“Where did you get it?” Walker asked. “Who is this source of yours?”
“A man I once knew,” Kojiro said. “He had a penchant for this kind of thing. He was a private collector of ancient weapons and military bits and pieces. He also had an extensive collection of high-quality replicas. It was his passion – his obsession. But after Piccadilly he had no need for such things. We did.”
“He’s dead?” Walker asked.
Kojiro hesitated.
“He is.”
Kojiro pointed to the axe in Walker’s hand.
“My supplier also has a small collection of battle axes too,” he said. “I can get you something better than that. Something that doesn’t look like it’s about to fall apart.”
“Who was he?” Walker asked. “This dead supplier.”
“That’s a secret,” Kojiro said. “You don’t need to know that.”
Walker nodded, realising that he was pushing too hard.
“Why the short sword anyway?” he said. “Ever since I got here I’ve heard you talk about how the Sleeping Giants are going to be a big deal in London. Why not get some bigger swords from this supplier of yours? You’ll look a hell of a lot scarier if you do.”
Kojiro laughed.
“It’s not how big it is,” he said. “Didn’t the ladies ever tell you that?”
Walker joined in with the laughter.
“Daggers are too short,” Kojiro said, raising the short sword closer to his face so that the iron was almost touching his skin. “Longswords may look good and yes, in some offensive and defensive situations they make a lot of sense. But I have more reach than I would with a dagger and perhaps most importantly of all – this is lighter than a longsword. I can use one hand for the sword and one hand for anything else that might crush my opponent. Perhaps if we were walking onto a medieval battlefield then I’d want a long sword or a spear in my hand. But in our urban jungle – the short sword suits me just fine. Make sense?”
Walker nodded. “Got it.”
“Anyway it’s not about the sword or the axe in your hand,” Kojiro said. “Your mind is what will save you in the heat of battle. The way I see it, the short sword is merely an extension of my mind and I can do everything with my mind therefore I can do everything with the sword. Be creative Walker; don’t limit yourself to the weapon in your hand. And never do what your opponent expects you to do.”
Walker smiled. Kojiro’s philosophical ramblings had baffled him at first. But as he’d gotten to know the man better by training with him in the mornings, he realised there was a lot of sense in those words.
Kojiro was teaching Walker how to stay alive.
“Aye,” Walker said, looking at the axe in his hand. The axe was dull and the blade stained with dark blood. He no longer knew whose blood it was. Since arriving in the Hole that summer, he’d had several violent encounters while searching for clues as to the whereabouts of Hatchet. He owed his life to that tired old axe.
“I can see it in your eyes,” Kojiro said. “You understand the importance of being a good killer in this city.”
Kojiro glanced back towards the school.
“If only everyone else in this gang was as committed to perfecting the art of murder as we were,” he said. “Perhaps we would command more respect. If only everyone else was as interested in doing the work required in order to climb this bloody meritocracy that we’ve created for ourselves. Maybe we could take the ‘Sleeping’ out of our name.”
Walker looked at Kojiro. “You need more people to do that, right?”
Kojiro turned back to Walker.
“Much more,” he said. “And not just anyone – we need the right type of people. Those who can both fight and think. That’s a rare combination.”
Kojiro smiled sadly.
“Are you ready Walker?”
Walker tightened his grip on the wooden handle, his knuckles turning into sharp daggers.
“Aye. I’m ready,” he said. “Ready to kick your arse.”
Kojiro raised his sword with both hands and lunged at Walker. He brought the edge of the blade crashing against the bloodstained head of Walker’s axe.
There was a sharp clattering sound of metal on metal. Walker stepped backwards to open up space between them, almost losing his footing on the icy ground. He nearly went down but somehow he managed to remain upright. He came forwards, trying to close the distance on Kojiro but once again the ice at his feet tipped him off balance.
Kojiro took a backwards step.
“Don’t be too eager to attack,” he said, pointing the sword at Walker’s feet. “Especially in icy conditions. Take your time and let your opponent do the running – wait for your opportunity. Patiently.”
Walker nodded and tried to secure his grip on the deadly surface. If this had been a real fight, he would have been dead already. But Kojiro was in no rush to finish him off – he just stood there, a little out of range, watching and waiting for Walker to come to him. There was a smile on his face; it was a friendly invitation to flirt with death.
Walker edged his way forwards. He desperately wanted to get the better of Kojiro in at least one exchange. In all their sparring sessions since he’d taken up with the Sleeping Giants, he hadn’t come close to besting Kojiro. And although he was getting better as a fighter, there were improvements to be made.
Lots of them.
Walker focused on the gleaming sword in Kojiro’s hand. It was an impenetrable, sharp-edged fortress wrapped around its master’s person. There seemed no way through it. He came forward while Kojiro retreated; it looked like the space between them would never narrow.
The sword, the sword, the sword.
Kojiro crouched down and pushed himself across the slippery ground. He came in like a footballer going in for a sliding tackle. Walker felt the other man crashing into him at a tremendous speed. Kojiro wrapped his legs around Walker’s in a deliberate leg-lock. Walker looked on helplessly; it was like watching two anacondas burrowing deep into his limbs. Kojiro then twisted and turned like a wild animal in a feeding frenzy, forcing his opponent off balance. Walker lost his footing and this time, he crashed down onto the concrete in silence. The axe went flying out of his hands, making a crashing noise as it landed somewhere behind the falling man.
There was no pain. The adrenaline cushioned Walker’s fall but the humiliation of yet another quick defeat annoyed him. When he looked up, Kojiro was standing over him, the sharp end of the short sword pressed up against Walker’s neck.
Walker was breathing hard. Kojiro didn’t even look like he’d finished warming up yet.
There was a grin on the victor’s face. He gave Walker a brief nod and then reached a hand down, pulling the defeated man back to his feet. Walker took the outstretched hand and staggered a little before regaining his footing on the slippery surface.
“I know,” Walker said. “I know exactly what you’re going to say. I was too busy focusing on the sword and not the man. You were creative and I was predictable. I know.”
Kojiro smiled. “That’s how we learn Walker,” he said. “We fall down and get up again. There’s hope for you yet my friend – you’re improving every time we spar. You might not have noticed it yet but I have.”
Walker nodded. “I hope you’re right,” he said. “Otherwise I’m getting my arse kicked for nothing.”
“Good morning boys!” a woman’s voice called out from behind.
Walker and Kojiro turned around at the same time. As they did so, Kojiro slid the xiphos back into the decorated scabbard that hung from a belt on his waist. Walker’s axe was still lying somewhere at his back.
“Comparing penis sizes again are we?” the woman said, walking towards them at a leisurely pace. “A little cold for that sort of thing, huh?”
“Good morning Pearl,” Kojiro said.
Pearl was one of two women in the Sleeping Giants. She was an American, in her mid-thirties, about 5’8, and with a lean, athletic build. Her dark blonde hair was b
raided tightly to her skull and Walker had noticed that there was always a fierce, vigilant look in her blue eyes – the look of someone who had seen and survived terrible things, and who was expecting their imminent return.
She walked towards them, sleek and graceful like a jaguar. Her long black coat swayed gently behind her.
“Is that why you came out here?” Kojiro said. “To watch a penis-measuring competition? That’s more likely than the prospect of you joining us for a little sparring practice. Right?”
“Some of us understand the importance of practicing every day,” Pearl said, running a hand over her braided hair. “That’s you. And some of us understand the need for beauty sleep. That’s me. You gotta be a bad motherfucker to survive in this shithole, that’s true. Doesn’t mean you have to be ugly. Right Walker?”
Walker shrugged.
“What are you trying to do anyway?” Pearl said to Kojiro. “You trying to turn the new boy into an urban samurai, like you?”
“I’m not teaching him anything,” Kojiro said. “Walker is learning all by himself.”
“Oh you’re so fucking deep Kojiro,” Pearl said. “Isn’t he so fucking deep Walker? I can’t stand it. Okay you guys, put your dicks away. I’m here to tell you that people are up and moving about inside. We’re going to be having something to eat soon and I thought you’d want to get in on breakfast. Right?”
She turned to Walker.
“You especially new boy,” she said. “It’s a big day for you today. It’s sure as hell not the sort of day you want to go skipping breakfast.”
Chapter 2
Walker and Kojiro followed Pearl back inside the school.
They walked down the dark corridor in silence, towards the room where the Sleeping Giants had gathered for breakfast.
It wasn’t much warmer inside the school than it was outside in the playground. As he walked behind the others, Walker could see his breath in front of him, a cloud of vapour that trailed behind him like a shadow.
He pulled his collar up to fight off the cold that lingered at his neck.
As he followed the others, his eyes caught a glimpse of the reminders on the wall – school bulletin boards with sheets of paper still attached. Walker had read most of them already, despite the words having faded slowly into the page. They were nothing special and yet they were. It was the usual things: school activities, competitions, safety guidelines, and the occasional floor plan.
Mostly however, the walls were bare.
The rest of the Sleeping Giants were located in an old classroom at the back of the school. The gang called this the ‘Living Room’ because that’s where they hung out most of the time. It was one of the smaller classrooms in the building, now devoid of all tables and chairs and anything else that might have once been there. A sea of blankets were scattered across the hard wooden floor, upon which the Sleeping Giants would sit, usually in a loose circle shape known informally as ‘the circle of Giants’.
As Walker, Kojiro and Pearl walked into the Living Room, the other five Giants were in the middle of eating breakfast. They were all dressed in the same black Gothic coats, wrapped up tight to ward off the cold.
Nobody looked up as the trio entered the room. The Giants were too busy eating, but not only that – they were staring down at the sleek mobile phones in their hands, their eyes glued to the bright screens.
The phones were indeed a novelty. They’d been included in a recent Parcel Drop and one that Walker assumed had gone out all over the city from Bedlam to the Hole. The Sleeping Giants, and no doubt the other inhabitants of London, had been surprised by the delivery of the phones, along with the regular supplies of food, toiletries, candles and other necessities.
Mobile phones? What use were they to anyone now?
Instructions had been provided in the Drop. The phones were there to open up contact between the people on either side of the M25. According to the instructions, here was a device that people trapped inside the M25 could use to connect with their loved ones on the outside. If they wished to do so. The instructions informed the Londoners that they could use these phones to send photos, video messages or texts to a specific number that had been provided along with the phone. These messages would then be sent to some sort of online public communications board for friends and family on the outside to access.
But that wasn’t the best thing about the phones, at least for some people.
Much to the delight of the Sleeping Giants, the phones came with a variety of in-built video games that were according to the instructions, ‘designed for your entertainment and pleasure’. The games were pre-installed, ready to go and updates to more advanced versions could be downloaded whenever the player required them.
The games were a bigger hit with the Sleeping Giants than the prospect of making contact with the outside. It was probably the same for a lot of people in the city. At last, here was something to fight off the boredom.
Walker wasn’t interested in either the games or contacting anyone on the outside. He already had something to occupy his mind. He’d thought about sending a message to his parents at first, a text or something. But he was still convinced that his mum and dad had stayed inside London after the events of Piccadilly in 2011. They wouldn’t have abandoned him but God…he hoped they weren’t still trapped in this shithole. If they were, it didn’t bear thinking about. But it meant there was no one else on the outside he wanted to communicate with.
Walker stood amongst the circle of Giants. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a cracked mirror on the other side of the room. More and more these days it felt like he was looking at a stranger. His cheeks were bright red from the cold. His hair, which had grown out a few inches, had become much darker in the past few months. Its strange blackness was disturbing, considering how he’d been tawny on his mother’s side for so long, ever since childhood in fact. This change felt unnatural, but there it was.
What age was he now? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? The man in the mirror looked older. Maybe it was just the beard, but his skin was pale and it was rugged beyond his years. It was within the eyes however, where he’d aged most of all. There was something unfamiliar about those black eyes staring out of the broken glass. They were hard eyes, as unforgiving as a sharp dagger to the throat.
He turned away quickly.
“Good morning warriors,” Achilles said, looking up from his phone at last. “My, my, look at those rosy red cheeks. Extra cold outside this morning is it?”
Achilles – whose real name was Nigel – was the leader of the Sleeping Giants. He was about thirty years old, the same age as Kojiro. Walker had managed to get a few snippets of information from Kojiro about his relationship with Achilles. The two men had been best friends since childhood and according to Kojiro, they’d grown up together, eventually working in the banking sector – investment banking or something like that. Kojiro and Achilles had been together at Piccadilly in September 2011 and they’d managed to stay together in the aftermath, surviving on their wits and whatever else they could summon to their aid. Eventually they’d formed their own gang. Kojiro told Walker that there had been a lot of ambition in both men at first. A desire had existed to build their little gang into something big, into something that would rival the Ghosts of London in terms of prestige and power across the city. Kojiro didn’t say much more, but Walker saw that it was obvious that his sparring partner had retained this original ambition while Achilles had become content to coast along and survive.
Achilles was of average height with a scruffy mop of black hair and a short, matching beard with a few specks of grey at the chin. He was sitting in his usual position in the circle, underneath the window of the Living Room. A small potbelly poked out of a gap in his dark coat as he looked up at the newcomers.
“It’s winter,” Kojiro said to Achilles. “Of course it’s cold. Why not find out for yourself one morning? Get up and sharpen your skills before you find yourself standing in front of someone who’s better th
an you.”
“My skills depend on me being fully rested,” Achilles said, his eyes roaming across the plate of food on his lap. “A man needs his fucking sleep Kojiro.”
Achilles reached for his phone and held it aloft. “And for your information my friend,” he said. “I’m composing a text for my dear old Mum. I’m going to send it beyond the walls and back to civilisation.”
Kojiro didn’t blink.
“Your mum?” he said. “The same mum who’s been dead for the last fifteen years?”
Achilles grinned. Walker noticed several pieces of fruit stuck in between the man’s large and slightly yellowing teeth.
“That’s the one,” Achilles said. “But nobody out there knows that, do they? They get to read my beautiful words, my well-crafted, slightly delayed tribute to my dear old mum. They should be honoured.”
Walker stepped through the circle, taking a seat in between two other gang members – Nadia and the man known simply as ‘the Ostrich’.
“Want some fruit Walker?” Nadia said, handing him a plastic bowl with a combination of brightly coloured fruits inside. “There’s an extra ration of grapes this week. Black grapes. Not my favourite, so help yourself.”
Walker smiled in gratitude and took the bowl.
Nadia was a former chef of Nigerian descent. She’d been working in Central London when Piccadilly happened and had been trapped by the crowds that day, preventing her from making an escape bid. She was a tall woman, in her mid-forties, quiet and soft-spoken. Walker recognised a steely confidence lurking behind the shy veneer, as well as a sharp mind.
Walker took a few grapes from the bowl, as well as a banana with black spots eating into the yellow flesh. He dropped them onto his plate and then offered the fruit bowl to the Ostrich, who was sitting to his left.
The Ostrich took the bowl, mumbling something that might have been a thank you. At twenty-six, he was roughly the same age as Walker. They called him the Ostrich because for most of the time while sitting in the circle, he kept his down and it wasn’t unlike a lanky bird with its head buried in the sand. He rarely spoke either, which was why Walker often sat next to him in the mornings. The Ostrich was badly short-sighted but didn’t wear glasses. Whenever he did lift his head up and look at someone, he would squint at them with suspicious eyes.
The Future of London Box Set Page 55
