By the time he had managed to placate the man, his head was pounding. When stressed, he usually turned to fighting or writing, but his attempt to write the next instalment of Rick Cobra’s adventures hadn’t turned out brilliantly either: his hero was acting disappointingly lazy and becoming scarily inarticulate to boot.
And there was something else that was nagging at Nick: those five fighters dying without any obvious cause. As he tapped in the code on the keyboard of his locker, Nick thought again how much it bothered him. As soon as he had managed to sort out Rick, he should take the time to look into their deaths a little more closely.
He took out his gear. Next to his locker was Okie’s—wide open and empty. The sight made Nick realise how much he missed his friend and also that he still hadn’t lined up a new training buddy to take Okie’s place.
Changing into his workout clothes, Nick caught a glimpse of his figure in the mirror. He had lost almost four pounds this week—not bad going—but the weekends were always his undoing, and he was meeting Mia for dinner tonight at Luciano’s. Mia had suggested they have sushi to help him avoid temptation but he had always found it difficult to get enthusiastic about raw fish. He would just have to be strong and stay away from the cream sauces and the vino.
He turned to face the mirror full-on and looked at himself critically. Below one eye was a slight bruise. He had walked straight into JC’s cross the other day—a really stupid move for someone who was about to do a fight—and he could count himself damn lucky it wasn’t his nose that had connected with JC’s paw.
Nick touched his finger to the tip of his nose. Vanity was not his vice—some of the other guys in the gym preened in front of the mirror as though they wanted to date themselves—but he had to admit: he was pretty damn proud of the fact that he had never broken his conk. Most fighters sported the ‘squashed’ look, with their noses flattened or ridged, but he had been lucky so far. And if he had his way, he would stay lucky. He tapped his finger to his forehead. Touch wood.
Well, time to stop admiring himself. He turned away from the mirror and headed for the door.
The dojo was packed. The air was filled with the whump of gloved fists striking at leather bags and the whap of bodies hitting the mat. He passed by a group of tiny vogues—no more than ten years old—who were practising their drills in unison, every now and then emitting an ear-splitting spirit shout. Kids were the life-blood of the dojo: the next generation. And every kid who thought it was cooler to kick like Jackie Chan than join a gang was a kid with a chance.
Scorpio did not have a dedicated boxing ring and sparring sessions took place on the mat at the far end of the room. JC was already waiting, watching a fair-haired man throw a combination of punches at one of the heavy bags. Nick did not recognise the man—he must be a new member—but he was hitting the bag well. When you hit a bag hard, the idea was not to make the bag swing wildly—pushing was always the first sign of a beginner—but to hit it with such solid focus and elastic force that the bag would absorb the power and move only slightly. If you did it right, the sting of the glove against the leather made a very distinctive sound. This guy was doing it right.
‘Nick.’ JC nodded at him. ‘Say hello. This is Adrian Ashton. He joined today.’
The fair-haired man dropped his fists and turned towards Nick.
‘Hi.’ He smiled. His teeth were white and even. ‘Call me Ash. JC tells me you have a fight lined up.’
There was genuine interest in his eyes and Nick found himself returning the smile. ‘Yes, for my sins.’
‘You can motor, my man.’ JC punched Ashton on the shoulder. ‘Are you interested in a fight yourself? Can I set one up for you?’
‘No, thanks. I don’t fight.’
‘Why the hell not?’ JC stared at him in disillusionment.
Ashton smiled faintly. ‘I took an oath. First do no harm.’
‘You’re a doctor?’ Nick blinked. The man looked more like a pro athlete.
‘I don’t ring-fight’—Ashton glanced back at JC—‘but I’m always up for a spar.’
JC was cheered. ‘Great. How about giving Nick here a rumble? You guys are pretty evenly matched in the size department.’
‘Certainly. Say the word.’
Nick slipped his mouth guard on to his teeth and grinned. ‘Let’s rock.’
• • •
Death is the shadow man. Inside the ring, every punch you throw, every kick you receive, could be your last. The idea of death resides in a place in the fighter’s brain that lies beyond words. A place where Ali said he could ‘hear snakes screaming’. A blur of movement, a lethal whiplash, and the fighter’s brain smashes against his skull with the impact of a high-speed car crash. Death is always at his shoulder.
A sparring session is an altogether different thing. It requires trust. Sparring partners are engaged in a relationship of give and take: a relationship that is generous and unforgiving at the same time. You trust your opponent not to hammer your head in but you don’t expect him to pull his punches either. He is going to hit you but he is not going to try to win at all costs. A good spar is a spar in which partners do not allow their egos to interfere. You are not there to pulp your opponent, but to learn from him.
Ashton was a model sparring partner. He was light on his feet and moved with economy and speed. He made Nick work. Oh yes, he certainly made him work. Nick shook the sweat out of his eyes.
In some weird way, though, it felt as though the guy wouldn’t fully engage. Yes, his punches were crisp and once he slipped Nick’s right and countered with an uppercut that was certain to leave a bruise, but most of the time it felt as though Ashton was simply keeping him at bay with his jab and some fluid footwork. He had tried to work the angles on Ashton without much luck. Nick was an inside fighter, favouring lots of pivoting, side-to-side stepping and head and shoulder movement, which allowed him to utilise his powerful body punches. But Ashton was Mr Elusive. It wasn’t that Ashton was running away, but it was certainly a hell of a job to get close to him.
After three rounds, they switched from hands only to hands combined with feet. Ashton’s kicks were hugely impressive and a few times the kicks zinged dangerously close to Nick’s head, but there was that same sense of energy kept at bay. Usually, after sparring with a bloke, you had a fair reading of who you were dealing with. Not now, though. Nick simply had no idea how Ashton might shape up in an actual fight. A spar revealed your opponent’s temperament. Okie, for example, had a tendency to lead with his chin, which had landed him in big trouble more than once, but that was Okie: all part of his ‘watch out, here I come’ machismo and temperament. Ashton? An enigma. Nick had no idea what pushed his buttons.
But JC was pleased. ‘What Nick needs.’ He slapped Ashton on the shoulder and helped him take off his gloves. ‘Keeps him from going off half-cocked.’ He turned to Nick. ‘How’s your roadwork coming along? Six miles tomorrow, right?’
Nick nodded glumly. He wondered if it would be raining again tomorrow. Running in rain was the pits. Running was the pits anyway.
‘Looking for company?’
Nick glanced over to where Ashton was standing, watching him. He hesitated. Normally, he would jump at the offer—running with someone at your side helped take your mind off the pain and the excruciating boredom. But this guy…
‘I could show you some stuff that can help with your kicks. I travelled round Asia for a few years. Northern China mostly. Picked up a few moves.’
Nick studied him with interest. ‘I bet.’
Ashton shrugged. ‘I also studied internal martial arts: Qigong, Hsing-I, Ba Gua. They’re excellent for developing chi sensitivity.’
‘Really?’ Internal martial artists were nothing but loopy philosophers and woo-woo mystics, as far as Nick was concerned.
Ashton seemed to read his mind. ‘Don’t worry.’ His voice was dry. ‘I won’t start chanting on you.’
‘In that case, you’re on.’ Nick clamped his head guard under his a
rm. ‘Let’s meet at five thirty. Pagoda. North side of the park. Know where it is?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Great.’ Nick nodded. ‘Sorry, but I have to run. I’m meeting someone for dinner.’
JC turned round from where he was talking to another member. ‘I heard that.’
‘Don’t worry, JC. It’s Mia.’
‘Ah. OK. That girl will keep you away from the bread basket. Give her a kiss from me, will you?’ JC had a soft spot for Mia, and Nick knew that the old man had been hopelessly in love with Molly. The fact that Molly had never reciprocated JC’s feelings hadn’t fazed his dogged devotion and the only time Nick had ever seen tears in JC’s eyes was at Molly’s funeral. He hadn’t been the only one smitten with Molly, of course: there had always been numerous admirers hanging round Mia’s mum. It couldn’t have been easy for Juan, come to think of it.
Ashton spoke again: ‘Mia… Is she the body artist at the Mystic Ink studio?’
‘Yes.’ Nick looked at him in surprise. ‘Do you know her?’
‘I dropped in there earlier today. Her work looks very professional.’
‘She’s the best. I’ve known her since childhood.’
‘Oh? Has she done work on you?’
Nick shook his head. ‘I left this neighbourhood before she set up in business and I only returned fairly recently. But I promise you, she’s good. Barry—’ Nick stretched out and grabbed the arm of a burly man who was walking past. ‘Show Ashton your tat.’
Without a word, Barry pulled up his shirt and looked impassively into the distance. On his chest was tattooed a snake. The fine-line details were exquisitely rendered—smooth coils, flat diamond head, cold eyes.
‘Nice.’ Ashton nodded.
‘Thanks.’ Nick slapped Barry on the shoulder. ‘Barry here isn’t the only one. Mia has done tats for most of the guys in the gym. Ask around.’
‘Any protection tattoos?’
‘Protection? Not sure what you mean. Billy over there has his mum’s name on his shoulder.’ Nick grinned. ‘He swears it brings him luck.’
‘Not quite what I had in mind.’
‘Well, talk to Mia. I’m sure she’ll be able to help you out.’ Nick glanced up at the large clock above the door. ‘Shit. I’m late. I have to make tracks. See you tomorrow, yeah?’
Ashton nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’
As Nick was about to step through the door, he looked back. Ashton was watching him. There was something in the blankness of his expression that made Nick pause. But then Ashton smiled and sketched a salute with his hand.
Nick returned the smile. Interesting guy.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mia had not arrived by the time Nick walked into Luciano’s and he was surprised; it was unlike her to be late. He ordered a bottle of mineral water for himself and a glass of Mia’s favourite red and started reading through the menu.
A soft hand touched his shoulder and he looked up, smiling. But it wasn’t Mia. It was Claudine Normandy, looking rather fetching in a halterneck dress.
‘Nick.’ She leant towards him and kissed him on the cheek, allowing him a dazzling glimpse of cleavage. Oh, boy.
‘Why are you sitting here lonely and sad?’ Claudine, Nick always thought, was very attractive but her conversation often sounded as though it came straight from one of Okie’s romance novels.
‘I’m waiting for Mia.’
She didn’t respond but a small furrow appeared between her eyebrows. ‘I’ll keep you company until she arrives.’ She sat down and brushed her hair away from her face with a sinuous motion. ‘Now… tell me everything.’
The woman was over the top and Nick had heard stories of her being a real ballbreaker, but the fact that she was willing to turn on the seduction routine for him was flattering all the same.
‘Of course.’ He smiled back at her. ‘Tell me what you’d like to hear.’ Good grief. He sounded like a Mills & Boon character himself.
But it was all quite pleasant. They were still flirting amiably and Claudine had started touching his arm every so often, when he spotted Mia entering the restaurant. And wasn’t it just amazing how he lost all interest in Claudine at once?
Mia’s hair was slightly dishevelled and her cheeks were flushed from the wind. She had on slim-fitting black trousers and a scarlet blouse. Her leather biker’s jacket was hooked to her middle finger and slung over her shoulder but still she looked totally feminine. She was not the most glamorously dressed nor the prettiest woman in the room, but as she walked towards his table Nick noticed that every male head in the place turned to look at her.
‘Hi, Claudine.’
‘Mia.’ Claudine’s voice was cool. ‘I took pity on poor Nick. He was sitting here all alone and bored with himself.’
‘Sorry, Nick.’ Mia made an annoyed gesture. ‘Those idiot builders next door shorted the electricity supply to my house. The second time this week, would you believe. I’ve been on the phone trying to get it fixed—that’s why I’m late.’
‘Did you get it sorted?’
‘No. I’ll be without power until tomorrow. Lisa and I had to cancel our last appointments today. We couldn’t use the machines.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you two to it.’ Claudine got up from the chair, but before moving away she brushed a finger against Nick’s cheek. ‘Don’t forget our date, handsome.’
Nick coloured under Mia’s gaze. ‘She promised to cook me a celebration dinner after the fight.’
‘Sweet of her. Careful, Nicky. She’ll feed your heart through her Magimix.’
‘Well, you know me—I’m in favour of extreme sports.’
Mia grinned and raised her glass of wine in a mock salute. ‘Here’s to living on the edge. But when she turns your pretty blue eyes brown, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Anyway’—she dismissed Claudine from the conversation and reached for the menu—‘what looks good?’
They took their time over dinner and talked with the ease that comes from long friendship and from growing up together. Twelve years he had been away but those years seemed unsubstantial, of no consequence. This was what was important, Nick thought; this right here. Mia was telling him a story about Lisa’s new boyfriend—a funny story—but he wasn’t really concentrating. He was content merely to be with her and to watch her face: the wide-spaced eyes, the mouth that turned up at the corners, making it look as though she were always just about to smile, the charmingly skew-whiff nose he loved so much.
But the years he had been away had also left gaps in his understanding of who she was. She lifted her hand and pushed a strand of hair from her face. Her sleeve fell away from her wrist and on the pale skin the inked Usui symbols looked like the indecipherable footprints of birds in dust. He knew those symbols were associated with Reiki and healing and energy transference, but he had no real understanding of what they meant—she had acquired them after he had moved to Scotland. Things had happened to her during those twelve years of which he knew nothing. Secret things. Sometimes he even had the fanciful idea that she lived another life as well, like some mysterious, beautiful cat who explored the dark after everyone had gone to sleep.
He loved this woman. He should try to move things between them to the next level. Why couldn’t he find the right words? But he knew why. If he crashed and burned, it might be the end of their friendship and he did not think he would be able to bear that. He used to have more courage when he was younger. ‘Mia Lockhart, will you give me the key to unlock your heart?’ he once wrote to her. Considering he was only thirteen years old at the time, it was not a bad effort. Mia had been kind but firm. She would probably still be kind today but once he said the words and she rejected them, the continental drift would start.
Towards the end of the evening, over coffee, they talked about Valentine.
‘I have to admit I hardly ever thought of him while I was away,’ Nick said. ‘But now that I know I’ll never see him again, I badly want to have a beer with the guy.’
‘I keep
thinking of that bomb the two of you made in your mum’s garage when you were ten.’
‘It’s a wonder we didn’t kill ourselves.’ Nick shook his head, remembering. He and Valentine had jammed a marble down a lead tube and then tried to blow it out of the tube using household cleaning products and petrol. The subsequent explosion had ripped a crater in the floor of the garage and had cracked the windows of four houses. The marble stayed put.
He looked at her. ‘You and Valentine kept in touch over the years.’
Her eyes were lowered now; he couldn’t see her expression. ‘Not so much after he left for Liverpool. But, yes, we kept in touch.’
‘Did you know he was coming out of retirement?’
‘No.’ Her voice was almost inaudible. ‘He didn’t tell me.’
She hesitated. ‘Nick…’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you remember Jeff Carruthers? He used to train at Scorpio. He was transferred by the company he works for and now lives in Manchester. He left Scorpio about a fortnight after you came back.’
‘I think I remember him.’ Nick thought for a moment. ‘Welterweight, red hair?’
‘That’s him.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s fighting next week.’
He waited for her to go on, but she was quiet, seemingly intent on stirring her tea.
‘He’s a friend of yours?’
‘Yes.’
For a moment he had the feeling that she wanted to add something. Something important. ‘Mia? What’s wrong?’
The Keeper Page 7
