun with both men weaving around each other, weighing up each other’s weaknesses. Sunthorn had struck out a few times, first with a right-side elbow attack, then twisting his body around in a fast knee strike.
But the challenger was faster than he looked, dodging both blows and even trying a counterkick, slicing his left foot into the air and missing Sunthorn’s neck by inches, a move that got a roar of excitement from the crowd.
But then, at the end of the first round, he made his fatal mistake. He had allowed his guard to drop, as if waiting for the bell. Suddenly Sunthorn lashed out, a rear leg push kick that slammed into the other man’s chest, winding him and almost throwing him off his feet. It was only the chime of the bell a second later that saved him.
He staggered into the corner, where someone forced a bottle of water into his mouth and wiped down his face.
But he was barely conscious. The next round wouldn’t last long.
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In the brief interval, more music blasted out of the speakers. The televisions flickered back on. Yellow slips were exchanged, and Alex noticed people gesticulating wildly, angrily tapping their watches. He was feeling sick.
He realized now that the audience wasn’t betting on who was going to win the fight. With Sunthorn in the ring, there could be no doubt of that. They were betting on how long a fighter could last against him.
The bell rang for the next round, and as expected, it was all over very quickly. The challenger moved forward as if he knew he was walking to his execution. Sunthorn examined him with a cruel smile, then finished the fight in the most vicious way he could: a kick to the stomach followed by a second, much-harder kick straight into the face. A great flower of blood erupted into the ring. The audience howled. The challenger crashed down on his back and lay
