‘He was one determined fighter.’
‘Any bad habits? Clubbing? Drinking? Women?’
‘Not Bill. Dedicated, he was. And he never trained as hard as he did for that last fight. He was at his peak.’ Driver got to his feet. ‘I have a picture of him here. Let me show you.’
Driver walked to the pinboard and unerringly removed a snapshot from among the dozens of photographs.
Nick stared at the picture. Muso had obviously just worked out; his body was glistening with sweat. Like most cage fighters he had massive shoulders and his upper body was strongly muscled. In the photo he was laughing, open-mouthed. Someone was standing next to Muso, but the picture was cut off and all Nick could see was the other man’s arm around Muso’s shoulders.
‘This photo was taken during the last sparring session Bill had. Two days later he stepped into the cage for his fight. This man here’—Driver pointed at the arm—‘was Muso’s training buddy.’
‘Is he around, by any chance? Can I talk to him?’
Driver shook his head. ‘After Bill’s death, I never saw him again. He told me he couldn’t cope with coming to the gym any more. Too many painful memories. Understandable, I suppose: they were pretty tight, those two.’
‘What were Muso’s most outstanding characteristics?’
‘He was always jumping. Strong energy. Never still for a moment. Lots of self-confidence.’
‘If you had to use one word to describe him?’
Driver stood for a moment, thinking. ‘Heart. He had a lot of heart, that man. He didn’t always win, but he never gave up. That’s heart. You either have it or you don’t. Can’t beg it; can’t borrow it; can’t steal it.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
There was the matter of Ash’s tattoo. Mia kept stalling.
‘It’s going to be painful. Especially if you persist in wanting it… where you want it.’
He sighed. ‘I’ll try not to scream too loudly.’
‘This is your first tattoo. You do understand that once it is on, it’s on. No chance for a do-over.’
‘I’ll take my chances.’
‘Are you sure this is what you want?’
‘Come on, Mia; let’s get on with it. What’s your problem?’
What indeed? She couldn’t understand herself why she was so nervous about the whole thing.
Ash seemed restless today. He was tapping his fingers on the surface of the table. The expression on his face was tense and there were shadows under his eyes.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course. So when are we doing this?’ He gestured at the sheet of paper on which she had drawn the tattoo.
She looked down at the drawing. Even though she said so herself, the design was attractive. He wanted it unique, and unique was what he got.
The tattoo would be largely made up of glyphs, symbols, oriental ideograms and icons. He had provided these himself and it had been her task to fuse them into an attractive visual image. She had decided to arrange them into a long, flowing snake-like design, which would sit low on his hips, stretching from one side of his body to the other. He had told her he wanted the tattoo in the hara zone—and she could understand why. The hara was the storeroom of energy and the centre of life. In the West a shot to kill would be targeted at the head or the heart. In the East it would be the hara. Chilli once told her that hara-kiri literally meant ‘to cleave the stomach’—to obliterate chi—which was why samurai who committed seppuku had disembowelled themselves by plunging their swords into their abdomen.
She had no idea of the meaning of many of the symbols she would be transferring to Ash’s skin, which made things difficult. Even though she would be using a stencil, it was easy to make a mistake and it was important that every one of the glyphs and ideograms she transferred to his skin be absolutely identical to the original. A lapse in concentration could be disastrous: just one wrong stroke, and the entire meaning of a symbol could change. She would never forget how a friend of hers once tattooed a giant Chinese ideogram on to a client’s back. The sign was supposed to symbolise something profound and life-changing but, because of one incorrect line, ended up signifying ‘chicken feet’.
Mixed in with all the oriental ideograms and idiosyncratic signs Ash had given her were a few numerals: 8, 15, 33, 81, 271.
‘These’—he tapped his finger to the paper—‘I want tattooed exactly on the kikai tanden.’
The kikai tanden was situated about two inches below the navel. It was the inner compass of the body and the centre for balance and breathing: probably the most crucial area in martial arts. The numbers must be important to him. Mia looked at Ash curiously.
‘What are they?’
‘Numbers.’
‘I can see that. What do they mean?’
He only shrugged in response.
She was irritated by his evasiveness. ‘Your lottery numbers?’
‘Great idea.’ He suddenly grinned, the tenseness round his eyes slackening. ‘Maybe I should; they could work out well for me. No, dear heart, those numbers are my energy numbers: the days when the light emissions from my body are perfectly correlated.’
‘There is actual light shining from your body?’
‘Not just mine, yours too.’
‘Oh…’ She stared at him, enchanted. ‘Is that true?’
‘Oh, yes, light inside the body has definitely been proven. A German scientist by the name of Fritz-Albert Popp—a Nobel Prize nominee, by the way, not some weirdo boffin—discovered definite biophoton emissions coming from humans.’
‘Light in the body… That sounds like chi.’
He shrugged again. ‘Who’s to say this light is chi? I believe it is; many scientists do not. Some are still struggling with the whole idea of light-inside-the-body to begin with. But it’s not just humans, of course: all living things emit a permanent current of photons, from only a few to a few hundred. Plants, animals… people.’
‘Shiny happy people. I like that. It’s very REM.’
‘Well, don’t get too carried away. A piece of broccoli emits more light than a person.’ He smiled wryly. ‘The higher you are up the evolutionary tree, the more difficult it is to find the light. But it is there—and it has huge implications.’
‘I can’t say I understand all this stuff about biophotons. But I do know I can feel chi.’
‘Of course you can, Mia.’ This time his smile was almost tender. ‘And you don’t need to be shown photon emissions in a lab, you simply know. I’ve watched you train: you’re the real thing. The rest of us are still quibbling about semantics, but you simply tap into your energy intuitively.’
She looked away, confused by the look in his eyes.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, his voice light, ‘it’s important not to disturb the system: to keep your biophoton emissions coherent and the periodic rhythms stable. That’s what keeps you healthy. And I’ve been lucky: my energy numbers have been constant for a long time now, the emissions on these days identical year after year. A good reason to have them tattooed on my body, don’t you think? An affirmation as well as a wish.’
‘Wish?’
‘That they will continue. And never change.’
‘All things change, Ash. You can’t stop it.’
‘Yes, you can. You need only to know how.’
Something dark flickered behind his eyes. For a moment she had an overwhelming feeling that he wanted to reach out and touch her, but then he pushed his hands into his pockets and she could see him tightening his fingers into fists. Suddenly, she felt unnerved.
But his voice was casual. ‘So when is D-Day? The design is finished. When are we going to walk the walk?’
Mia touched her hand to the long black flow of magic writing. ‘It looks like a snake.’
‘No, it looks like a wave.’
‘OK.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Let’s do it. But I need to make a stencilled copy of the images first. So shall we say… Thursday?’
He nodde
d in satisfaction. ‘Thursday.’
• • •
He arrived at ten in the evening after the studio had closed. From her bedroom upstairs, Mia heard Lisa letting Ash in and, shortly after, shouting up the stairs that she was leaving. Lisa sounded petulant. Earlier she had asked Mia if she could watch, but Mia had been firm. She was still nervous about this job and the last thing she needed was an audience. Besides, she had the strong suspicion that Lisa’s only motivation was to ogle.
As Mia walked into the studio, she found Sweetpea resting comfortably on Ash’s arm. Sweetpea’s initial truculence was long gone. Like everyone else, it seemed, she had been charmed by Ash.
He looked over at Mia. ‘Aren’t you worried she’ll run away?’
‘Run?’
‘OK, maybe not run, but you know what I mean. I found her at the open window.’
Mia turned on the tap at the basin and started scrubbing her hands. Over the sound of the running water she said, ‘She never does. I have never once found her on the outside windowsill. Inside, yes, but never outside. It’s as though she doesn’t want to leave.’
‘Well, I can understand that. I wouldn’t want to leave either.’
Mia glanced at him over her shoulder.
‘I’m sure you spoil her to death, is what I mean.’
‘Yes, she’s a pampered pet. But I’m pretty dependent on her too. I can’t imagine life without Sweetpea.’
Mia dried her hands and pulled on her gloves.
‘Right.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Why don’t you take off your shirt?’
He had broad shoulders and narrow hips—like a swimmer—and he was muscular. But his chest was the flat chest of the boxer and martial artist, not the pumped-up breasts you find among weight-lifters. He lay back, loosened the belt on his jeans and tugged at them until they sat below his hips.
Mia felt suddenly shy. At the same time, she was exasperated with herself. Ash was hardly the first guy she had worked on. Many of her other male clients had required her to do tattoos on far more private places.
‘I’m going to have to shave you.’ She spoke briskly to hide her embarrassment.
‘Please do.’
Mia glanced at him sharply but his face was perfectly serious.
She picked up a disposable razor from the tray. As she placed the blade on to his skin, she was surprised to see her hand shaking. Stop it, she told herself savagely. Taking another deep breath, she gently dragged the blade across the silky hairs pointing downwards in a dark spiral.
She tossed the razor into the bin, smoothed a paper towel soaked with antiseptic across the area to be inked and blotted it dry. Then she took another piece of paper towel and ran a stick of clear deodorant across it and pressed down. ‘To make the stencilled images stick to your skin,’ she explained to him, ‘I need you to stand up again and face the mirror. I want to see how the tattoo will lie.’
Skin is not flat canvas. Muscles wrap and twist and will determine the appearance of the tattoo. A good body artist always takes the sitter’s musculature into consideration, which was why she wanted to see the wave stencilled on to his skin before she started to work.
When he stood in front of the mirror, she sat down on her heels in front of him and pressed the stencilled image against his skin. She could feel his heat through her latex gloves and she sensed her face growing red. Keeping her eyes resolutely on the stencil in front of her, she peeled it off—slowly, slowly—leaving behind ethereal purple images.
The tattoo would sit well. The wave flowed gracefully. She touched her fingers to the purple shadows. ‘Is this how you want it?’
‘That’s how I want it.’
She looked up at him. He was staring down at her with hooded eyes.
‘Once I start working, there’s no going back. You have to be sure.’
‘I am sure.’
‘Let’s do it.’
• • •
Skin.
Nothing was more seductive or sensual. Or a more poignant reminder of your own mortality.
Marry ink to skin and you make a commitment for life. From now on you are marked, forever displaying a visual clue to what it is that stirs your soul. It can tell of desire, love, hope. It can tell of hate.
His skin was flawless. In the white glare of the lamp it glowed with a supreme gloss of vitality.
The lamp threw a tight pool of light but the far reaches of the room were dim and outside the window it was dark. There were few sounds drifting in from the street.
While she worked, they didn’t speak. The air between them felt charged and she was conscious that his eyes never left her face. The relationship between tattoo artist and client is always an intimate one, of course. The intimacy is physical—skin, blood, nerves—but, more than that, it is emotional. The artist is entrusted with making visible a dream or desire so potent, the bearer wishes to carry it to the grave.
She sat back, closing her eyes for a moment. It was a challenging job. Not only did the ideograms have to be perfect, but they also had to look beautiful. Instead of merely filling in the outlines of the symbols, she was using the magnum shader almost like a brush to convey a feel of calligraphy. It was painstaking work with no room for error.
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Would you mind if we called it a night? I’m worried I’m losing my focus.’
‘How many more sessions do you think we’ll need?’
‘If we try for an hour at a time… three, possibly four.’
Ash’s skin was raised and irritated and dotted with scarlet flecks. How much bleeding there is differs greatly from one individual to another. Ash bled a lot—she actually had the fanciful thought that he had too much blood inside his body—and the gleaming drops pushed relentlessly through the skin, ringing the freshly tattooed charms with bright red. It was another reason she did not want to continue for too long.
Gently she dabbed the skin with a cold water and alcohol solution.
‘Did you always know you wanted to be a body artist?’
She turned her head to look at him. He was lying flat on his back, his head propped up on one strong arm. It was strange to find herself looking down at him for a change. He was inches taller than she was.
‘I suppose so. It never occurred to me to do anything else. My mum probably had a lot to do with it.’
‘Tell me about her.’
‘My mother was a special person.’ She hesitated. ‘But she sometimes made people feel… uncomfortable.’
He didn’t say anything, just waited for her to continue.
‘People called her a witch. She was accused of being weird and full of superstition.’
Which was not deserved, Mia thought. Yes, Molly had found luminosity lurking in the shadow of the mundane. She could sense forces hiding behind the dusty curtain of everyday living and the world she bequeathed to her daughter was an extraordinary one. But Molly had not been a superstitious woman. A black cat was only a black cat. Walking underneath a ladder was to be avoided not because it might bring you bad luck but because something might fall on your head. Werewolves, vampires, shape-shifters: these were creatures that inhabited the pages of a book.
‘And your grandmother?’
‘I never knew her: she died before I was born. My mother said she was a free spirit.’ In actual fact, Molly had used the word ‘adventurous’. Coming from Molly, this probably meant her grandmother had lived out on a limb.
She glanced back at him. ‘What about you? How did you decide what you wanted to do with your life?’
‘I come from a medical background. My father was a doctor. I once sneaked into his office when I was fourteen years old. He didn’t hear me come in; he was watching a video that was taken in the room of a hospital where transplant donors are kept. These people are brain-dead, you understand, but they are still hooked up to a machine and they look alive. They’re breathing; their blood is warm. Anyway, the video my father was watching monitored the organ donation of one particular patient�
�my grandmother.’
Mia stared at him in horror. ‘You mean you watched as her organs were removed? When you were only a child?’
‘Well, I had already said goodbye to her in the hospital a few days earlier. And the removal of the organs was quite peaceful. The transplant surgeons came one at a time—not all of them together. One took her liver. Another her kidneys. Another her eyes. And her heart, of course. Did you know the heart can beat on its own, even when outside the body? I remember standing behind my father’s chair—hoping he wouldn’t turn round and find me there because then I’d have to leave, and I didn’t want to, I was too fascinated.’
She was starting to feel queasy. ‘He discovered you?’
‘Yes. And gave me hell for snooping.’
‘You must have had nightmares afterwards.’
‘I had dreams, but that’s not the same thing. And organs are beautiful, you know. They glisten. But what I do remember is that this was the first time I believed my father to be mistaken—totally wrong. Up till then he had been omniscient in my eyes: the repository of all knowledge. But that day, before he kicked me out of the room, he made very sure to explain to me that what I had been looking at was a dead person. That just because she breathed and her heart was beating did not make her alive, because her brain was gone. ‘The home of the soul’ was how my father described it. My father was a religious man.’
‘And you did not believe him?’
‘No. I don’t think the soul is caged inside the brain, or the heart for that matter. Even at that age I sensed that the soul or the life force—or whatever you feel like calling it—was much more pervasive and encompassing: that body, mind and spirit are indivisible.’
‘So in a roundabout way your path was set by your father just as mine was by my mother.’
‘I suppose so. But the real catalyst came later, when I was a young man. The person who is responsible for who I am today is a girl. Her name is Rosalia.’
She looked at him enquiringly but he merely smiled. ‘Maybe I’ll tell you about her one day.’
He lifted his arm above his head and glanced at his watch. ‘It’s late.’
The Keeper Page 13
