I Am Heathcliff. Группа авторов

now it was too homely, too unpretentious a death to be violent. They were merely scrubbing a board, raking a lawn; it was housework, nothing more, and you were a figure of fun; there was nothing tragic about those tugs at the line. You had crossed the border of pity a long time ago, horror wasn’t far behind, and after that was the ridiculous – because now you were nothing; an object, ludicrous, staggering slightly; something to make men either laugh or throw up their lunch.

      They pulled you back and forth, teasing the dogs, helping them out; it was only right, was how it was done, these final gestures, this inching away of life; jerked you from side to side for variety; set you right side out like a jumper, then once again turned your insides out.

      In the last moments, what was a living creature became a blank space, an observer looking down upon itself. You, too, only astonished now at what they had done to you. Your eyes were wide with the thought of it and would never close. It was this that killed you, this miracle.

      Once more – as if fondly – as if for old time’s sake – the man lifted you, and a dog came up too, the others mad with envy because he was close to you. Though it wasn’t you any more, I could see that now; just a piece of something; a mat; road kill; a ludicrous tatter with goggle eyes.

      Because I was silent, now I speak. And what can I say? That I loved you. That the spectacle swallowed me whole. That I went inside it. Horror sucks you inside. That I would murder now too, if I could. That I have dreamed many times since then of what I could do.

      When they had gone I buried what was left of you in the open field with my hands, and for three days and nights after, in the new room, in that unfamiliar place miles from here, where I remain but can never return to, I lay with you in the belly of the earth and imagined we both had never been born.

      Now, though I am older, and each day the universe is a mighty stranger, I occasionally glimpse you sometimes at the borders of vision. You appear for a moment then evaporate.¹

      I first saw you trotting along at the top of the cornfield as the sun rose. I could not speak because you were beautiful, and afterwards I went and walked. I thought there must be some sign you had been, some proof of your presence. But there was none.

      You left no trace and nor did you wait. You went on ahead and I followed as best I could, grasping a knowledge available for a certain time only.

      You went into the woods where the thorn trees grew thickly. Into the woods and out of my sight.

       A BIRD, HALF-EATEN

       NIKESH SHUKLA

      I LOOP THE WRAP over my thumb and across the back of my hand. It goes over my hand three times, tight, and then around my wrist, three times, tight. There’s a ritual to this. I bring the wrap up from my wrist in between my little and ring finger and then back down to my wrist. Up again, between ring and middle, and back down. Up again, between middle and index, and then back down. Each time, the wrap forms an X across the back of my hand. I loop it between thumb and index and then across the palm of my hand, to lock it in. I wrap the remainder of the cloth around my wrist and then Velcro it closed. I flex my hand, open and closed. It feels tight, taut, tethered.

      I repeat the ritual with my weaker hand. This one always feels looser. I love watching people perform this ritual quietly, meditatively, with ease, in changing rooms and on YouTube videos. I look at my own fingers, shuddering slightly under the wrap, and clench my fist.

      When I have wrapped both my hands, I pick up my gloves and take three shallow sips of water, heading to the thin sweaty alcove of heavy bags. I’m the only one in here. I come when it’s quiet so I can concentrate.

      When the bell rings, I hold my fists up over my face and I drop my chin. I am hunched, and standing with my feet a shoulder apart.

      The bell ring is a short sharp electronic burst, like when you’re called forward at the bank. I always choose the bag in the middle. It’s milk-chocolate brown with a silver strip of gaffer tape that acts as a waistband around its middle. It’s the heaviest bag here.

      For the first three minutes, I punch quickly and lightly, jab-cross, repeatedly. First at your nose. Then at your stomach. Jab-cross nose, jab-cross stomach, jab-cross nose, jab-cross stomach. I try to maintain a consistent speed so that I’m working my arms, ensuring that the muscle memory is kicking in. I don’t want to fling my arms out at you uncontrolled. I want my body to be seasoned to swivel from the hips, the turn of the foot, so that the power is coming from my entire body, and my arms are giving me the necessary distance from you, and my fists can carry the full force of my core.

      The first time I got punched, I was intervening in a theft. Some guy was pulling on my friend Rachna’s bag, which she had slung over her shoulder, while I was oblivious, trying to hail a cab. I heard her shouting, ‘You can’t do that, you can’t do that,’ and turned around. The guy was pulling the bag so forcefully that their heads were nearly colliding. It was over her shoulder, securely, so she’d need to take it off for him. He wrenched her so close as she was shouting, I saw her accidentally bite his nose. I ran towards her and pulled on the bag myself. The bag-snatcher let go, and for a pregnant second, I saw something in his eyes that wasn’t aggression or frustration or anything – it was powerlessness.

      He punched me on my nose. And he ran off.

      I don’t bruise very easily, but I felt the imprint of his knuckles on my face for days.

      It was the first time I’d been punched.

      I’d been in scraps before, but the thing about scraps in the boys’ school I went to, they were all about grabbing each other by the shirt on the shoulders and pulling, like a strange undressing wrestle.

      When the bell rings, I take off my left glove. The knuckles on this hand always throb after each round. I practise the swivel in my hips. One of the trainers has told me I’m too stiff, I need to relax into my shots. Keep my knuckles on top. Every movement is still alien to me. You watch the way fights are choreographed in films, and each punch is syncopated to a stirring score, each movement, every duck and weave, is a seamless piece of a dance. Here in this gym, the walls drip with the splatter of several people’s sweat. Here in this gym, the old hi-fi that still has cassette decks spits out Ed Sheeran or whoever is big on Radio 1 at that time. Here in this gym, the most balletic of boxers are the ones under eighteen. Here in this gym, you see interlopers like me. We who need this bag to represent something to us. Each sound is like tapping a sofa – flat, undramatic, clunky. Usually, the bag is a manifestation of ourselves. The implication, when we shadow-box, is that we look at ourselves in the mirror, because the first person you have to defeat in the ring is yourself. You box yourself in the mirror. You visualise your face on the bag.

      Most people are here because they never defeated that person in the full-length mirror. You can tell, we’re the ones whose eyes never leave our reflections as we move around the gym.

      The bag, you are never allowed to let drop, not if you want to be quick.

      I put my glove back on.

      When the bell rings, I launch at the bag with power this time. I jab, jab firmly, then follow it up with a powerful cross, a pow to the centre of your face. Immediately I duck and arch my entire body in a semicircular movement to the left. As I rise, I meet the side of the bag with a left hook. My left hooks are telegraphed from miles away. It’s as if I need the duck and weave, and the big powering up of the arm to act as my inner force. I need those movements to make my hook an effective one.

      When we eventually fight though, you’ll see it coming from miles away and step out of it, and I’ll drop my guard and you can strike everywhere.

      You and I train at different times. I’ve chosen my hours to coincide with when I think you’ll be at work. My lifestyle allows me to be here at unsociable hours, when the