Real Men Don't Run

In the crook of Franklin and 3rd hunched Uncle Nicky's Gym - a squat and robust building plastered with posters and signed in large looping letters that shone blood red at night. But it was only the late afternoon, and in the greying light, Nicky's name looked more like coils of bruised spaghetti. Surrounded by towering husks, Uncle Nicky's stood defiant, pumping dance beats through its open doors, while the rest of the neighbourhood wrapped itself up in a pall of urban decay.

Jim felt naked as he stepped inside, and struggled not to wince as he was greeted by the sour tang of many an unwashed crevice. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks: it was the last bastion of manliness at the edge of the world, where women and soap were the stuff of legends. In the centre of the bustling space rose a square-shaped ring - which was, to Jim's mind, one of the most baffling nonsenses in the sporting lexicon - where glistening giants clashed, exchanging body blows and grunting like rutting stags. Around the ring, spectators barked guttural notes of approval, while on the periphery of the room, lone wolves pounded smooth hanging bags with an enthusiasm usually reserved for a mortal enemy.

"This is a mistake," Jim decided.

"What are you talkin' about? You're gonna love it." Joe Lewinski advanced in a sort of daze, enamoured by the contest unfolding before them. Jim saw him flinch when a particularly bone-crunching punch found its mark. Yet, where his father flinched, Jim's stomach performed somersaults.

"Dad, I really don't think this is right for me. What about kayaking... or golf?"

"Golf?" repeated his dad, somehow turning it into a curse, "Donald Trump plays golf. You're not going to impress Aimee swingin' a stick."

Jim wilted and his sweatpants almost fell down. He refastened the chords with a double knot and, when a breeze swept in from the street, he despaired to see his pants snap about his bony legs like billowing sails. His shirt he filled out like a chode in a tube sock. Not for the first time he wondered why he ever elected to open his big mouth in the first place. After all, it was all conjecture, wasn't it? The Aimee thing.

A sound that should only ever be heard in frozen meat factories was met with a cheer. Only one of the duelling titans was still standing; the other was slumped in a tangle of ropes. Once the excitement subsided, a man called out and started his approach from the other side of the room, parting the crowd with the grace and magnitude of a battleship. Nikolai Paltrowicz had always been a large man, but in the years since their last encounter, it seemed he had developed a girth to match his formidable height. When he descended upon Jim and his dad, he bellowed like an ox and in turn clapped each of them in an embrace that felt like a death sentence. Buried beneath a wave of middle-aged man musk, Jim detected an obnoxious whiff of cologne, and couldn't quite decide which odour was worse. But there was nothing worse than the bristly tickle of kisses from a man with a moustache.

"Cousin, you have been away too long! Don't tell me you have thrown in the towel on the shipping business for one last shot at the title, because that ship has sailed, I think."

"I'm too old and too wise for that, Nicky," he heard his dad say, "I just want to hit a few bags with Jim, if that's alright."

"Like you need to ask," Nicky gave a phlegmy chuckle, and planted hairy ham-hands on his hips to inspect Jim, "You've grown, little Jimmy. So you wanna follow in the old man's footsteps, eh? Left-hook Lewinski, we called him back in the day."

"Oh, yeah? Well, Glass-jaw Jim is what they gonna call me if I put one foot inside that ring. I ain't got no real boxing aspirations, Uncle Nicky. I just wanna be more... more, you know?"

To emphasise his point, Jim struck a pose he assumed was something imposing but instead figured he looked like yokel smuggling sheep under his arms. Once his uncle had extinguished the flickering embers of amusement from his face, he gave a sagely nod, "Well, if little Jimmy wants to become big Jimmy, he has come to the right place for that as well. I have just one rule - your father knows this."

"Everyone fights," his dad nodded his approval.

"Not me," said Jim, feeling suddenly ill.

"Not yet. I'll let your old man train you up a bit before we bloody your pretty face. Joe, your boy's welfare is in your hands."

"Don't I know it?" his father's hand perched on his shoulder, it felt like a continent, "Come on, Jim, it's time you learn to punch."

There was an unoccupied bag hanging in the corner of the room: it was an ancient thing made of canvas and the brand was completely worn away. And, despite the years of abuse, it looked just as steadfast as its neighbours, which were presently being punished by a couple of wiry amateurs. Joe figured that stationing Jim alongside some mountainous heavyweights would do little for his confidence, and he had little enough of that already. His son had never been a difficult one to read; the first of his hand wraps was only halfway done when he started shifting his weight and rubbernecking in the direction of every pronounced thud around the room - he was already bored.

"Hold still. The hand wraps are important for shock resistance. There are lots of small bones in your hand-"

"Twenty-seven, unless you are counting the sesamoid bone - which no-one does. Did you know it takes only three pounds of pressure to break a metacarpal?" Jim's fingers were wriggling frantically as if to emphasise his point. He wasn't making it easy.

"The thing to remember is stay loose. You don't want to be locked up like a mannequin. You want to be light on your feet, like a dancer. And then, when you strike - firm, rooted, powerful."

"Loose but firm. Got it, pop." He got a clobber for that, and he rubbed the back of his head with an indignant hiss, "Great. My first step towards neurodegenerative disease. Interesting fact: accordin' to the American Association of Neurological Surgeons, 90% of boxers suffer brain injury. Did you know that?"

"The bag don't punch back, Jim." The battle was half won, with one fidgeting hand trussed up. It came back to him quickly, the rhythm of applying the wraps, along with a deluge of memories. The thick smell of the place was in itself a tall drink of nostalgia. He remembered how he used to make a beeline for the most central of the punching bags - the one nearest the ring - just so he could be seen. Building a reputation, Nicky once said, was half the battle. But it was a bit premature to consider passing that kind of wisdom on to Jim. Baby steps, Joe reminded himself as he continued, "Breathing is important, too. No, I'm serious. Always exhale when you're throwin' your punches."

"Yeah, to regulate the levels of carbon dioxide and lactic acid in your blood, but do you know who has two thumbs and doesn't get tired? This guy!"

"Jim, will ya stop bein' such a smart-ass?" Joe tugged at the length of gauze that had come loose and worked it vigorously around Jim's knuckles, "Keep still. This is for your own good."

"How is this for my own good, huh? To-to-to what? Impress Aimee!?"

"No, Jim, you're here to become a man." His son's face opened like a wound and he felt a twinge of guilt. Softer, he said, "Remember what you told me about that scum bag, Tyler? How he hurt your friends? Okay then, Aimee's friends. And what did you do? Look at me. What did you do, Jim?"

"I did nothin'," he muttered, and interrupted Joe's next question with an impatient snap, "I told you already! Because I was scared, alright?"

"Alright," Joe gave a nod, cautious of overdoing the sympathy, "Gettin' scared is fine. It's what keeps you on your toes. You're a good kid, Jim, but sometimes, you gotta stand up for what you believe in. Otherwise, what's the point?"

"Dad, I hate violence."

"And that's what makes you good. But not everyone is like that and there are some sick bastards out there - people like this Tyler guy - who will always be violent and cruel."

"Yeah, but those guys can't touch me."

The words fell like hammer blows to his chest. Joe found it hard to make the connection between the bright-eyed boy he'd raised his whole life and the poisonous apathy that had took root in his heart. That was when he realised the extent of his misjudgement in allowing him to stay in California all that time. It was impossible to disguise his shock, and he planted a heavy hand onto Jim's shoulder, as if he could somehow shake some sense into him.

"Jim, what about your friends? What about your family? Can they just run away? One day, you might have a family of your own - a wife and kids - would you run away at the first sign of danger? Could you leave them behind? Son, real men don't run - not from their troubles or the ones causing them trouble. Do you understand?"

This time, Joe didn't demand eye contact from his son. Instead, he waited while Jim stared first at his feet, and then at the wall. The crack of skipping ropes and the drumming of speed bags kept the silence from being silent, which was a small mercy, but it didn't make things any less awkward when Jim started to shape silent vowels in a feeble attempt to produce words.

"I-I- m-m-maybe I'm- I'm a-"

"But don't forget, kiddo," Joe interrupted, urging Jim towards the ancient hanging bag, "Boxing is about more than just punching. It's an excellent type of anaerobic exercise - yeah, I know some big words - it's also a great way to work out your stress and you'll get a hell of a confidence boost out of it, you'll see. And, uh, there are many who think of boxing as just another form of expression, like music, or art."

When Jim scoffed, he found himself on the receiving end of a red-hot slap on the ass.

"And Aimee will love your tight little butt, too!"

"Before we start..."

That's how it started, the shame. Though Jim was within arm's reach of the tired old punching bag, his father had other ideas; together, they performed a sequence of warm-up exercises and stretches that spanned the length of ten agonising minutes. It was the same routine he'd seen a thousand times before: cherry-pickers, jumping jacks, trunk-twisters, lunges and prisoner squats, except this time he was involved. In the privacy of their own home, Jim thought it looked weird, but in the public domain, every single squat was like taking a dump on his own dignity. By the end of it, Jim became so aware of his own ass that he felt it might have developed its own gravitational field.

"Squeeze your glutes when you rise," his father resurfaced with a grunt, as pink and glistening as a newborn, "Learn to move functionally... and your body will be more... efficient."

"Is this really necessary?" Jim complained, they had moved on to knee-ups and heel-ups, "I do have a slight genetic advantage."

"Unlimited energy or not, your muscle tissue is not prepared to function its best. Right now, we're raising our blood temperature," his father's breathing levelled out again, impossibly, his knees were reaching his chest, "Stretching gives you better flexibility, range of motion, posture and coordination. In other words, we're reducing the risk of injury."

"I didn't see those two guys do this before they started punching things."

"If those losers wanna pull a muscle that's their choice. Do the superman."

"Dad, not the superman!"

"You used to love doing the superman," his father said, poised perfectly on one foot, the other was clamped behind his back in one hand, while the other hand reached out as if in flight, "Come on. Would I let you fall?"

"Maybe not the second time," grumbled Jim. His father was enjoying himself far too much. To his credit, he kept a reasonably straight face whenever Jim found himself plunging head-first towards the floor and, true to his word, he caught him every time. Ten years had passed since he last boxed competitively, and it seemed the years had done little to weather his boxer's physique - Joe Lewinski had shoulders like bookshelves, arms like pythons, and a chest built like a brick wall. More surprising, however, was the degree of knowledge retention he displayed over the course of the warm-up session, dropping phrases in to his instructions like "Get that synovial fluid moving around," and "Avoid circumduction in the neck because it will narrow your cervical column." Jim was so impressed that, by the time they were throwing their pelvises around like a couple of half-baked Rocky Horror lunatics, it didn't matter at all.

"Feeling rejuvenated, kiddo?"

"You could say that," Jim couldn't help but grin, "For a second there, I was almost dozing off."

"Oh, yeah?" His father brandished a pair of shiny black boxing gloves, "Well, now the real fun begins."

Once the laces were tied and the initial shock of seeing Jim in boxing gloves had worn off, Joe positioned him near the punching bag and showed him the correct boxing stance. When Jim raised his guard, the effect was almost comical, if it hadn't been so tragic. His arms were like matchsticks - an unfortunate quality in a boxer - and the bulbous gloves served only to exaggerate his shortcomings. Coupled with his narrow body, long unkempt hair and large luminous glasses, he looked quite the oddball. No-one would stare, however, or point, or laugh. They knew better than that.

"Most of your weight should be on the ball of your back foot. That's better. You want the mobility to duck and slip with ease," Joe demonstrated exactly what he meant by a duck and slip to his bemused son, "Also, all of your power comes from the pivot of your foot, the twisting of your hips and how you turn your shoulders. You'll see. Let's start with a left jab."

It took some time, and even more patience, while Joe circled his son, making frequent adjustments to his posture, tucking in his elbows, encouraging the turn in his hips, correcting the trajectory of his fist and, astonishingly, the speed of his punch. There was a solid and satisfying thud as his own left jab connected with the punching bag.

"See? You need to pop your punches and snap them back. The impact is better and you want your guard back up as quickly as possible to protect your ribs and face. Watch. Pop and snap. Pop and snap."

"There's a breakfast cereal like that."

"Jim, come on," said Joe, deflated.

"Alright! Alright! Pop and snap. Pop and snap. Pop and snap."

Joe watched intently as the large rounded gloves fired out and connected with the bag in rapid succession. Jim's form was perfect. He released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding in. Another three perfect punches was proof enough that Jim's fault lied not in his ability, or lack thereof, but rather in his fickle attention span. If he was going to teach his son to box, he had to be fast. He gave a nod, "Nice jabs."

"They don't feel too strong."

"Power will come in time. Focus on your technique - get that right at the rest will follow. Now this is a right cross," Joe demonstrated once again on the bag, "Give it a try and don't forget to pivot your back foot. The strongest right cross on record belongs to a man called Frank Bruno, who packed a punch of 1,420 pounds. The researchers who conducted the tests figured a blow like that could accelerate a man's head up to a rate of 53 times the force of gravity."

"No shit? That's awesome!" said Jim, who executed a quality right cross on his first attempt, "I mean, that's awful, but... scientifically, I mean, it's cool."

And so, for the next thirty minutes, Joe mined the shameful depths of his own personal library of boxing trivia, while he introduced Jim to the left hook, the right uppercut, the left uppercut, and even the Mexican uppercut. Occasionally, he found himself offering up tips on posture and footwork, but for the most part, he watched as his son absorbed his instructions faster than he could give them. And while a spectator would be forgiven for thinking he was wearing black balloons instead of gloves, such was the pitiful impact of his blows, his form required only the slightest of modifications. His uppercut landed with a fart of air.

"Lean left first. Lean, pivot and rip. Strike upwards. You want your, uh, entry trajectory to be 45 degrees. That way, you're gonna do some serious damage to the liver." When Jim paled, Joe placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, "It's okay, son. You'll be pleased to know that this particular punching bag is missing all of its vital organs."

Jim shrugged him off, and resumed his assault, "Now who's bein' a smart-ass?"

"Come on, take a break."

Sometimes his brain was like flypaper. Others, it was like ice. Presently, his father's words were met with frosty indifference; a viscous flow, like crude oil, that found no purchase on the sheer slippery slopes of his mind. "That's enough, Jim." Instead, he punched, drumming shallow dents into the same five spots on the bag. Left jabs, double left jabs, right straights, left hooks, right crosses, and uppercuts from the left and right - five times each, over and over again. And with each repetition, he dared himself to go faster until his arms were a blur and his punches thrummed like the beating of hummingbird wings. He felt so-

"I said stop!" When his father siezed him by the arm, Jim was taken by surprise. His father hissed and gripped his shoulder. Lines of pain and annoyance wrote the story of what had just happened onto his face. He started to rotated his arm, and said, "Why can't you do as your told?"

"I'm not tired, dad. Wait, did I hurt you?"

"No, you didn't," his father winced, "But if you don't pace yourself you're going to get hurt. You're using your muscles in new ways and they can only take so much."

"I know that, but punchin' the bag for a minute ain't gonna do me no harm."

"A minute? Try fifteen. That's enough for anybody."

"What?" Jim blurted, his gaze snapped to the clock above the ring, "Wait, what?"

"Stay here. I'm gonna see if Nicky can spare an ice pack. Don't so much as look at that punching bag, you got me?"

As his father retreated to the opposite end of the gym, Jim stared in owlish wonderment at the little round clock on the wall. There was no mistaking it: fifteen minutes had indeed passed since he last bothered to check the time. Yet it felt like hardly no time had passed at all. How was that possible? For someone to whom seconds felt like minutes, and minutes, hours - how was that even possible?

"I've never seen someone get punch-drunk on their first day before," came a voice. Jim looked up - without realising, he'd taken a seat on one of the benches that lined the outskirts of the room - a tall young man towered over him. He wore an obnoxious tracksuit of yellow and blue, and he had a perfectly vertical scar that traced a line from his eye down his left cheek. His sleek golden hair was combed immaculately to one side, as always. He smiled, "How's it goin', cuz?"

"S-Stan?" Jim stood, trading one shock for another, "I almost didn't recognise you."

"Well, I didn't recognise you." When they shook hands, Jim was reminded of his tenth birthday party, where they last saw each other. Back then, it seemed like Stan had hands like baseball mitts. Nothing had changed. "It was my old man who pointed you out. You've grown up, Lewinski."

"Puberty has a way of doing that. Unfortunately, it wasn't as generous to me as it was to you or- hey, where's Eddie?"

Rigid like a meerkat, Jim peered over his cousin's shoulder to search the room for another familiar face. Stan pointed at a loud and excitable crowd beside the ring. "He's in there somewhere. Surrounded by his admirers. Didn't you see the fight just now?"

If Jim looked puzzled before, he was utterly dumbfounded now, "There was a fight?"

"And I heard you were the brains of the family!" Stan gave a belch of laughter that sounded uncannily like Uncle Nicky. He had certainly inherited his father's good nature; that, and of course, his infamous hamhands. "Have you traded in those brains for some brawn?"

"Does it look like it?" Jim considered himself in amusement.

"Building muscle takes a little longer than reading a book."

"Well, I am a fast reader," Jim frowned at his flexed and almost non-existent bicep. Something told him that no matter how fast he punched, that thing wouldn't grow any quicker. He sighed, "Patience isn't a virtue. It's a character flaw."

"Then consider me flawed," as if his hands weren't big enough, Stan had equipped himself with a pair of large boxing pads, and gestured for Jim to join him, "You're in luck, Lewinski. While my brother might be the champ, I'm the champ's trainer. Show me what you got and don't hold back. From what I hear, puberty wasn't so cruel to you after all."

"Your age is showing."

Nicky handed Joe an ice pack. So fresh was the throbbing pain that, when he applied it to his shoulder, he was surprised not to hear a hiss. He sank into the threadbare antique behind Nicky's desk, exhuming the ghosts of a thousand smoked cigars. He winced at the slightest turn of the head. "Jim's faster than I remember."

"Or you're just getting slower." Done with his freezer, Nicky basked in the piss-yellow glare of his mini fridge - the same fridge from Joe's last visit, ten years ago - where he once chilled cases of Sam Adams, there were instead bananas, blueberries, a carton of apple juice and some yoghurt. Over his armful of unearthed treasures, Nicky offered Joe a sympathetic glance, "It happens to us all."

"Not so slow that I can't hit a moving target. If it's large enough." Behind him there was an indignant huff that made him smile. Joe turned slowly, the leather squeaked, yielding to his back like an old friend, but the ancient swivel mechanism remained blissfully silent. In his absence, the chair had seen a lot of love, and that was a promising thought. It had been a gift from his father after Nicky coached him to his first title victory. Twenty-five years had passed since then and the only thing different about the cramped and cluttered office was the blender into which Nicky was lovingly chopping a banana. "Whatever happened to that lean kid?"

Distracted from his chopping, Nicky regarded the framed picture on the wall. Though the picture was grainy and the colours fading, the bronze young men that stared back at him had lost none of their fierce vitality. They posed, fists raised, with Joe Frazier outside Madison Square Garden. Nicky sighed, kneading his belly like dough, "I know. It's tragic. But at least I still have a warm head in the winter."

Nicky, who boasted a crown of the blackest schoolboy curls, gave a gelatinous chuckle. Coupled with his ubiquitous soup-strainer, he'd always made a striking impression, which they inelegantly summarised when introducing him to the ladies as Michael Jackson's pornographic stunt double. The blender went off like some kind of power tool, making conversation impossible. When Joe turned around again, he found Nicky watching him, waiting. When there was silence again, Joe said, "I have a small favour to ask of you."

"I was wondering when we would be done with the foreplay. My answer is 'No.'"

"Macy's dead."

As he poured the creamy purple contents of the blender into a glass, Nicky froze for a telling instant. Lines of concentration illustrated his thoughts as plain as the markings on a map. Still, he shrugged, "This is of no consequence to me."

"And here I thought the news would come as a relief," Joe leaned back in his father's chair and studied his old friend as he said: "Last I heard, she paid you a visit, and it wasn't for a coffee and a Danish."

Nicky helped himself to a long gulp of his smoothie, and then another. By the time he resurfaced, he was glistening like a tomato ripe for the picking. "She was... interested in this place. I told her that I didn't need a business partner and that was the end of it."

"Even you don't believe that."

"Well, maybe she was going to come back, but what does it matter now? The bitch is dead!" From red-faced to plum, Nicky found his backbone, "I have no interest in the petty politics of thugs."

Joe allowed him that, pleased to see that not all of Nikolai Patrowicz had gone soft, but the prolonged silence that followed spoke volumes. Nicky lowered himself into the smaller seat opposite him and found comfort in his half empty glass. When Joe did at last speak, his voice was measured and as calm as an undisturbed lake.

"There is another man who doesn't care much for politics. His name is Tyler Knox - he's violent, unpredictable, cruel - a real thug. Once, when he was having trouble collecting protection money from a local shopkeeper, he was instructed to teach him a lesson. That night, the shop burned down while the shopkeeper, his wife, and his two little boys were asleep upstairs. Of course, there was no proof that he did it, so Macy had to let him off the hook. That's right: Tyler Knox was Macy's personal attack dog, but since she's no longer around to hold his leash, he's free to do whatever he wants, and, like I said, he ain't exactly the talking kind."

"Cut to the chase, Joe. What is it you want?"

"First, I want one of those delicious smoothies you have neglected to offer me." When his words sunk in, Nicky rose with a roll of his eyes, and went to the fridge. Though he played the part well, with his scowling and his eye rolling, Joe detected the sad wilt of defeat in his voice. And now, as he prepared his smoothie, it clung to him like a second stink. Finally, he dragged his feet back and slid a tall full glass across the table to him. It was thicker than he had anticipated and the taste of blueberries popped on his tongue. Afterwards, he gave Nicky a nod. "It has a sweet zing to it. Very nice."

"So, about this Tyler guy."

"Since Macy died, there's been no sign of him, but you can bet your ass he's busy. Anyone who could challenge him is either too scared or too weak. He has support, and it's only a matter of time before he decides to pick up where his old boss left off in his own special way."

"Alright, so this maniac is a threat. What can I do?" Nicky demanded, hamhands in full flow.

"Talk to your people. Spread the word. I want you to find out where this scumbag is hiding and then my people will take care of the rest."

"That, I can do. No-one is going to mess with my business."

"And that, cousin, I can guarantee." Joe extended his glass across the table. Nicky reciprocated and there was a soft clink. Both men drained their glasses at once. Outside, there was a sudden uproar. Nicky was on his feet faster than should be possible for a man of his size, he peeked through the blinds and gave a peal of laughter. Joe followed suit, searching for the source of the commotion and, to his surprise, he saw the ring was unoccupied. The gathered crowd was elsewhere, at the far end of the gym, where the entertainment was taking place. "I don't believe it."

There were three of them circling him, barking instructions. He turned and he turned again, launching punches high and low at the six different targets. Each boxing pad gave a satisfying gasp when a blow landed, and after each sequence of strikes, there was a cheer. He was standing in the centre of a ring - a real round ring - surrounded by loud and enthusiastic spectators. There were youthful whoops and cracked crows of delight as men of all ages celebrated in the spectacle; some offered urgent advice, some shouted words of encouragement, while others simply laughed. His instructors, however, wore humourless concrete masks as they swept around him with feline grace. It was from them he drew his focus, which in turn smothered the din of the spectators and allowed him to remain on task.

"One-two!"

"Right-hook-right!"

"Jab-cross!"

When the blows were loosed it came like a jet of steam. The hiss was punctuated with another cheer, and again, his instructors were on the move. They were keeping it simple for his benefit. Once, Marv, a balding man in a vest, stumped Jim when he shouted "Pull!" and aimed a pad for his head. Jim had no idea what that meant, nor did he have any idea what was expected of him when a grizzly veteran kept demanding him to shuffle. And, when he failed to do this, in a fit of despair the old man would cry out, "Where's your rhythm, son!?"

"Jab-jab-cross!"

"Right-hook-cross!"

"Jab-cross-hook!"

Another flurry of fists. Another cheer. Jim turned again with the next volley of commands, but during his transition from Eddie to Marv, he found that his feet were tangled and that the floor was accelerating towards him with alarming speed. His insides clenched and the air was punched out of him. There was a ringing in his ears that little to do with his face-planting. People were laughing, some of them doubled over with faces red and wet. Suddenly the ring didn't seem so inviting anymore. In his gloves, Jim found it a struggle to get to his feet, which prompted only more laughter. His cousin, Eddie, reappeared, having disposed of his boxing pads. He was shorter than his brother, but broader, and an altogether more impressive sight - his bare and rippled torso was still glazed with sweat from his recent fight. He had a boxer's nose and his father's nest of black curls. He was laughing too, even as he offered a hand to help him to his feet.

"Damn, cuz, you gotta get yourself a jump rope. Those are two left feet you got there."

"And my little girl has a stronger left hook than you," Marv was inspecting him in amusement, then he clapped a heavy hand on his back, "But, kid, you got the fastest punch I've ever seen in my life."

The circle closed and suddenly, Jim was being patted and complimented from every side. He froze, waiting to be pantsed or something, but soon the crowd had dispersed and nothing bad had happened to him. His smile was snuffed out, however, at the sight of his father and the look on his face. "Get your things. We're leaving."

The swell of pride in his chest was punctured, and Jim deflated as he watched his father leave the gym. Eddie helped him remove his gloves, babbling endlessly about footwork, and suggesting all sorts of incomprehensible exercises. It didn't matter anymore. Half-heartedly, he thanked him for his help. On his way out, guys were calling out from every corner of the gym, saying good-bye, asking him when he would be back. They were using his name. They all knew his name. That was the hardest thing about leaving.

His father was waiting in the car, and, once Jim had taken his seat, he seemed contented to wait even longer. Jim had never been one to tolerate silences. He caught himself scowling in the wing mirror.

"Look, I'm sorry. Alright?"

"Sorry you got caught or sorry for making an ass of yourself?"

Joe watched Jim simmering silently in his seat, he didn't take the bait. He knew what he'd done the moment he did it: a classic dad question, bursting with pretensions of superiority, and it was met with a wall of teenage indifference. That he said nothing, did nothing, and stared at nothing spoke volumes of Jim's mood. He could sulk all he wanted. The engine woke at his touch and soon Uncle Nicky's was but a speck in the mirror.

"I bet it felt good, showing off like that?"

"I was boxing, dad." Jim droned. It was a sad irony of his condition that, though he was easily bored, he was never wearied by it. His act was fooling no-one. Joe's eyebrows peaked in victory.

"Is that what you call it? Your form was terrible."

"Yeah. It was almost like it was my first day." Jim's reply was swift and far too conversational.

"How about your last, smart-ass?"

That came as much of a surprise to Joe as it plainly had to Jim. It was the first time he had bothered to look at him since getting in the car, and now that he was looking, eyes saucered in shock, Joe felt a cheap rush of victory soured by an aftertaste of shame. It had been a long time since he'd last been able to leave his son speechless, and, now that he'd succeeded, he wasn't sure it was for the right reason. Still, battle lines were drawn, and he was going to stand his ground.

"Care to elaborate on that, pop?" Jim's brazen dare melted in epiphany, "I don't believe this. You're jealous!"

"Don't flatter yourself, Jim."

"Oh, I'm not. It was Marv who said I got the fastest punch he ever saw."

And the biggest head, thought Joe. That the thought came unbidden, and mercifully unspoken, like some playground retort, gave him pause to consider the direction the conversation was headed. Sarcasm was not an uncommon weapon in Jim's heavily-stocked verbal arsenal, but never before had it come with such bite. There was an undercurrent of hostility to Jim's words that Joe did not like at all, and he could feel a prickling heat climbing his neck like a lit fuse. Red lights ahead. He slowed the car to a stop.

"I asked you to take a break while I was gone. It was a simple enough instruction."

Jim hummed his peevish dissent, "It was more of a suggestion, really."

"Look, I'm glad you enjoy boxing, Jim. Amazed, actually. But if I can't trust you to behave yourself-"

"Behave myself?" Joe saw in his eyes the flicker of fire before the explosion, "Is this a mutant thing?"

"So much has changed."

"It is! Are you fuckin' kiddin' me!?" Jim's teeth were bared and, for the first time since he was a baby, Joe recognised his mother in him. Cars started to roll away all around them.

"Grow up, Jim! I'm not gonna have you drawing attention to yourself like some goddam performing monkey."

"And you're gonna stop me, how?" It was the frosty arrogance of an imposter, not his son. Joe's fury played out against a backdrop of angry honking horns.

"By whoopin' your punk ass!" One hand for a damning finger, the other, a vice grip. But, before his fingers could find purchase on his shirt, Jim was outside the car.

"I'd like to see ya try."

The door closed with a dull thud and Jim was gone. Joe gave a futile shout at the departing streak of colour that speared the rush hour traffic and found himself suddenly alone and faced with a cacophony of pissed-off commuters. It was a crawl to the next set of lights, and the next. Faced with a long and tedious journey home, Joe stewed, replaying Jim's words to himself, occasionally thumping the steering wheel and cursing his sore shoulder. But the memory that troubled him most was the look on Jim's face before he left, and the contempt it betrayed when he looked at him.

The door swung open with a shriek and a resounding crash. Jim hopped from the doormat, clawing furiously at his shoe; the scorched sole glistened and smoked. When it came loose, he tossed it towards the shuddering door and went to work on the next one. The second shoe proved more troublesome. Jim first inhaled a mouthful of pungent fumes and then burnt his fingers on the hot rubber, he spluttered and hissed.

"Shuh-shuh-shuh- fuckin' shoes!" The offending footwear went airborne with a kick, "Fuck!"

Upon inspecting his shirt, which had become holier than a piece of Swiss cheese, he gave a long mournful whine. So severe was the gravity of his own frustration that when his face scrunched up it felt like it was going to collapse in on itself. Instead, he went supernova, and started tearing at his shirt until he had contorted himself free. Intent on causing his ruined top as much pain as possible, he started to twist it and coil it into a compact tangled mess, imagining instead of cotton it was necks he was wringing.

"You useless bah-buh-bah- Fuck you!"

The shirt went the way of the shoes.

The guest house was once a garage, and on the first floor, it showed. The stretch of space was divided into two halves, a sparse living area, boasting little more than the usual sofa-television combo, and a chaotic workshop-cum-laboratory full of packed benches, loaded tool racks, and imposing hardware. It was Jim's home, where he was free to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, without having to worry about disturbing his parents. The bedrooms upstairs served as storage space and nothing more. Drinking in his familiar surroundings, Jim sighed, and started swatting frantically at the air.

"Nnn-n-n- stop now- stupid-stupid-stupid-" His commands, hissed through clamped teeth, went unheard. Instead his arm flailed wildly above his head as if it had become alerted to a swarm of invisible killer bees. He clamped it by the wrist, using his other, non-autonomous, hand. The struggle caused his teeth to chatter and his feet to drill the floor like a couple of jackhammers. It was useless, Jim knew it, and the longer he held on the worse it would get. He cried out, and in a fit of anger, he dragged his arm across the top of a cluttered workbench, sending its contents crashing and clattering to the floor.

"Idon'twannagohorseriding!" he blurted, feebly. His breathing became heavy as he attempted to gain some measure of control over the situation; deep cleansing breaths, and slow soothing exhales. Deep cleaning breath. A sharp piercing whistle. Jim's surprise became fear, clanging like an anvil in the pit of his stomach. There was a succession of whistles, and another, trilling, chirping sharply from one corner of the room to the other as he bolted around in a panic. It sounded like the guest house had been invaded by a family of mockingbirds. Eventually, and with great difficulty, Jim wrestled himself to a stop.

"Come onnn!" he pleaded, wincing at another whistle, "J-just jabjabjabjabjabjabjabjabjabjabjabjab..."

Horrified, Jim ran, planting himself onto the sofa with such force it toppled backwards. Still jabbering, he groped for one of the scattered cushions and buried his face into it in an attempt to suffocate the madness. So loud were his incoherent cries, that it wasn't until he felt a hand upon his shoulder that Jim realised he was no longer alone.

"Jimmy! Jimmy! Jimmy!"

Three times Francine attempted to prize Jim away from the cushion. In her hands, his arms felt hard and as rigid as steel bars, his entire body was locked. The only proof of life was his muffled agonised voice. A fourth and final effort wrenched him free. Jim shrieked in alarm and Francine stumbled backwards under his weight. There was a sickening crunch. Gasping for air, Francine wriggled free from under her son, whose elbow had found a home just beneath her sternum, and managed to climb to her hands and knees.

"Jimmy! My god!" she uttered between gasps, "Are you okay? Do I need to call... my phone!"

Peeled from her back pocket, Francine found her phone cracked and bent into the shape of her ass. She placed it gingerly to one side and resumed her inspection of Jim instead, who seemed to have been silenced by the shock of her appearance. He was doing those useless breathing exercises again. It had been years since she'd last seen him doing that. The look on his face, however, that wide-eyed mania was something new and quite sickening to behold.

"Oh." It came as a squeak, upon spotting the streak of blood, purple against her blue jeans. In a panic, she fumbled at her extremities, only to discover she was unharmed. The palm of Jim's hand glistened a violent red. "Jim, look what you've done."

As she struggled to her feet, a groan slipped out, it sounded feeble and ugly. The gauntlet of toppled objects and shattered glass was negotiated in exaggerated dainty strides. Skipping free of the mess, Francine retrieved the first aid box from the wall above the bunsen burners. Pressing it to her chest, she crept back, grimacing at every shard of glass bigger than a fingernail. Once certain of her safety, she knelt beside Jim and opened up the box.

"No way, ma. The first rule of my lab is 'safety first,' there won't be no need for no first aid kits." It was a poor impersonation by anyone's standards, she supposed, at once too manly and too camp to do Jim any justice at all. She pulled out a tight coil of gauze and a square of absorbent dressing. When Jim glanced over, still huffing away, she gave him a knowing look, "Now, I hate to say 'I told you so,' but... I told you so! And I've been waiting three years to say that. Give me your hand."

It took three antiseptic wipes before his hand was something that even resembled clean, and when it did, the extent of the damage became clear. Francine sucked air through her teeth and promptly applied the dressing. She watched Jim as she bandaged his hand; it shouldn't be possible for someone to look so white, not even her son, who excelled at making the impossible possible. The intensity was still there, in his eyes, but it was different somehow - where it had once flashed like lightning it now blazed like a fire. Occasionally, the rise and fall of his chest was interrupted, and for the briefest instant, his body went rigid, creating lines of tension down his neck. Francine sighed.

"You know, for a moment, I thought you were having a seizure. Do you wanna tell me what's going on?"

Stiff as a board, Jim watched, helpless, as his mother tended his wound. There was a surprising strength in her bony fingers and a softness to her voice that made every word a mockery. Another jolt, like an electric current, passed through his limbs, squeezing out a pitiful moan. His body was a cage, and the madman within rattled his bones like prison bars. Of all people to discover him like that, it had to be her. As he struggled to form a word, he could feel his face becoming coloured by the heat of resentment and shame.

"Y-you... weren't s-supposed... t-t-to see that," he managed, fingernails biting into the palm of his unwounded hand, "What- what are y-you... doing h-here... anyway?"

"Me? What, aren't I allowed to check in on my own son now?" His mother's surprise wilted into amusement. She was stalling. It was infuriating that she thought she could fool him. "Alice Carter's mother - you know, the one who organises all the charity events - she's collecting toys to donate to a local orphanage this Christmas. I was just... you know, checking out some of your old stuff."

"You've been g-g-going through... my things?" In his outrage, Jim attempted to sit up, only to be foiled by another spasm. "Don't-touch-my-Meccano!"

"Please. I don't think even orphans are that desperate." She gave him a knowing look, followed by her closest approximation of a no-nonsense voice that had last worked on him when he was about six, "But don't change the subject, Jimmy. What was going on just now, huh?"

"I'm a mutant, ma. These things happen."

"Not like this. Never like this." His mother shook her head. There was fear in her eyes when she looked at him, as if he had several pounds of explosive strapped to his chest. She swept an incredulous glance around the ruined room, and when she spoke again, her curtains of curls became animated with hysteria. "It's your condition, isn't it? It's gotten worse. I knew this would happen!"

"My-my-my-my condition? I'm not sick, ma! Ow! Jeez!"

"You call this healthy?" It was only when she squeezed his hand, sending a throbbing pain down his arm, that he realised she was still holding it, long after his wound had been treated. "This is not healthy, Jimmy. You need help. I mean... I thought you had all this under control."

"I do have it under control. Most of the time. That was only my second relapse since I've been home. Ow!" He snatched his hand away, and forced himself upright. There was something about his mother's disapproval that always managed to chase away his jitters. It was one of the few benefits of having her around. "The other one wasn't half as bad as this."

"It's getting worse?" His mother's hands plugged the gaping hole in her face. "Why?"

"Because holdin' it all in is hard, ma. Really hard. And, if I don't let it out sometime, I feel like I'm gonna explode."

"But... why?"

That word again. Unable to bear the sight of his mother's trouty incomprehension a moment longer, Jim closed his eyes and turned his head. When he spoke again, his voice was low, and his words cracked with fatigue. It made sense, he supposed, when the rest of him seemed to be breaking too.

"I don't have purple skin, but when I speak, the mutation is the first thing people notice. Even if they don't realise it's a mutation. The funny little science geek who never shuts up. How cute." His head rolled on his neck, and he pinned his mother with a challenge in his eyes, "Did you know that the more you speak, the less people are likely to listen? I do. And do you know that shrinking feeling you get when you know you're being humoured by someone you like? That's how I feel every day. I notice every frown and every hidden smirk, I see the droop in people's shoulders, and the way that they look at each other, and roll their eyes, and sigh. I see it in you and dad. There's nothing I don't see, ma. And I'm sick of you looking at me that way just because you're all too damn slow to keep up."

Another barely-contained spasm made him wince. When his muscles relaxed, he sighed, and glared holes into his socks. Anything to avoid eye-contact. He rolled out his words with meticulous care, "So... I speak slowly."

Then his mother said something he thought she'd never say.

"Jimmy." His name sounded like a question, fractured with uncertainty. "Don't ever pretend to be something you're not."

Slowly, Jim surfaced from his brooding. The look he gave her, heavy from years of hoarded contempt, made her blood run cold. How had it come to this? Running away to California had been a petty act of teenage rebellion, a joke that had stopped being funny long ago. Could it be that his time spent slumming it on the west coast had imbued him with this uncharacteristic bitterness or had the trauma of riots and sentinels simply cracked him open, allowing all the vitriol to come oozing out at last? The boy who spoke to her did not look like her son. "How can you, of all people, say that to me?"

"Because it's something I know a lot about. I'm surrounded by people who wear masks every day." Francine was smiling, despite the pit that was opening up inside of her. She stared at her hands, tracing a lumpy vein to her knuckle, repositioning the loose wedding band. "Take it from me: you can only play a part for so long before you become it."

"Ma," Jim said with a rasp of amusement, "Have you been drinkin'?"

"I've been a week dry actually. Thank you for noticing." Embracing the levity, Francine tossed Jim an empty scowl, and this time, she held his gaze, "I mean it, Jimmy. You're a good boy. You have a good heart. Don't change for anyone."

"But- but you've always wanted me to be normal."

The quiet confusion in his voice screamed the depth of her failure. Francine smiled another humourless smile, and locked her fingers, as if she could somehow cling to some evaporated wisp of decency.

"I wanted you to have a normal life. There's a difference. I thought that, if we carried on as if nothing had changed, you could experience the same things as every other person." It sounded like an excuse. The anger made her voice quaver, "And why shouldn't you? Why should this one part of you go on to define who you are?"

"Mom, it doesn't define-"

"You said it yourself, didn't you? The first thing people see is your mutation? I just wanted you to go to school, and make friends, and play sports, and feel normal."

"But I don't wanna be normal, ma!" Jim pleaded, turning himself to face her with surprising fluency of movement, "I want to be more. I want to be freakin'... exceptional!"

"Oh, you are exceptional, Jimmy. You're my son." This time she took his uninjured hand in hers, circling a familiar callous with her thumb. "And I don't want to see you suffer like this anymore. Drop the charade. You're a remarkably intelligent and kind-hearted young man. Be proud of who you are."

Perhaps it had been selfish of her to hope for a hug, no matter how much she longed to reach out and touch someone. What she hadn't expected was to see her son sagging under the weight of some fresh misery. In a bid to chase off the storm clouds, she gave his hand a squeeze.

"Jimmy, what is it?"

"It's Dad."

The moment of doubt that punctuated his words contained an ocean of implications. He watched his mother for a reaction but, to her credit, there was not a frown line in sight. She had an impenetrable poker face, one of her least likeable features, according to Vivian, the sherry-soaked antique his mother had collected ascending the social ladder. But Jim wasn't fooled: things had been rocky between his parents of late, and his mother was about as pleased to hear mention of his father as he was to speak of him. More than anything, it felt something like a betrayal. And, if his mother felt any of these things, she didn't say so. The silence spoke volumes.

"He saw me trainin' with, uh, Eddie and Stan. They asked me not to hold back, so I didn't. People were watchin'. They were cheerin', ma." When he saw his mother's vacant mask wilt in disappointment, a familiar fire rekindled in his belly, and he was suddenly on his feet. "Don't tell me you're gonna take his side in this. I did nothin' wrong!"

"What did your father say?" The diplomatically neutral tone in his mother's voice provided only fuel for the flames. She rose and watched him pace with an eerie disconnect.

"He said he didn't want me to become a performing monkey. So I got pissed and left."

"You ran away, you mean."

"I wasn't running away," Jim snapped, deciding his mother was actively trying to provoke him, "I just ran. Okay?"

"Well, that explains your ruined shoes," with a sad sigh, Francine regarded the battered and blistered pair of running shoes lying in the doorway, "You're the only person I know who goes through more footwear than me. I suppose I should be proud of that."

"Yeah, I'm workin' on that."

Distracted from the discussion, Jim gestured across the room, drawing his mother's attention to an upended last wrapped in expended fragments of footwear. His makeshift shoe, designed to combine maximum support with minimum weight, was missing a sole. Beside the unfinished shoe, there was an open box, from which he fished a thin sliver of moulded rubber.

"Since I couldn't carry out the vulcanization process here, I had a batch custom made on the pretense that it was for dad's company: a new kind of safety shoe for employees. These babies are made from the same compound as the treads on fighter jets. That's why they're so thin. By the time I'm finished, these soles will have more in common with a tire than a shoe: carcass plies, under-tread, tread-reinforcing ply, and Kevlar chords. Meaning the next time I want to clock 300 mph, I won't have to worry about first-degree burns. Heh!"

Lost in his thoughts, Jim traced his finger down one of the rubber grooves and smiled. A single glance at his mother vanquished his enthusiasm. She was watching him, expectant, with her arms folded and her lips pressed into a thin and patient smile. It struck him then just how little of his impromptu presentation she understood, or even cared to understand. The rubber sole was lashed back into its box.

Jim considered his mother and, not for the first time, did he find himself confused. Conflicted, and confused. Until five minutes ago, it had been his mother who had always discouraged any mention of mutation, while his father had always provided the voice of support. Today, his parents displayed a wholly-unexpected role-reversal, while at the same time somehow managing, albeit unintentionally, to form a united front. Lines were drawn, intersecting like a net that was closing around him. His frustration bubbled back to the surface.

"Look, I know you're just waitin' for your turn to speak, so just spit it out."

Not one to back down from a challenge, Francine took a deep breath, arming herself with enough ammunition to fill her son's ego full of holes, but she hesitated. She thought a moment, keeping the tip of her tongue poised like a lash against the roof of her mouth, ready to crack at the slightest provocation. It seemed Jim was done. Maybe because he knew better.

How different he seemed to the boy who ran away. He had grown, stretching the skin over his bones like cellophane; his new height he carried with a sort of petulant shrug. From beneath the rim of his god-awful beanie slithered a scraggly mess of hair - a dragon in need of slaying, if ever there was one. Where once there had been a squeaky-clean optimist stood a petulant cynic. It wasn't the first time Francine wondered about the kind of company he'd kept in California: probably a bunch of outspoken hippies, if the reports were anything to go by, who went to demonstrations and didn't wash their hair. Suddenly, the thought of peeling off that beanie was met with a thrill of horror that put her back on task.

"There was... a rally. Do you remember?" The flicker of surprise was all the answer she required, "When your father heard what happened, he started to call your... Anna, was it? He called every Thursday night to check up on you."

The surprise became confusion. Jim was elsewhere, shocked, presumably, that something had evaded his all-seeing eye. After a moment, he muttered, "I delivered pizzas Thursday nights."

"He knew. You needed space. He figured it was important to you."

Betrayed by the slightest wisp of a grin, Jim said, "I guess puttin' an entire continent between us gave him that impression."

"Later, when things started to get really bad, he had his floozy keep tabs on you." Mindful of the signals she was broadcasting, Francine eased herself onto the untoppled sofa with feline grace, and leaned on her elbow. She gave a chuckle that concealed a knife's edge, "That one has a way of knowing things."

"Yeah, Aimee said she knew all about us," Jim sounded far too intrigued for her liking. Suddenly, her hand was missing a glass. Her son righted the other sofa and sprawled himself across it, topless and bare-footed like some kind of hobo, "I've no idea how she does it."

"Well, here's something else you don't know," she said, spitting ice shards, "The morning the news broke about those riots, your father took the first flight out to Los Angeles. But when he got there-"

"We had already left," Jim sounded eerily subdued. It had not escaped Francine's attention that he had elected to stick to his brand of forced normality. That was Joe's stubborn pride he had inherited. In the beginning, every single tic had been a nail in the coffin of a promising career in business, that had always been the plan for their son. As it turned out, Jim had other plans. In the lonely silences between words, she found herself missing his little outbursts and whistles and clicks. Evermore, she knew she would spend her time watching him, waiting for the next explosive relapse.

"It wasn't until he spoke to Anna that we even knew you were alive. I tell ya, Jimmy, that changed him. And, despite our differences, I can't fault him for wanting to look out for his son."

In the telling silence, Francine watched Jim, a knot of guilt twisting in her stomach. What he didn't know couldn't hurt him, the old refrain, uttered countless times behind closed doors - if only it were true. His reverie was broken with a frown, "If you thought there was a chance I was dead, why didn't you fly out with Dad?"

"Oh, sweetie," she said, sadly, "I was on a spiritual retreat in Haines Falls, and you know how those Buddhists hate cell phones."