Boxing Muldoon

Tommy Muldoon swung his fist in a thunderous hook that used almost every remaining ounce of his energy. The punching-bag made its usual dull thud of disinterest and swung backwards violently. As it sailed towards Tommy on the backswing, he aimed his left glove at it in a sharp uppercut, but his timing was off. The bag caught him on the shoulder, making him take a step back. He caught his balance, just, but a sharp chorus of laughter from the other end of the gymnasium from some of the fellers indicated that he had been seen.

Just swell, Tommy thought. Now I’m not just the “rookie” – I’m also the boob who gets sixed by a sack of sand.

He took a moment. His chest was heaving and he was near blind with sweat. He wiped the moisture as best he could from his brow with the back of his boxing glove. Part of him wanted to throw in the towel now, go home, rest before work tomorrow. But another part of him – the deeper, tougher instinct that seemed to kick in whenever things started to go south – was telling him to keep going. His arms were aching like hell and he could taste blood in his mouth where he had been clenching his teeth too hard, but he knew that other part of him was right: when you feel like giving up, just give it one more try.

He steadied the punching-bag and took the stance ready to go again, but then a voice called across the gymnasium.

“Mister Muldoon? Thomas Muldoon?”

His first reaction, as he turned, was to say “That’s Officer Muldoon,” but he stopped himself just in time – no need to be a joe palooka, especially when off-duty – and simply said: “yeah?”

The voice was a woman’s. She was a smart-dressed gal, in a long blue coat and with her hair tied up under a weather-beaten red cap. A letter-carrier, Tommy realized. She looked a bit soaked - it must be raining outside. She was standing just inside the entrance, a mailbag round her shoulder and a light-brown envelope in one hand.

She looked at him, slightly curiously, Tommy thought. He suddenly felt self-conscious, wearing just a singlet and boxing shorts, and cumbersome in his big heavy gloves. Especially in front of a lady.

The letter-carrier seemed to register his awkwardness, and with a little cough she stepped forward and lifted the letter towards him. “I’ve got a delivery for you, Mister Muldoon.”

Tommy stepped away from the training area towards her, gesturing towards a bench nearby. “Sorry ma’am,” he said with a grin, holding up his gloves, “I’m not very dextrous right now, you might say.”

She flashed a quick, slightly nervous smile, and placed the envelope delicately on the bench next to the wall, then took two steps away.

“Any idea who it’s from?” Tommy asked.

“No sir. It came postage-paid, but no return address. In fact I’m glad I found you at last.” She bit her lip. “I had to check two other boxing houses before I finally found the right one.”

“Lots of Muldoons in Arkham, I guess,” Tommy said lightly. “I gotta say, I admire your determination, Miss...?”

“’Nor rain nor snow nor gloom of night’, right?” the letter-carrier replied. “And it’s Clark. Miss Clark.”

Tommy was about to thank her, when he became aware of movement the other side of the boxing ring. Miss Clark was aware of it too. He could see the sudden tensing of her shoulders, the narrowing of her eyes, the immediate stillness in her bearing.

A few of the fellers were strutting towards them. They didn’t look friendly. Tommy was not particularly surprised – women were not usually welcomed in this building, especially not while the men were training. But Miss Clark also had dark skin, and he knew these goons would not let that slide.

Tommy’s fists tensed inside his gloves. ‘Irish welcome’ sign or not, maybe it’s time I find another place to train, he thought grimly.

The leader of the goons was another cop. MacPherson. From the next precinct over. Tommy had heard he’d been turfed out of the boxing joint near his own precinct for breaking a kid’s jaw in a brawl. He was pale, clammy, flat-faced and broken-nosed, and he stared daggers at Tommy. Not least, Tommy surmised, because I gave him that nose.

“Hey lady,” MacPherson said, his voice thick and cruel, “you ain’t welcome here. Get.” He pointed a finger to the exit, his eyes fixed now on Miss Clark. The other two guys flanking him made supportive noises, and one of them flashed a vulgar gesture.

Disgusted, Tommy held up a glove in what he hoped was a conciliatory motion. “Now fellers, she’s just delivering a letter. Doing her job. Let’s calm down now.”

MacPherson sneered. “Take a seat, rookie,” he said. “this don’t concern you.”

A heat was beginning to rise in Tommy’s chest. “Well I guess it does concern me,” he found himself saying, “given that Miss Clark was delivering the letter to me and all. So I guess she’s here as my guest.”

MacPherson chuckled darkly. “Guest? I don’t think so, rookie. Not this one.” He punched his fist into his palm, a sudden, violent gesture which startled both Miss Clark and Tommy. MacPherson and the goons laughed. “You pigeons scare easy, huh?” MacPherson went on, advancing slowly, step by step. “Maybe the bim and the egg deserve a scaring tonight.”

The letter-carrier held her ground, however. “You’re a police officer, I think?” she said. “A cop taking a beating to a mailworker isn’t going to make great headlines.”

“No reporter gonna hear about this,” the brute replied. “You think they’d even put a copper in the cooler? I’m untouchable, lady."

Tommy stepped forward, his gloves coming up. “Back off, MacPherson,” he said, trying to make his voice sound as tough as possible, but he was suddenly aware of how young he sounded. Then he saw the letter-carrier give him a glance that told him I can handle this, you know. He hesitated.

MacPherson spat on the floor. “Guess we’re gonna have a fun time tonight, boys,” he said. “So come and—“

Then he stopped, and his gaze snapped to something behind Tommy. The other two fellers similarly stopped in their tracks, their jaws going limp. Miss Clark gave a sharp intake of breath.

Tommy turned. Holy Mary, Mother of God, he thought numbly, the rosary that was illicitly tucked into his left glove suddenly feeling cold against his wrist.

There was a shadow against the wall, but it was not an ordinary shadow. It rose up tall, engulfing the lights and obscuring the posters and the old photos that hung there. The dark shadow had no shape, but it was moving, growing. Then Tommy saw what the epicentre of that shadow was.

The letter. The envelope Miss Clark had delivered and placed on the bench was ¬– no, that was impossible – trembling and quivering, as if the paper was somehow alive, and the darkness seemed to be flooding out of it. It was crawling around the edges of the walls, starting to encircle the room, and still growing, spreading.

Part of Tommy told him: run. Survive. But that other part told him: stay. Raise your guard. Fight.

He felt someone press against him, and he realized that Miss Clark was standing back to back with him. She was muttering some obscenities under her breath, her eyes fixed away from the letter and on the three goons.

From the corner of his eye, Tommy saw that MacPherson and the others looked different. The shadows were coiling around them, and even as they started to struggle and shriek in horror, their bodies went tense and their eyes darkened, then they went completely black. As one, they stopped like statues – and then began walking towards Mister Muldoon and Miss Clark, dreadful rasping sounds coming from their throats. The shadow has taken them, Tommy realized; it’s controlling them.

“Got a plan, Miss Clark?” Tommy said.

“Call me Stella,” she replied. He realized she had a gun in her hand, a Derringer that she was pointing at MacPherson. “And no, no plan. Just survive.”

She pulled the trigger. As the shot echoed around the room, Tommy saw the hideous shadow surge towards him, and he reckoned he saw a giant maw open like a void in its centre, and he almost imagined a voice that whispered: Máel Dúin.

He swung his fist. Yep, he thought; it’s definitely time to find somewhere else to train.