The Keeper

by Natasha Mostert

  So many books. But only one book that mattered. It was tucked away on a high shelf and she had to stand on her toes and tip it towards her with one finger. The book was large and she marvelled at the elegance of the binding and how soft the tooled leather felt against her palm. The title was stamped in gilt and even though the lettering was faded she could still read it well. The Book of Light and Dust. She had never seen this book before but the feeling it evoked in her was one of awe and dread. Slowly, she opened the cover but as her finger touched the first, creamy white page, her eyes went blind.

  She dropped the book and brought her fingers to her unseeing eyes. In the inexplicable way of dreams, she lifted her head to look into a mirror and her face stared back at her, true in every detail except for the eye sockets, which were withered and empty.

  Her mouth contorted in horror and she screamed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nick sensed her presence at his elbow a split second before he felt the slap on his bum.

  ‘Come on, Nicky. Get a move on. Keep up with me—come on, come on.’ Another admonishing pat and Mia accelerated past him.

  Nick stared at her bitterly. She looked as fresh as a daisy. There might have been a little sweat at her hairline and her T-shirt showed a couple of damp patches but her breath was flowing easily and there was a spring to her footsteps. He, on the other hand, was dragging his feet like an old man and from his throat came an odd, very unattractive wheeze.

  She was now running backwards, beckoning him like a mischievous siren. ‘Catch me! Come on, you can do it!’

  He gave a despairing gurgle and made an attempt to increase his speed, but he just didn’t have it in him. He was only one week into his training, which meant he was nowhere near fit, and also needed to lose another thirteen pounds.

  Mia was now sprinting effortlessly down the tree-lined avenue. The woman was indefatigable. Under normal circumstances he would have enjoyed watching her graceful figure as she moved away from him: the shapely legs, the strong, beautiful V of her back, the delicate but rounded hips. But, just at this moment, she made him feel like a decrepit old dog.

  He stopped and drew his hand across his forehead. His chest burned. His legs wobbled. He felt like seven pounds of crap pushed into a two-pound bag.

  Why the hell was he doing this to himself? He could be drinking a latte at Caruso’s right now. Reading the paper. Eating a pastry. One of those little cannoli with the thick cream filling and the crumbly sweet crust… served to him by the cute waitress with the cute lisp who said she liked his curly hair.

  He closed his eyes briefly. Shape up, Duffy. Be a man. No pastries for you: oat bran and skimmed milk. And no pretty waitresses either. Eleven weeks to go before the fight.

  Eleven weeks. Shit.

  Doggedly, he started running again. Mia had already reached the gate and was about to leave the park. She cupped her hands round her mouth. ‘I’m heading out! I’ll get the coffee ready!’

  He perked up. Coffee. Yes, he could do with some coffee.

  She gestured at the steel monkey bars to her left. ‘Thirty pull-ups. OK, Nicky? Three sets. No cheating!’

  He sighed, lifted a hand in acknowledgement.

  But he only managed to do two sets of pull-ups before his shoulders gave out on him and he decided enough was enough. He had another gruelling training session lined up in the gym tonight—it made sense to conserve energy. As he left the park, the temptation to hail a taxi was almost irresistible, but he didn’t have the guts. Mia would give him no end of hell if he didn’t run—or at least jog—the distance to her place.

  It was only seven in the morning but the heat had already settled on London like a steaming dishcloth. Summer was his favourite season, but the city hadn’t seen rain in weeks and pollutants in the air were creating a haze the colour of lemon squash. As he jogged past irritable pedestrians, his lungs sucked up the exhaust fumes of the cars and he coughed like a refugee from a cigarette factory. Bloody hell. This couldn’t be healthy.

  He turned off the traffic-congested high street into a relatively quiet side street. Straight ahead of him, at the end of the terrace, was the green and gold sign of the Mystic Ink Body Art Studio.

  The place had made the leap from tattoo parlour to studio a few years ago after Mia had embarked on a ruthless renovation process, ripping out the Gothic interior and replacing it with dazzling white paint and pale wooden floors. A big improvement, Nick was the first to admit, but he was sometimes nostalgic for the old place.

  Before the makeover it was your typical old-fashioned tattoo parlour. Fearsome pieces of machinery lurked in the corner. Taped against the walls were ‘flash’ art depicting coiled pythons and big-breasted women. When you entered, you pushed your way through a beaded curtain that continued to whisper long after you had passed through. In those days it was known simply as Molly’s Place.

  Molly Lockhart. Blue eyes, blonde hair. Skin straight from the fjords. Mia’s mum had been a stunner, no argument. But there was something unknowable about her. You would look into her eyes and get the impression they were focused on something only she was able to see. A wild bird, that one: no wonder she had died a wild death.

  Nick always wondered what it must have been like for Mia to grow up with Molly as a mother. Body artist, Reiki practitioner, stargazer: many people round here had called Molly wacky. Others were true believers—his own mother, for one. She used to consult Molly on a regular basis and for many years Nick’s birth chart had hung above his mother’s bed: stars and constellations and secret significations beautifully mapped in Indian ink by Molly Lockhart only a few days after his birth. That chart now hung in his own flat—not because he set any store by its celestial predictions, but because it represented such a strong link to his childhood.

  And with Mia. Her own birth chart had been plotted by Molly alongside his. In a strange twist of fate, the two of them were born on the same day—he a puny preemie, she a lusty, bawling Amazon weighing in at almost ten pounds. And not only were they born on the same day, they were born only an hour apart.

  His mother was fascinated by this coincidence. ‘That is important, yes?’ she would ask in her Greek-accented English. ‘Nicholas and Mia. Their future—destiny—it is linked, yes?’

  If only, Mum. But it takes two to tango.

  He could smell the coffee as he walked down the steep steps that led down from street level to Mia’s tiny courtyard. The door on the other side stood open and he could see straight into the kitchen. Just like her mother before her, Mia both lived and conducted business in this narrow terraced house. On the top floor were her bedroom, bathroom and the single room she used as an office. On the raised ground floor was the Mystic Ink tattoo studio with its separate entrance. In the basement was the kitchen and a surprisingly spacious living room extending a full twenty feet to the back.

  She must have arrived only a few minutes before him. The coffee was still dripping into the pot.

  She looked over her shoulder as he entered. ‘Taxi?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Just checking. You’re so lazy, Nicky.’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘I mean it.’ An exasperated glance. ‘If only you applied yourself a little more…’

  ‘Stop bullying me, woman. Just because you’re older than I am doesn’t mean you can kick me around.’

  She smiled unwillingly and gestured at a chair. ‘Sit yourself down. Just watch out you don’t squish Sweetpea.’

  Sweetpea was Mia’s pet chameleon. It was perched on the back of the seat and rolled a solemn eye at Nick as he gently placed his thumb against her belly. For a moment he thought she was going to act coy, but then she daintily hooked her prong-like toes onto his finger and allowed him to deposit her on the far corner of the table. Mia had a thing for chameleons. This was her third such pet and Nick still remembered the day she introduced the first one—also named Sweetpea—to her friends at school all of fifteen years ago. The teacher was unimpressed but
Mia had instantly rendered herself the coolest kid in the neighbourhood.

  And she was still cool, Mia Lockhart Cortez; as quirky and unusual as her name. He sat down on the chair and watched as she took two mugs from the cupboard.

  She had a fascinating face. God had done a terrific job blending Molly’s fairness with the dark good looks of Juan, Mia’s Spanish father. Mia’s eyes were black and her brows and lashes brushed with soot, but her hair was blonde; the colour of thick, dark honey. The surprisingly square jaw belonged to Juan. The rosebud mouth was Molly’s. But it was her nose, slightly crooked and flat—the result of a childhood accident—that Nick loved most about her. It gave her an air of rakishness; a kind of jaunty insolence.

  Unusual for a tattooist, Mia was not a walking advertisement for body art. On her right shoulder was inked the symbol for chi and round one ankle was twined a fragile garland of flowers. The Usui Reiki symbols—the symbols for healing—were tattooed on her wrists. He supposed she could be sporting other body art as well, but if she did—sadly—he had never been afforded the privilege of a private viewing.

  She was looking a little pale this morning, he thought. He hadn’t noticed it in the park, probably because he had been so caught up in his own misery. She also had shadows under her eyes.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He took the mug of coffee from her.

  ‘I didn’t sleep well, that’s all.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It was just a bad dream.’ She placed her own mug on to the table with a firm little bump that made it clear the subject was closed. ‘By the way, Nicky. I wanted to ask you if I could place an advertisement on Kime.’

  ‘Of course. Send me the copy. I’ll make sure you get a good spot.’

  Nick was proud of Kime. If not exactly Facebook, Kime was still a bona fide success story. Launching your own social networking site on the Internet was a gamble—and an expensive one—but eighteen months ago Nick had decided to give it a try. After five years of working himself into burnout on the trading floor, he felt he had earned the right to kick back and play a little. He had the money, so why not? But what was supposed to be a hobby had taken off in a big way. Nick had envisaged a modest site—a small, cosy forum catering for fighters and fight aficionados—but over the course of two years Kime’s membership had grown by quantum leaps. The constantly rising number of contributors meant Nick was able to sell advertising space on the site at an ever increasing rate.

  Mia’s lips twitched. ‘How’s Rick doing these days?’

  Nick shrugged, slightly embarrassed. She was referring to the fictional hero he brought to life on Kime every two weeks. Along with the profile pages and the discussion board, the site also played host to the adventures of Rick Cobra: ruthless Ninja assassin with a heart of gold. Swift as a panther, strong as steel. Wrote poetry and made love to his cello with the same skill he made love to his women. The discussion board was still the big draw for most people, but it was gratifying to know that a growing number of fans were logging on specifically to read about his hero’s exploits.

  ‘Rick’s doing fine. He has finally tracked down the gun-runner with the ruby tooth.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘I hope he’s dumped that whiny redhead. What’s her name again, Brunhilda?’

  ‘Broselinda.’

  ‘Right. That woman’s no good for him.’

  ‘She’s misunderstood.’

  Mia snorted. ‘So how much do I owe you for the ad?’

  ‘It’s on the house, Mia.’

  ‘No, no.’ She stood up. ‘Let me get my cheque book. It’s in my office.’

  While he waited for her to return, Nick idly opened a sketch pad that was lying on the table. The pad held a single charcoal drawing on the very first page.

  He stared at the sketch, feeling perturbed. It showed a woman’s face, the features delicate but the mouth twisted in torment. And the eyes… there was something very wrong with the eyes—they seemed hollowed out. That’s when he realised: this was Mia. It was a self-portrait.

  A movement at the door made him look up. Mia had re-entered the room.

  He gestured at the sketch pad. ‘This is… interesting.’

  An odd expression flitted across her face. She closed the sketch pad and pushed it away from him—almost hitting Sweetpea in the process.

  ‘What do I owe you?’ She did not respond to the enquiring expression on his face and he knew better than to push.

  He gave her a hefty discount, being careful not to alert her to the fact, and she signed the cheque with a flourish.

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  ‘Will you be at Scorpio tonight?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll be doing Chilli’s eight o’clock class.’

  Chilli was Mia’s teacher; her sensei. Mia was not a fighter, but she trained in martial arts. Combat was not her goal, but perfection of technique and a strengthening of the mind. Which did not mean that what she did in training was easy: Mia was able to break a board with the blade of her bare foot doing a spinning back-kick. She could probably take him out easily if she felt like it.

  Nick leant over to give her a goodbye kiss on the cheek. She smelled of flowers, warm grass and a hint of sunbaked sweat.

  ‘Remember’—she looked at him sternly—‘train hard…’

  ‘Fight easy. Yeah, yeah. I know.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you sure you’re OK, sweetheart?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Nicky. I’m fine.’ She smiled. ‘Now go on, get going.’

  He crossed the tiny courtyard with its tubs of glowing pink and orange geraniums. As he was about to climb the steps that would take him to street level, he glanced back over his shoulder.

  Mia was still standing at the table, looking down. The sketch pad in front of her lay open once more. Her body seemed relaxed, but it was the expression on her face that made him pause.

  She looked apprehensive. No—she looked scared.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE BOOK OF LIGHT AND DUST

  FOR ROSALIA

  I

  Once more I find myself lost in a void: the wind blowing through a clearing in the woods, a pool of dark water. Mysterious words and ancient memories are whispered in my ear. This is a place filled with many questions but only one answer.

  The body wears out and we are old. Colours are not as bright; smells are not as sharp. We do not weep as easily. We sleep less and we dream less. Light is turning to dust.

  But what if you become a thief? What if you steal the light and change what cannot be changed?

  Imagine grasping the essence of life in your hand: the great energy. As fierce as a slashed throat. As terrible as a vast, glittering desert. White-powder addictive.

  Imagine being able to live forever.

  THE WAY: BLOOD TIDE

  BLACKLIGHT: DIR: K5 SP3, FRC: 3, TIME: 2, SUs: LU3

  WHITELIGHT: mas. TW5

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There was nothing like a bad dream to ruin your day.

  Mia turned off the tap in the shower. For a few seconds she stood still, listening to the gurgle of water as it drained.

  But she was starting to feel better. Not great, mind you. Not ‘hey life, here I come’ good, but better. She probably had Nick to thank for that; he always managed to make her smile.

  As she reached for her bath towel she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. With her arm outstretched, she was able to see the whole of the large tattoo that covered the left side of her body, starting at her breast and stretching over her rib cage, hip and upper thigh.

  It was a lovely piece of art. Her mother had inked it into her skin on the day Mia turned eighteen and was legally of an age to receive a tattoo. Ever since, this beautiful figure with the elegant limbs and fairy hair had flowed in shades of blue ink down one side of her body.

  The Keeper: her other self.

  The Keeper’s features were fine and the tattooed contours of her body as delicate as those of a Rackham water-baby. But it was her eyes that held your ga
ze. Long-lidded, set under eyebrows that swooped upwards like a startled bird in flight, they had been inked with such skill that they appeared alive. Deep in one eye was a circle with three lines entering it at an angle. It was an arresting tattoo and Molly had carried an identical figure on the left side of her own body—a tangible link between mother and daughter.

  Mia turned away from the mirror and shrugged into her dressing gown. As she opened the bathroom door and stepped into her bedroom, a rush of steam followed her.

  The room was full of light. There were flowers on the dressing table and a bumblebee hummed against the window. The leaves of the creeper peeking over the sill threw a perfect shadow pattern on the wall. Everything was calm; everything was serene.

  Unlike last night. Last night this room had been dark with dread: the remnants of a bad dream carried into wakefulness. She recalled a book with a strange name: The Book of Light and Dust… a book that had the power to turn her blind. It had been a terrible dream and she had woken up in tears. She still recalled how alien the room had felt and how heavy her heart, how desperately sad.

  As a little girl she had been prone to nightmares. She would leave her bed in darkness and make her way to her parents’ bedroom, where she’d stand on the threshold to look at their sleeping forms. She never woke them: listening to their breathing would be enough to calm her and after a while she’d simply pad back to her room and go to sleep. But she was no longer used to nightmares and her parents’ bedroom was no longer a safe haven waiting at the end of the passage.

  Mia turned her eyes to the photograph next to her bed. It was the only picture she had of her parents together and one of the very few she had of her father, who had disliked having his photograph taken.