‘No. It’s nothing. Forget it.’ She glanced at her watch and her voice became brisk. ‘If you’re going to be pounding along the road at dawn, we should probably get you to bed.’
‘Speaking of which,’ he said as he signalled for the bill, ‘it looks as though I have a new training buddy.’
‘Good. I was hoping JC would find someone to take Okie’s place. Who is it?’
‘New guy by the name of Adrian Ashton. Actually, he told me he met you today.’
‘Ashton…’
‘Tall. Blond.’
‘Oh…’ For just a moment an odd expression flitted over her face. ‘You sparred with him? How did he handle himself?’
‘He’s fast.’ Nick shrugged. ‘Good hand speed. Great kicks. But at heart he’s a vogue. He studied internal martial arts in Asia.’
‘Interesting that he likes to spar.’
‘Yeah.’ Nick took the bill from the waiter. ‘Let me get this.’
‘The answer to that would be no.’ She smiled but her voice was decisive. ‘We go Dutch. As always.’
Right. As always.
Outside in the street, he helped her with her jacket. ‘I’m parked right there.’ He pointed at his car, a gun-metal baby Aston Martin. Even though he could now afford it, Nick did not treat himself to toys very often but the Aston Martin was the apple of his eye. The car, and the Krell Evolution music system he had installed at great expense in his flat a while back, were his two major extravagances. ‘Give me a minute, Mia, and I’ll follow you home.’
‘There’s no need, Nicky. I’ll be fine.’
‘You’re not getting your way on this one, Ms Lockhart. It’s late. Besides, Lisa told me there was some creepy stalker lurking in the park the other day who freaked you out.’
‘Lisa likes a good story. There was a man, but there was no real menace. I was just jumpy, I think. It was the day after you told me of Valentine’s death. I was still shaken.’
‘Nevertheless, I’m seeing you home.’
And as he followed the red tail light of Mia’s bike as she weaved through the traffic, Nick felt a sense of contentment. He liked feeling that he was watching over her.
It was a beautiful evening. The sky was a deep, dark blue and you could see stars. A helicopter, glittering bright as a jewel, hovered for a few moments overhead before clattering away like some beautiful alien insect. Mia suddenly took a turning fast, leaning low to the side—a manoeuvre graceful and thrilling—and then they were close to the river and there, in the distance, was the London Eye, blue and pink and purple, floating weightlessly in a sky that showed not a ribbon of cloud. Nick breathed in the night air rushing through the open car window. The river was at high tide and he could smell wet leaves and earth, strong as bitter tobacco.
In front of her house, Mia stopped her bike and kicked down its stand. Nick got out of his car but left the engine running. As he walked up to her she took off her helmet and shook loose her hair.
‘Isn’t it a magical evening?’ She smiled at him with uncomplicated delight.
Ah, Mia. He placed a hand on her arm. He should tell her how he felt. This was the right time—now—when her eyes reflected a star-filled sky and she was happy.
Her eyes moved past his shoulder and she brought her finger to her lips. He turned around.
The headlights of the car threw beams of yellow that chased the shadows. Caught in their glare was an urban fox. It was one of the thousands of light-footed animals living nocturnal existences in the streets and gardens of London, prowling around dustbins, flitting through leafy squares. Ghosts. You never saw one during the day.
The animal’s eyes shimmered with a phantom sheen. One paw was lifted hesitantly. Nick and Mia stared back at the poised animal, holding their breath. The air between them seemed to glisten and thicken. A magical evening…
Someone slammed a window shut at the end of the street, the sound echoing off the walls of the other houses. The fox turned its head and disappeared into the shadows.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mia watched the orange tail lights of Nick’s car disappear round the corner and stepped into the house. She automatically reached for the light switch on the wall. Nothing. The power was still off.
Her good mood starting to ebb, she navigated her way slowly down the dark steps into the kitchen, one hand steadying herself against the wall, the other outstretched in the gloom. She had some candles in the larder, she remembered. Was there a box of matches as well?
The candles were on the top shelf, but she could not find the matches. She seemed to recall seeing some in the drawer next to her bed—one of those small matchbooks you find in restaurants. Candle in one hand, she made her way up the stairs once more.
A breath of cool air made her pause. The window on the first landing was open. In her rush to meet Nick, she must have forgotten to close it. Stupid of her to be so careless.
For a moment she stood quietly, her hand resting on the windowsill. She was looking out on to the dark expanse of garden that lay to the back of her house. Her own outdoor space was small, little more than a patio with overfull tubs of flowers, but backing on to her property were the long narrow Victorian gardens of her neighbours. She could smell the star jasmine drifting in from old Mrs Quinn’s hedge and the sluggish scent of roses. Someone was playing a Byrds CD, the sound faint but the song so familiar that she could repeat the words in her head. ‘A time to be born, a time to die…a time to kill, a time to heal…’.
It used to be one of Molly’s favourite songs.
She suddenly wished fiercely for her mother. She missed her father too, of course she did, but Molly had been the dominant force in her life. Maybe it was being with Nick tonight and revisiting old memories, but an overwhelming wave of longing swept over her. Since Valentine’s death she had the strongest feeling that things were changing irrevocably and soon everything that was safe and familiar would be gone and she would have to walk where she did not want to go. Molly would have been able to reassure her.
‘We make our own stories, Mia.’ Molly smiling at her where she sat in front of the dressing table, brushing her hair with long, firm strokes. ‘Never be afraid. Never back off. Don’t let anyone stop you from living your own story now.’
That had been Molly’s talent—to live in the moment. Growing up with a mother for whom planning was anathema presented its own challenges, of course. Equal parts exhilaration and apprehension was probably the best way to describe it; like taking a ride on the big dipper without strapping yourself in first. Molly was bright colours, creativity and laughter. She was temper tantrums and mood swings. Nothing about her mother had been muted. Not her loves, nor her hates, not the way in which she had lived her life.
But in other respects Molly had made sure she gave her daughter the opportunity of growing up conventionally. Juan’s job as a diver had taken him all over the country but Molly had decided it was not in Mia’s best interests for them to follow him around. Mia had lived her entire life in this one house: you couldn’t get more stable than that. And if it was up to her, she would never leave this place until the day they carried her out, feet first. She felt rooted here to an extraordinary degree. Even now, as she stood looking out of the window, it was as though she could sense the secret lives behind the walls of the darkened houses around her—as though she were connected to every drawn breath. If she closed her eyes she could swear she felt the city itself breathing—in, out—a vast sentient presence pressing on her heart. This was where she belonged.
Something cold touched her hand; something soft. Mia gave a small scream. But it was only Sweetpea.
‘Hey, girl. What are you doing here?’ Sweetpea nudged her again. Chameleons were supposed to be deaf but Mia had never believed this. She hefted Sweetpea on to her shoulder. ‘Let’s go to bed, what do you say?’
She closed the window and continued walking up the stairs, but when she reached the second landing she thought she heard a sound down below. A door closing? She paused, listeni
ng.
Nothing. It was her imagination. She was still skittish from the scare Sweetpea had given her, that was all. She continued up the dark stairs, her hand trailing along the balustrade to guide her.
Inside her bedroom she deposited Sweetpea on top of the headboard of her bed before groping inside the drawer of the bedside table. Her fingers brushed the matchbook and she gave a sigh of relief. The matches were thin and bendy but she finally managed to strike one into life and light the candle.
The tiny flame threw large shadows. Mia took a nightdress from the cupboard and started to undress. Her figure—all long, spindly arms and legs—moved across the wall next to her like an elongated shadow puppet. Taking the candle with her, she crossed the room and knelt down in front of a large trunk. As she opened it, a fugitive scent of verbena and bitter herbs escaped from its depths. Hidden underneath a stack of jumpers were two small wooden boxes embossed with silver filigree-work.
She sat down cross-legged in front of the old-fashioned standing mirror in the corner of the room. Her reflection seemed to be floating and the mirror’s surface shimmered with shadows and light.
Mia opened the first box. Inside was a nest of stainless-steel acupuncture filament needles—already sterilised by autoclave—and a small plastic bag filled with sticks of moxa: herb mixture.
She carefully touched the flame from needle to needle and ignited the moxa, causing it to smoulder. Breathing out slowly, slowly, she inserted the first needle into her skin approximately two finger-widths away from the crease in her left wrist. Almost immediately she could feel the deqi sensation at the point of insertion. The second and third needles went into the he and gu points in the web between the thumb and the palm and the fourth at the base of her throat. She could feel her skin turning warm from the conducted heat.
Slowly she lifted the lid on the second box. Inside were three pictures. The top one was of Valentine. He was wrapping his hands in preparation for his gloves and his face was uncharacteristically pensive. A feeling of sorrow touched her mind but she pushed the picture to one side and reached for the one just underneath. Jeff Carruthers had been photographed in a typical fighter’s pose: fists raised, chin lowered, his expression ferocious.
Over the past days it had been very difficult for her not to check on Jeff obsessively. Valentine’s death had spooked her but she had to keep reminding herself that there was nothing to suggest that his death had been anything but a natural tragedy. There was another full week to go before Jeff’s fight and there was nothing to suggest that anything was wrong. If she kept calling him, he would become alarmed.
But with Jeff getting ready to enter the ring, it was time for her to go to work: time to start doing what she did best. Tonight was only the first phase. On the night before Jeff’s fight, she would follow in the footsteps of Keepers over the centuries and step out fully. Stepping out. Even though she had done so many times before, the idea alone still filled her with excitement.
Against the wall above her bed, Sweetpea threw an oversized shadow: humpbacked silhouette; one big round eye. Mia blew out the candle and Sweetpea’s shadow melted into darkness.
Some people can run fast. Some people can do maths. She was good at keeping fighters safe. That’s what Keepers do. It was as simple as that. And as complicated.
The energy flowed cleanly through her body. Keeping Jeff’s face in her mind, she closed her eyes. Her intent absolute, she reached out to him. Hon Sha Ze Sho Nen. No past, no present, no future. The Buddha in me reaching out to the Buddha in you.
Time floated like petals on water. When she opened her eyes again the hands on the alarm clock were twenty minutes further along. She removed the needles from her body and replaced them along with Jeff’s photo inside the boxes. Tomorrow night she would repeat this long-distance healing ritual and she would continue to do so until Friday, when she would step out fully.
She was very sleepy now, as was always the case when she did this. Because of the heat of the night, she lay down on top of the sheets, not underneath.
She was starting to slip into sleep, her fingers twitching involuntarily, her eyeballs moving underneath their closed lids. Jeff’s face was fading in and out, becoming jumbled up with the flotsam and debris of her subconscious mind…
…haragei and a stranger watching her from across a garden square filled with rain and shadows. Nick pouring wine into her glass and a stray drop staining the tablecloth like a crimson tear. A fox staring at her with gleaming eyes. The sound of a song drifting through dark gardens: ‘a time to kill, a time to heal…’. Molly saying, ‘We make our own stories, Mia.’
Stories. Old stories. Ancient memories…
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was an old, old story: the battle-scarred warrior and the beautiful woman taking him into her keeping. And, like all powerful myths, it was repeated in different incarnations in different cultures. Odin’s fair-haired Valkyries carried slain warriors to an everlasting feast in Valhalla. Irish Morrighan demanded of the warrior of her choice that he make love to her before going into battle. If he accepted, he was victorious; if he refused, he died.
Sex, ritual, bravery, death. The stuff legends and dreams are made of. The thief believed in dreams: he lived his life by them. And he believed in legends. But could legend survive in an age of binary code? Could it survive in a time in which physical strength and courage were no longer celebrated as the ultimate male accomplishments? In a world in which ritualised, hand-to-hand combat was marginalised, was there still room for a Keeper?
Before he met Valentine, his answer would have been no. But when he met Valentine, he made a discovery. Somewhere out there among the rows of soot-blackened houses and dirty streets, the high-rises, the television aerials, CCTV cameras, beeping mobile phones, city grit and rattling Tube trains, there lived a Keeper. A warrior woman who possessed the gift of healing energy.
The moment he first became aware of her existence was still fresh in his mind. He and Valentine had just finished training and were getting dressed in the men’s changing room.
Valentine stripped off his T-shirt, stretched and scratched himself. He was not tall but he was powerfully built. On one muscled shoulder was tattooed the head of a wolf—his fighter’s emblem. But it was the other tattoo, the one on his heart, that was key.
Two eyes were inked into Valentine’s skin. Contained in one eye was a symbol that looked like a circle with three lines entering it at an angle. As he stared at Valentine, he knew he had seen this tattoo before, if only he could remember where.
Valentine noticed his interest. ‘I got it done when I first started fighting professionally.’
‘Very cool. Who did it for you?’
‘A very cool lady.’
‘Why eyes?’
Valentine flashed a grin. ‘She insisted.’
And he now remembered where he had seen these eyes with the mysterious symbol before: it was on the wall of a monastery in Thailand. It was a protection tattoo—the mark of a Keeper.
During the years he spent travelling in Asia he had heard stories of women who protected warriors who were preparing for hand-to-hand combat. These Keepers used the ancient art of fa gung—the transmission of chi through meditation—to protect their charges against harm and always left their mark of protection on the skin of the men in their keep. For the rest of his life, the warrior would carry with him an amulet, a talisman.
These stories were rarely written down. They were part of the secretive lore of Okuden, the ‘inside hidden teachings’ of martial arts. Knowledge of Keepers was passed on from mother to daughter and from Keeper to warrior. And just as many martial-arts techniques were lost in the mists of time through a tradition of oral instruction and obsessive secrecy, so the Keeper and her true purpose had become an enigmatic fragment in a half-forgotten tale of magic and valour.
Could it be that he had found one? The possibility blew his mind. And it added an additional challenge to his quest. Valentine had something he want
ed. Usually, that would not be a problem—he would simply steal it. But this time, he would have to mislead a Keeper.
How?
It had taken him weeks to crack that riddle. In the end, he found the answer in an obscure volume of bugei. ‘For the Keeper has two tools: she must hold him in her dream and mark him with her sign.’ One sentence only, but it was enough. It had enabled him to slip in under the Keeper’s radar. She couldn’t hold Valentine in her dream if she didn’t know he was about to fight. It was that simple. And once he had stolen from Valentine what he needed, he had turned his attention fully to tracking her down.
He had found her.
He was inside her house.
The open window had been an unexpected bonus—he should make the most of this opportunity. As he walked slowly up the stairs he could smell the mugwort she had burned. For a moment he hesitated at the threshold of the room, but his eyes were already dark-adapted from waiting downstairs inside the pitch-black studio and he had no difficulty making out her quiet form on top of the bed.
Her head rested on her pillow at an angle, the hair curtaining her face. One leg was pulled up to form a relaxed, lopsided triangle. Her hands were resting on her breasts as though posed.
She had already slipped from meditation into proper sleep, her brain waves slowing from the 4–7Hz theta state of deep meditation into the 3Hz sleep state. She was oblivious to the world. She would not sense him.
He stood silently next to the bed, looking down at her, and the desire to take from her what he wanted—needed—was so great he tasted it in his mouth. He could steal it from her right now. It was why he had tracked her down and moved to London.
Take it. It would be easy…
Her angled, pale neck looked vulnerable.
He balled his hands into fists and swallowed deeply. Not yet. He was curious. He wanted to be there when the time came for her to step out fully. The rush of blood in his ears slowly subsided and he knew he had managed to repress the hunger.
The Keeper Page 8
