as he led the way out into the street. He hailed a taxi and pushed Sami inside. He saw the driver flinch and mutter ‘Astaghfirullah’ under his breath, his face screwing up in disapproval as he caught the smell of booze.
Oblivious, Sami hung his head out of the window, curly hair blowing in the slipstream, and waved back at Makana like a wild child, delighted with his own bad behaviour.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The punchbags hung limply on chains, as if exhausted and waiting for the next beating. In one corner two men were working out earnestly with home-made weights resourcefully devised from iron cogs salvaged or stolen from some kind of large machinery. Elsewhere, one boy sheltered behind a pad held to his side while a young man threw a barrage of kicks at it, emitting a piercing cry with each blow. So not just boxing then. An odour of rotting drains came accompanied by the steady trill of running water from an open doorway at the far end, indicating changing rooms and a leaky toilet. Makana was almost touching the ropes of the ring at the centre of the room before he realised the man bouncing about inside it was none other than Father Macarius. He wore blue shorts and a white singlet and was trading blows with a hard little brown button of a man who appeared to be made of rock. He attacked with a relentless flurry of punches, arms like stout branches blowing in a hurricane. The priest put up a good show, ducking and weaving and generally tiring out his opponent who must have been at least twenty years younger than him. Makana joined the crowd of young men skirting the ring and watched as Father Macarius jabbed a blow home between the other man’s defences. There was something old-fashioned about his style, but he moved with natural fluidity, hips low, the weight in his shoulders. His legs were sinewy pale springs that sent him bouncing out of harm’s way. The little slugger advanced steadily, but Father Macarius stayed on his toes, circling just out of reach. The boys around the side were clad in a variety of ill-fitting, worn-out clothes. Trousers and singlets whose colours were faded to a uniform grey. They ranged in age from their mid-twenties to as young as seven or eight. With each flurry of leather against skin, a cheer went up. A bell rang and the two fighters slapped gloves and stepped away from each other. Grimy furrows of silvery sweat divided Father Macarius’ lined face as he sagged on the ropes. Makana recognised Antun as the boy who began to unlace his gloves. He noticed the affectionate way Macarius ruffled the boy’s shaved head. Raising a weary hand in greeting, he said:
‘Feel like going a few rounds?’
‘With you? I’m not sure how wise that would be, Father.’
Macarius laughed as he ducked out of the ring and dropped to the floor. The boots he wore had been scuffed so raw the worn leather appeared to be sprouting hairs. ‘You look as though you might benefit from a few lessons.’ He indicated the bruise on Makana’s cheek.
Father Macarius wrapped a towel around his neck and wiped his face. Over by the wall was a plastic water barrel whose blue colour had been softened by years in the sunlight. Lifting an aluminium mug he dipped it inside and drained it in one go, his Adam’s apple straining like a bird trying to get out of a sack. Makana recognised the fighter throwing the kicks on the far side of the room as Ishaq, the sharp-faced young man who had been outside Meera’s house. He looked quite good. Makana made a mental note to remember this.
‘I saw a couple of your boys guarding Ridwan Hilal’s home the other day,’ he said.
‘They aren’t my boys, as you put it,’ said Father Macarius, his annoyance evident. ‘They make their own decisions. They have taken it upon themselves to form a cadre to protect us. I cannot fault them for that, although I do not encourage violence outside the ring.’ He brought down a black cassock hanging on the wall and pulled it over his head. A long string of wooden beads swung on a nail. Kissing the wooden crucifix, he hung it over his head.
Outside, the walls of the white church reflected the light so much it was hard to look at. A couple of young palm trees had been planted in circular plots. A younger