Mia. Shit. She and Valentine had been good friends. He wondered if she knew. He lifted the phone to call her but then decided against it. This was not the kind of news you told someone on the phone. He would break it to her tonight at Scorpio.
He turned his attention back to the screen. The death notice was followed by a long list of tributes posted by other Kime members. They ranged from the heartfelt to the weird.
‘Sad day. Miss you, man. Your spirit lives.’ Another entry: ‘Yo, Wolfman! Have fun in the great dojo in the sky!’ And even, ‘Sleep softly, great warrior.’
Another entry drew Nick’s attention. Compared with the other contributors, the guy who wrote this was Hemingway, but as Nick read through the words he grimaced.
It was the custom among certain warrior tribes in Africa to eat the heart of a vanquished opponent in the hope of making the fallen warrior’s courage their own.
Eat his heart and you may capture his life essence. Eat his heart and his energy becomes yours. A grisly tribute, perhaps, but a tribute nevertheless. Only warriors with indomitable spirit would be accorded this honour. Valentine Scott was such a warrior.
Well, that was creepy. Nick did not recognise the call sign of the contributor: Dragonfly. There was no icon, avatar or personal picture of Dragonfly next to his name, and when Nick clicked on the link to go through to the guy’s profile page it was completely blank. The join date explained the lack of information: 12 July. Dragonfly had only joined Kime today.
Nick flicked from Dragonfly’s page back to the main discussion board and read through the death notice once again. He frowned: something here did not compute. Valentine had not died in the ring because of injuries, he had died days later. In his living room.
He reached for the phone again and dialled the number of Lee James, a sports journalist with whom he sometimes had a beer.
Lee did not have much to tell him.
‘The guy simply dropped, what can I tell you? He was sitting in his armchair and suddenly it was lights out.’
‘What was the cause of death?’
‘His heart stopped.’
‘Yes, Lee.’ Nick tried to curb his exasperation. ‘Why?’
‘Well, that’s the big mystery, old son. Autopsy shows no hidden heart problems.’
‘There’s been an autopsy already?’
‘Mmm. The promoters probably wanted to clear their side as soon as possible.’
‘And he received no injuries in the ring.’
‘Nada. A few bruises, that’s all.’
‘Will you be writing about it?’
‘No, dear boy. The guy was not exactly a household name. And as there is no dramatic ring death…’
After he hung up, Nick sat quietly, suddenly at a loss what to do next. On the other side of the room Flash was hunched over his keyboard, his head moving up and down to the beat of the music flowing through his earphones.
Nick looked through the window. The streets were filling up with people and traffic. The manageress of the florist shop on the corner was arranging potted plants on the pavement outside her window, the flowers a vivid splash of colour. It was just a normal day with people doing normal things. The sky was blue. The air was warm.
But in the far distance, Nick noticed a cloud. Just one—a small one—but he suddenly wondered if it might rain.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When Mia brought her bike to a stop outside Scorpio gym, the sky was a purple-red in colour and she noticed a tower of storm clouds building up in the west.
As she rechecked the lock on the Kawasaki—there was a real problem with theft in the area—she felt someone beside her and looked up from where she was squatting next to the front wheel.
Oh, no. Sighing, Mia stood up and nodded at the tall, expensively dressed woman who was watching her critically.
‘Hi, Claudine.’
‘Mia.’ Claudine Normandy flicked Mia an up-and-down glance and Mia sighed again. With that one glance the woman had managed to make her feel unkempt. Claudine spent much of her time in the beauty salon at Harrods and it showed. Mia was suddenly acutely aware that her own boots needed a polish, her fingers were stained with ink and that she had helmet hair.
‘I just dropped Andrew off for practice.’
Mia nodded. Andrew was Claudine’s brother—a mild-mannered accountant who spent his days working behind a desk—and a surprisingly skilled fighter. A nice guy, you’d never believe he’d have such a piranha of a sister.
And Mia wasn’t fooled. Claudine hung around Scorpio not because of Andrew, but because of Nick. The woman was in full hunting mode. Nick, of course, was a man and stupid. His vanity was tickled by the fact that a princess like Claudine fancied him.
‘Nick is in there.’ Claudine shrugged a graceful shoulder.
‘Uh-huh.’ Mia tried to edge past her.
‘He’s looking good. I told him I’ll be at the fight, cheering him on.’
‘I’m sure he’ll like that.’
‘You know, I keep saying to myself I should drop in at the studio. Get you to do some work for me.’
Each time Mia saw Claudine, she said exactly the same thing. It would never happen, of course. Claudine with a tat… the mind boggled. But Claudine knew of her friendship with Nick, and this was just another way the woman was trying to wiggle her way into his life.
But as always, Mia nodded and said, ‘Of course, stop by any time.’ She made a point of looking at her watch. ‘Sorry, I have to run or I’ll be late for my class.’ Without giving Claudine a chance to respond, she turned away quickly and pushed her way through a revolving door that was liberally smeared with the accumulated fingerprints of Scorpio’s many members.
Scorpio was located in a large renovated warehouse. Doubling as both a fighters’ gym and a martial-arts school, its members came from all walks of life and ranged from street-smart locals to white-collar City workers like Claudine’s brother, who enjoyed the experience of a genuine spit-and-grit.
The gym had few frills. There were no gleaming weight machines, no treadmills or spinning bikes. The floor of the dojo was covered in dark-green mats which, no matter how often they were washed down, still left students with black dirt clinging to the soles of their feet. A speedball was fixed to the wall and a variety of scuffed heavy bags dangled from chains attached to the ceiling. The air was always thick with boxer’s musk—the slightly rancid scent of heated bodies, leather gloves, damp wraps and old sweat.
As Mia entered the dojo she bowed deeply and felt herself relax and become centred. The dojo was her happy place. Outsiders would look at this rectangular space and think it dingy. They did not feel the energy within its walls.
The dojo was roughly divided into two parts. One of these catered to the ‘grapple-and-grunts’: boxers, kickboxers and the full-contact martial artists such as the judo and jiu-jitsu practitioners. The other half catered to the ‘vogues’: martial artists who practised choreographed forms—katas—intent only on perfecting their technique. Two very different masters held sway over their respective domains. The grunts were headed by JC, a squat man with salt-and-pepper hair and a pugnacious expression. The vogues were presided over by Mia’s own teacher, Chilli, a tall, slender Eurasian.
There was, of course, cross-pollination between the two sides but Mia was well aware that there were die-hard grunts at Scorpio who hummed Madonna’s ‘Strike a pose, there’s nothing to it’ whenever they watched the vogues perform. They not only scoffed at the discipline required to master the precise and powerful repetition of the katas but were also blind to the deadly intent hidden in the dance. It was fair to say the lack of understanding was mutual. Many of her fellow students poured scorn on the competition aspect of combat in the ring and appeared pained by the meaty smack and thump of the blows and parries coming from the other side of the room.
Mia was a vogue, but she was utterly, irrevocably drawn to the grunts. It was not so much the actual fighting in the ring that attracted her, but watching these me
n train together filled her with a deep, uncomplicated pleasure.
She liked men. She liked watching them interact: the heavy-handed camaraderie, the often infantile clowning around, the unexpected tenderness with which they hugged each other after a particularly gruelling bout of sparring. And she was fascinated by their body language, which reflected hierarchy and pecking order in a way women could never emulate. Of course, within the walls of Scorpio, a different set of values reigned. In here, social status and discrepancies in income were obliterated in a haze of sweat and effort. If you had to stick your nose into another guy’s armpit while he pummelled you, it didn’t much matter whether he was a banker or a plumber. It was all about heart. Some guys had it, many more did not.
She spotted Nick in the far corner. He was bathed in sweat and, even though his features were flattened by the protective headgear he was wearing, she could see he looked unhappy. The source of his discomfort wasn’t difficult to guess. JC stood at his elbow, his thick hands cutting exclamation marks in the air. She couldn’t make out the words but the hectoring tone of his voice was unmistakable.
No one knew what JC stood for. JC himself always told newcomers that his name stood for ‘Holy Terror—get it?’ JC was not to be messed with. The flesh round his eyes was thickened from all the punches he had weathered over the years.
‘Hi, Mia.’ She felt a hand on her elbow.
Okie stood behind her, a guilty grin on his face. He was wearing a T-shirt sporting the words ‘Bad, Black and Beautiful’. Okie was not known for his modesty.
‘Okie! What are you doing here? If JC sees you…’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Okie shook his head, dreadlocks swinging. ‘He said he’d thump me if I came back before the rib’s properly healed. But I forgot my book in my locker and I want to know the ending.’
Okie was addicted to romance novels. The cover of the book he was clutching in his hand depicted a massively muscled man dressed in a kilt leaning over a woman with a stupendous bosom. To Mia the woman looked astonished but maybe, she thought, she just wasn’t very good at distinguishing between surprise and ardour.
She had to smile. Okie picked up a lot of flak for his taste in literature, but he would have picked up even more if it weren’t for his wicked left hook.
Okie cocked an eye at her. ‘I hear Nick went running with you this morning. How did it go?’
‘Painful.’
‘Yeah. Our boy is too fond of the pastries. Why the hell doesn’t he just keep in shape? Every time he fights it’s like he has to start from scratch. What he needs is to practise discipline. Like me,’ Okie added virtuously.
Mia punched him on the shoulder. ‘Is that halo heavy?’ Okie and Nick were good friends but they were both in the same weight division and there was a healthy rivalry between them. Okie was technically more proficient than Nick, but Nick… Nick was relentless. The laid-back manner, the easy smile—they masked a never-say-die determination that could shatter rock. And Nick was able to take a punch: he had a chin that rivalled Jake LaMotta’s. To a fighter, nothing was of greater value.
Okie frowned. ‘Seriously, Mia. Nick needs a training buddy for the next three months. Someone who can do his roadwork with him every morning. If my rib was up to it, I’d have been up for it, but as it is…’
‘Maybe JC will find him someone.’
‘Maybe. Anyway, I’m off before JC spots me.’ Okie leant over and pecked her on the cheek. ‘You look pale, sweetheart.’
‘No, I’m fine. A little stressed, maybe, but aren’t we all?’
‘Chilli will get you chilled.’
‘Yes. I’d better go and change. The class starts in five minutes.’ But as he began to walk away from her, moving with that loose-limbed, coltish gait peculiar to so many fighters, she said, ‘Okie, you really are OK, aren’t you? Apart from the rib, I mean.’
He stopped and looked back, surprised. ‘You’re starting to freak me out, Mia. First this morning’s call and now this. What’s up?’
‘Sorry. I’m just being silly.’ He still looked alarmed and she hastily changed the subject. ‘Are you coming over for pot luck next week?’
‘As long as you shut away that creepy thing you have crawling round your house.’
Okie had issues with Sweetpea. And the animosity was mutual: whenever Okie came near her, Sweetpea would blow up her cheeks and assume a pinkish hue.
Mia shook her head. ‘Never fear. I’ll keep her upstairs.’
‘In that case, count me in.’
‘See you on Monday, then.’
‘Right. In the meantime, sweet dreams.’
Mia sighed. ‘I’ll try.’
• • •
Nick pulled off his gloves and staggered to the corner where his towel and water bottle were. JC had no mercy. Thank God he was finished for the day.
He took a swig of water and looked across the room to where Chilli was teaching his class of vogues.
Many years ago, at the tender age of thirteen, he had joined one of Chilli’s classes. It had been a way of trying to get closer to Mia, who had studied with Chilli since the age of six. He had only a vague recollection of Chilli holding forth about ‘drawing energy from the golden stove’ and ‘breathing with power’. What he remembered very well, however, was that he had attacked the breathing exercises with a little too much enthusiasm and had started to hyperventilate, almost passing out in the process. After that embarrassment he had stuck pretty much to the other side of the dojo.
But these vogues didn’t fool him. Their air of detachment was just so much puffery. You didn’t invest hundreds of hours into perfecting one single kata without your ego becoming involved big time.
But as he watched Chilli’s disciples, all dressed in white, practising their austere, elegant moves, he had to admit the vogues were the princes of cool. They certainly didn’t have cauliflower ears, like the blokes in front of him who were pounding it out on the mat, straining against locks and choke holds. And the vogues pulled. All they needed to do was mutter a Bruce Lee koan, ‘Never take your eyes off an opponent even when you bow,’ and the girls would go weak at the knees. It made him sometimes feel quite bitter.
There were only two women in the class: Mia and a girl who was built like Lara Croft. But Mia was the one you watched. She took your breath away. She had a core of steel and her movements showed the kind of integrity you acquire only after many, many years of constant practice. Mia, he knew, really did believe in do, ‘the way’: that fusion of the physical and the spiritual that will lead the martial artist to enlightenment.
‘It’s mind and body coming together,’ she once explained to him, ‘through intense physical effort.’
‘And what do you gain from it?’
‘At the very least, tuning in to your own vital energy—your chi. At best… becoming one with the chi of the universe.’
He had shaken his head, unable to follow her into these esoteric realms. But he admired her dedication. And he would never tire of watching her do what she loved best.
Her face was completely serene. Some of the other students had their foreheads scrunched in effort, veins swelling in their necks. Mia showed no obvious tension. She snapped out a kick so fast and powerful, his eye had difficulty registering the entire movement. Concentration. Skill. Grace. A devastating package.
The class was winding down. Chilli was bowing to his students; the students following suit.
Mia saw him watching her and waved. She exchanged a few words with Chilli and then started walking towards him.
He smiled at her and offered a towel.
‘Thanks.’ She was sweating profusely, her cheekbones and forehead gleaming. But she looked happy and at peace.
He sighed inwardly. Well, better get it over with.
‘Mia…’
‘Hmm?’ She dabbed at her face.
‘I’m afraid I have bad news.’
She stilled her movements. Her eyes became guarded. ‘What?’
‘You remem
ber Valentine? Valentine Scott?’
Her face went white. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
He looked at her, taken aback. Before he could respond she asked, ‘When?’
‘Yesterday. How—’
But she didn’t give him time to finish his sentence. Without another word she turned around, the towel slipping from her fingers. And as she walked away from him, he saw her touch the left side of her body in a strange, furtive gesture, as though she were in pain.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE BOOK OF LIGHT AND DUST
FOR ROSALIA
VX
The great events in our lives are physical. Childbirth. Sex. Combat. Death.
Not poetry or music or the thoughts of great men will flash across the transom of our minds at the moment of dying. We will remember only the moments when we felt the fibres of our body sing. Bloodily. Messily. Ecstatically.
Is not the brain shaped like a pair of boxing gloves?
Many questions but only one answer. To live. To live forever.
THE WAY: STRIKING HEAVEN
BLACKLIGHT: DIR: LU 3K2, FRC: 3, TIME: 2, SUs: BL3
WHITELIGHT: mas. BL2
CHAPTER NINE
‘Hey, Mia, let’s have a race.’
If she closed her eyes she could see Valentine before her now: his cheeks smooth but the strong wrists already hinting at the man in waiting. And she, burnt brown as a gypsy, her hair wild, but so happy to be allowed to run with the boys.
They usually hung out in a pack: a bunch of exuberant kids whooping up the neighbourhood. But on that Sunday afternoon there were only the three of them: she and Valentine and drippy-nosed Davie, who lived with his dad above their corner shop.
Valentine had started it. ‘Girls can’t race as fast as boys.’ His easy superiority and dismissive tone had sparked in her a predictable response. It was only when she saw his satisfied smile that she realised she had been caught.
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