Highlander

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  She nodded furiously, ‘Right.’

  He held up his glass. ‘Do you mind if I have another drink?’

  ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He poured himself another brandy while Brenda began to serve the meal. Well, he’d fallen for that line very easily. Maybe it wasn’t going to be such a difficult job after all? If she could lay her hands on that sword, her father would be ecstatic. She wondered what the weapon meant to Nash, if he had it. If he did have it, she reminded herself, he was the one who killed Fasil in the Garden garage. That would make him a murderer unless - unless he had just been defending himself, as he had done the night they encountered that giant with the broadsword. She preferred to believe that version. Perhaps he had been on his way back to his shop, with the sword, when another guy with a Toledo-Salamanca just happened to be passing by and decided to mug... hell, she wanted to think he was a straight guy, but the alternatives just didn’t add up.

  They ate the first course and she opened a bottle of wine to have with the second.

  ‘Do you mind if I stick with the brandy?’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she said. ‘How about a toast - to the Samurai sword...’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a peculiar toast. I’d rather drink to this brandy,’ he sniffed the glass. ‘Bottled in 1783.’

  ‘Old,’ she said.

  He replied quietly, ‘1783 was a very good year. Mozart wrote his Great Mass. The Montgolfier brothers went up in their first balloon and England recognized the independence of the United States.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. And now. . .’

  He pulled a package out of his raincoat pocket and placed it on the table.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘Can I open it?’

  ‘That’s the general idea.’

  She could feel it was a book and she wondered what on earth he had thought of bringing her. Something on swords perhaps? He did not know enough about her to think of anything else. She tore away the wrapping. She was right. It was a book about swords. Her own book.

  ‘You bastard,’ she said, dismayed. ‘Where did you find this?’

  ‘I work in the business - you seem to forget. It wasn’t difficult. ‘

  He stood up and walked to the window, pushing aside the blind and looking down at the street.

  ‘The odd thing is, your bio doesn’t seem to mention that you work at the museum. It says you work for the police - in forensics. Are you and Moran trying to set me up?’

  ‘I don’t work for Moran. Not directly...’ She began to edge casually towards the bureau. Her stomach was like a lump of lead.

  ‘Then why,’ said Nash, ‘is that bald policeman sitting outside, watching your apartment?’

  She tilted her head back, putting on her ‘I-don’t-know-what-the-hell-you’re-talking-about’ look. Nash looked back at her and smiled.

  ‘Oh, come on. You remember him.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with Moran. I asked Bedsoe to watch my place tonight, while you were here. Frankly, Mr Nash, or Mr MacLeod, whatever your name is - I don’t trust you. Why should I? I know nothing about you.’ She paused as he walked away from the window and back to the table. The bureau was within reach now. She said, ‘What are you going to do?’

  He smiled. ‘The question is, what are you going to do? Are you going to turn off the tape, or are you going to shoot me with the .38?’ She stared at him. ‘Oh, shit.’ He must have looked in the drawers and the cigar box while she was in the kitchen, fixing supper. She felt unjustified in her accusation, but she made it anyway.

  ‘You’ve been snooping in my cupboards.’

  He held up a hand. ‘Guilty. But I did not rifle through your underwear. I’m not into that - not yet anyway,’ he grinned.

  She punched the arm of her chair in frustration.

  ‘Why are you so goddamn nice? If you’re a killer - ‘ She looked up quickly, to see his reaction. ‘I’m not looking for a killer,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a sword.’

  ‘Which sword?’

  ‘The one used on Fasil. I found pieces of it in the garage under the Garden. I only want to see the Samurai.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s not supposed to exist. It’s one of those myths of the antique world.’ She could not keep the passion out of her voice. ‘I dated those pieces of blade at 600 B.C. The metal had been folded 200 times.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘So, the Japanese did not start making swords like that until the Middle Ages. So where the hell did it come from? If I could verify the existence of such a weapon - it would be like - discovering a 747 a thousand years before the Wright brothers ever flew.’

  ‘This is crazy.’ Nash got to his feet, grabbed his coat and began to walk towards the door. She suddenly felt intensely irritated with him. Hell, he had invited himself to dinner and they had only just started the second course. There was apricot pie to go yet.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘I want some answers.’

  He stared at her, so coldly that it frightened her. ‘You want - don’t you ever think about anything but what you want? Don’t you think that if I had that sword - and I say if - that it would be my discovery, not yours?’

  He opened the door and slammed it shut behind him.

  Brenda sighed. Well, there was no need to keep WaIt outside in the car. She went to the window and signalled to him. Ten minutes later he came bounding into the room. ‘Is he still here?’ he cried.

  ‘Calm down, WaIter. He’s gone. Didn’t you pass him?’

  ‘No - he must have taken the elevator. I came by the stairs.’ He stood looking at her with puppy-dog eyes.

  ‘Since you’re here,’ she said, ‘would you like some apricot pie? I’m usually lousy at making it and just today - just today it went right for once. Then my guest walks out on me before we get to it.’

  Bedsoe stayed for about quarter of an hour and polished off the pie. Then he left. Brenda settled down to watch the news on the TV. There was nothing about beheadings - for once.

  Chapter 22

  WHEN MACLEOD LEFT Brenda Wyatt’s apartment, he went directly to a bar and ordered a scotch. That ought to go down well, on top of the brandy, he thought. He wondered what Brenda would have done had she known that all the time he was in her home the sword was in his coat. Ramirez, old friend, your weapon is causing me more bother than a Spanish peacock looking for converts.

  He left the bar and went to the subway. At that time of night, there were only a few passengers, especially since the decapitations. He got on the first one - a carriage which belonged to Sanchez Domingo, if you were to believe the graffiti that decorated its interior. Actually, he quite liked the artwork, which consisted mainly of balloon letters with fantastic backgrounds, though he knew it gave the transport commissioner headaches.

  MacLeod had seen that name Domingo on other carriages in the town and guessed that the artist had graduated to what was known as all-city: making sure that every moving train carried the name.

  At the next stop someone got on at the far end of the carriage. A black guy in traditional dress. Some African country. Two more stops and a gang of youths got on. There were seven of them. The leader appeared to be a Puerto Rican and he viewed the graffiti with apparent distaste.

  ‘See this guy, Domingo? When I catch his arse I’m gonna rip it out an’ spill his guts, man.’

  MacLeod was amused. ‘It offends you? The graffiti?’ Seven faces turned towards him. The gang leader sauntered over and put a dirty track shoe on the seat beside MacLeod. The black guy at the other end of the carriage was paying no attention to all this. MacLeod did not blame him.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the youth, ‘it o-ffends me. Everywhere I go, I gotta see this guy’s name stuck in front of my nose? Shit. Who the hell is he to write his goddamn name where the Caligulas can see it?’

  ‘You, I take it, are the Caligulas,’ said MacL
eod, nodding towards the rest of them. One of the slimmer youths took out a switchblade, flicked it open and began scratching out the graffiti. ‘That’s a pretty scary name.’

  ‘Damn right. This is Caligula turf.’ He pointed to his foot. ‘Where that shoe sits, man, is Caligula turf. You got it?’

  ‘I think so.’

  The youth jumped back in mock surprise. ‘Then why you still sittin’ there man? Don’t you under stand what I’m talkin’? This here,’ he tapped the seat on which MacLeod was sitting, ‘belongs to the Caligulas. This whole fuckin’ train belongs to the Caligulas. Savvy?’

  ‘You mean, you want me to vacate the seat? Even when there’s plenty of free seats on the other side of the carriage.’

  The leader turned to his gang, who now had a variety of weapons on show, from motorbike chains to knuckledusters. A small zip gun came into view.

  ‘You catch on real fast, man. Don’t he guys? I mean, real fast.’

  MacLeod stayed where he was, ignoring them. They seemed unsure what to do next. Usually people did a lot of things when they were threatened, but they did not ignore them. The leader walked over again. ‘So va-cate man.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ replied MacLeod. Although he had not used the word violently, the youth sprang back as if he had been slapped in the face. He was amused to see a small debate go on then, as the train rattled along the tracks.

  ‘He’s gotta have a piece, man,’ he heard one of them say. ‘He wouldn’t have the balls without he was carrying a piece...’

  At that point, the black guy from the other end of the carriage had wandered down and now took a seat opposite MacLeod. He smiled.

  ‘How are you, MacLeod?’

  ‘Kastagir? I don’t need to ask what you’re doing in New York. Have you seen the big man yet?’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Yeah - the other night. . . just a minute, we seem to have a bit of a problem here.’ The leader of the Caligulas was now back by his side. He was looking from one man to the other.

  ‘Well, ain’t that nice,’ he said. ‘Two buddies – gonna go down together.’

  Kastagir said, ‘Is this open to negotiation?’

  ‘You what? You-fucking-nego-what?’ The boy took out a butcher’s knife from within his jacket. ‘I’m gonna cut your balls off . . .’

  MacLeod and Kastagir both leapt from their seats and put their backs to the end of the carriage. Convinced that they had not got a gun on them now, the youths began to advance, making menacing gestures and shouting taunts. The leader was grinning, his stubble-beard split by his red mouth.

  MacLeod said, ‘Ready?’

  ‘When you are,’ said Kastagir.

  They both produced their swords at once, in a flashing of blades. The gleaming weapons stopped the gang in their tracks.

  ‘Holy shit,’ said the boy with the zip gun.

  The gang leader stared at the long blades in front of him before making a tactical decision.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, smiling nervously. ‘I know what you guys are. Yeah. You figure as these vigilantes. You been to see Bronson in “Death Wish” right? Well, look man, we don’t want no trouble with you guys. I’m just gonna put this in here,’ he returned his butcher’s knife to his jacket, ‘an’ I’m gonna sit over here,’ he took a vacant seat, ‘an’ mind my own business man. You want to go and chop the fuck outta me, that’s up to you, man. I ain’t gonna stop you.’

  His gang were busy stowing their weapons and Kastagir and MacLeod did likewise, before the train stopped at the next station. A group of theatre-goers boarded at that point and looked suspiciously at the gang of youths. But the boys just sat staring at the floor and ceiling, looking as though butter would not melt in their mouths. At the next stop the gang got off.

  Kastagir rose from his seat. ‘Mine next. Be seeing you MacLeod.’

  MacLeod suddenly realized he did not want to meet this man on the field of battle.

  ‘Look, Kastagir. Why don’t we have a talk?’

  The black man studied his face. ‘Won’t do any good. There can be only one.’

  ‘Meet me in Central Park - two-thirty tomorrow.’

  Kastagir sighed. ‘Okay. There isn’t much point in fighting each other until we’ve met the big man. I don’t think either of us is a match for him.’

  The train doors hissed open and Kastagir stepped through them, calling, ‘Two-thirty then. On the bridge.’

  MacLeod waved to confirm.

  Chapter 23

  KASTAGIR. THE LAST time MacLeod had seen him was in the Zulu Wars of 1879, when the black Africans followed the example of their Redskin brothers in America, and told the white man to get the hell out. The Zulus were more successful than the Sioux, because of their superior numbers and well-trained troops, but only in the short run. In the long run only death or taxes sent the white man back where he came from.

  MacLeod was serving in the 17th Lancers, as a private soldier. Their captain had got them into a bit of a hole, down by the River Singasi. They were surrounded by six regiments of Cetewayo’s best troops. The 17th had in fact been splintered and the fragment that remained consisted of only fifty men.

  At dawn on the third day, the final attack came. The Zulus had had enough of playing gentlemen at Rourke’s Drift and they saw no reason to keep letting these people, who could not even dress to the climate, off the hook all the time. They slaughtered what remained of the 17th almost to a man. That man was MacLeod.

  Somehow, when the dust had settled and all that was left was to collect the fallen weapons, this single white man was still alive. The Zulus appreciated the survivor in a soldier and took him with them, in a cage. It took three days at a trotting pace to reach the encampment - a place deep in the bush country, ringed by African thorns. They did not carry him all the way, but made him take a turn at running. They covered 150 miles in three days and MacLeod was exhausted by the time they reached their destination.

  That night, as he lay in his cage trying to get some sleep, the camp reverberated with the sounds of a victory dance. Feet thundered against the hard earth floor of the bushland, and drums pounded out the hollow rhythms of success. Of course, Cetewayo got all the credit, even though he had not been there, but the precedent had been set by his uncle, Chaka, who had turned a few motley tribes into a nation whose soldiers could only be compared with the ancient Spartans for their fearlessness and dedication to duty. They had been trained to the pitch of perfection, and Chaka and Cetewayo considered that it was the songwriter, not the vocalist, who should get the credit.

  Apart from the fact that a small snake got into the cage with him, MacLeod was not otherwise bothered. The next morning he was the object of curiosity to the women of the encampment. They poked him through the bars and chattered amongst themselves in their own language, which was denied the menfolk. (MacLeod had the thought that perhaps they had invented it so that they could talk about their amours without fear of being overheard by boringly conservative husbands.)

  At about ten o’clock, or so he judged from the sun, the warriors began to stir from the places where they had dropped the night before. They staggered down to the waterhole to dip their heads.

  A plate of mashed meal was brought to him, and some water, both of which he disposed of very quickly. Maidenly interest waned and for the next few days, apart from being fed, he was left alone. The sun beat down. They seemed quite happy to leave him where he was, and he began to get that same sort of rejected feeling that prisoners in the Middle Ages - placed in oubliettes below the castle floors and existing on scraps that fell through the grill - must have experienced.

  He started to yell at them and rattle the wooden bars. They stopped, looked at him in astonishment, shook their heads, and carried on with whatever they had been doing before being interrupted.

  When the sun was going down one evening and filling the sky with red dust, a tall man came to stare into his cage at him.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ cried MacLeod.

 
The warrior had many scars on his body, which was muscular, though lean. The man studied him in minute detail with the seriousness of a tailor. When he had finished, he looked MacLeod full in the eyes and grinned. He pointed to himself, then the Scot, and hooked his two forefingers together. Then nodded. MacLeod realized what was going to happen. They had been fattening him up for single combat with this tall warrior. Fair enough. That was fine. He would take the man apart. Then perhaps they would let him out of the damned cage.

  ‘Think you’re going to win?’ The voice startled him, not because it spoke in English, but because it was familiar. A warrior, replete with plumes, stood leaning on his cage, arms folded, looking in.

  ‘Kastagir? Is that you underneath all that pomp?’ ‘Right first time, MacLeod.’

  ‘When did you leave the West Indies?’

  ‘Just as soon as I could. Didn’t take to all that working in the field. Too much sweat. How about you?’

  ‘Well, I’ve spent most of my time in London since the 1800’s, except for a holiday with Wellington, on the continent. ‘

  The civilities over, Kastagir said, ‘You’re in a lot of trouble this time.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘That Zulu - he’s one of us.’

  ‘You don’t expect me to believe that?’ said MacLeod, clutching at straws. ‘Two people from the same tribe when there are only a handful of immortals on this earth?’

  Kastagir grinned. ‘You’re forgetting - I don’t come from down here. I was born in Ethiopia. Africa’s a big place. He’s one of us all right. I’ve seen him in battle.’

  ‘Fine. As you say, I have a problem. Is he new? Does he know what he’s capable of?’

  ‘He knows.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘He fights all Cetewayo’s single combats and while he uses a broadaxe, his adversaries are always given spears. You can’t decapitate a man with a spear.’

  ‘You’re right - I’m in a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Thought I’d warn you what you were up against.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Kastagir left him then, to the evening full of the sound of insects and the smell of rain in the west. There was that dry crispness to the air which always heralded a still night. MacLeod settled down at the bottom of his cage to think things out.