The Keeper

by Natasha Mostert

  ‘How’s Okie?’ she asked him.

  ‘He’s fine. But he’s still looking for his lucky penny.’

  Mia sighed. It had become a ritual: Okie searching for a lucky penny on the night of the fight. It was to be a serendipitous thing—the penny was to ‘come’ to him. If it did, he was sure to win—according to Okie, that was. If the penny failed to materialise, he would drive everyone in the changing room crazy with his pre-fight jitters.

  ‘Why don’t you lot just leave one for him to find?’

  ‘Don’t think we haven’t tried. JC’s planted two pennies already but he keeps missing them.’

  ‘Nick, is he fit enough?’

  ‘He’s not in top shape, but he’s OK. He went training with me and Ash yesterday and I was surprised. He didn’t do too badly. He even did a few rounds of grappling with Ash and his rib held up fine.’

  She felt her face grow warm at the mention of Ash’s name. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Ash? No. Something last-minute came up.’

  So one less thing to worry about at least. Since their little scene in the studio three days ago, she had avoided Ash. But at some point she would have no choice but to face him—for one thing, she still had to finish his tattoo. She didn’t even want to think about that.

  Nick squeezed her shoulder. ‘I need to get back. Okie asked me to be in his corner. And don’t worry: Okie will be fine. This is not a big fight, OK?’

  ‘OK. Give him my love.’

  ‘Will do.’

  The lights dimmed and the urgent strains of Kasabian’s ‘Club Foot’ blasted from the overhead speakers. The first fight was on.

  As the first two fighters started circling each other, Mia suddenly remembered the text message that had come through on her mobile. She eased the phone from her pocket and pressed the message button.

  MIA YOU ARE OKIE’S KEEPER. WHY DID YOU FAIL HIM?

  Her eyes flew to the sender’s phone number, but it was unknown to her and obviously did not correspond with any of the numbers in her contact list.

  Her thumb moved stiffly across the keys. Who are you?

  She waited, her breath tight inside her chest. Beside her Lanice was shouting at one of the fighters, ‘Punches in bunches, James! Punches in bunches!’

  WE MET LAST NIGHT AT THE RETREAT, REMEMBER?

  This was ridiculous. She couldn’t keep texting this maniac. She was going to call him. But she couldn’t do it here: the din was too loud. Gesturing to Lanice that she was heading for the Ladies’, Mia eased out of her seat. Making herself as small as possible, she made her way through the tables in the direction of the exit.

  The bathroom had an avocado-and-orange-coloured carpet and smelled of spilt beer and cigarette smoke. Standing in front of the mirror was a girl dressed in a leather skirt and a very low-cut top.

  She squinted at Mia. ‘Mia, yeah? Remember me?’

  As a matter of fact, Mia did not, and if ever there was a time when she did not want to engage in a conversation, it was right this minute.

  ‘Yeah.’ The girl nodded enthusiastically. ‘You’re the tattooist. We met at the McWhinney fight.’

  ‘Oh, right. Excuse me—’

  But the girl grabbed Mia’s arm in a startlingly strong grip. ‘See, I wanted to ask you. I want to have Apollo’s head tattooed on my breast.’

  ‘Apollo?’

  ‘My boyfriend.’ The girl tugged at the neck of her top. ‘I have a few other tats already but I think you can maybe still find a spot.’

  Or maybe not. The breast that popped into view was ample but it was crowded space. Apollo was going to have to fight it out with the initials GS, a cross dripping tears and an angel. The angel’s eye drooped in a surprisingly lascivious wink.

  Mia felt hysterical laughter bubbling up inside her. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I have to go.’

  ‘No, but I want to ask you—’

  The mobile on Mia’s hip pinged and vibrated at the same time. Shaking herself loose, Mia walked into one of the stalls and slammed the door shut. On the other side, she heard the girl mutter something that sounded like ‘stuck-up bitch’. Then the swing door leading to the outside swished twice and the room was suddenly dead quiet.

  YOU FAILED OKIE.

  Mia keyed in the phone number and brought the mobile up to her ear. But no one picked up. After ringing for a full minute, the phone made a long beep sound and went dead.

  So it was back to texting again. She felt a slow lick of anger.

  WHAT DO YOU MEAN I FAILED OKIE?

  YOU LOST THE FIGHT AGAINST ME. OKIE WILL STEP INTO THE RING TONIGHT FOR THE LAST TIME.

  She felt herself go cold. Before she could text back, the phone pinged and another message flashed on to the screen.

  NEXT TIME WE PLAY, YOU WILL HAVE TO DO BETTER. IF YOU WIN, YOUR CHARGE IS SAFE. IF NOT, HIS LIFE IS FORFEIT. WE WILL GO ANOTHER ROUND YET: YOU AND ME. KEEPER AND THIEF. BUT FOR OKIE IT’S TOO LATE.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ‘Spread your fingers, Okie.’ JC tapped the top of Okie’s right hand. ‘Yes, that’s good.’ JC finished twisting the thin gauze wrap round Okie’s knuckles and taped it in place. Okie flexed his hand and nodded.

  Nick watched as JC started wrapping Okie’s left hand. No matter how often he watched this ceremony, he was always struck by a feeling of awe. The moment a fighter has his hands wrapped is the moment a sudden alchemy takes place. An ordinary hand is turned into a lethal weapon. A man is transformed into a warrior.

  But this was also the moment when Nick was reminded of exactly how fragile a fighter’s body is. Because the truth of it is, a man’s hand cannot hold up to the impact of a blow delivered with the full power of the body behind it. The metacarpal bones crack like sticks. The wrist tears and buckles. Skin splits. Wraps are essential to pad the knuckles, keep the thumb straight and strengthen the wrist. And, even then, a fighter could still end up with crippled fists.

  Okie jumped off his seat and started pacing, rolling his shoulders and punching the air. JC took Okie’s silk robe from the peg and waited for him to insert his arms into the wide sleeves.

  ‘Nick…’

  Nick turned round enquiringly. Roach Harper, the cut man, was sticking his head around the corner of the door.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Someone out front wants to talk to you.’

  Nick frowned. ‘Tell him I can’t come now.’

  ‘She says it’s urgent. Said to tell you her name’s Mia and she has to see you.’

  Nick hesitated. But it was Mia, after all. She wouldn’t call him out for something frivolous.

  As he walked down the corridor towards the door giving access to the arena, it opened and the fighters who had just finished their match walked in with their corner men. One fighter was bleeding profusely from a cut on the eyebrow. The referee had probably stopped the fight, Nick thought, which meant Okie was up next. He’d have to tell Mia that whatever she wanted to talk to him about would have to wait until later.

  She was standing right outside and she did not give him time to say anything. As soon as he stepped out, she grabbed him by the arm.

  ‘Nick. You have to stop Okie. He can’t fight tonight.’

  He could hear her struggling to keep her voice level.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘He is going to get hurt tonight. You have to stop him.’

  ‘Mia, he’s going to be fine. This is not a big fight. Okie can handle himself.’

  ‘Listen to me.’ She was actually shaking him. ‘Stop him now! He is in danger!’

  She had two high spots of colour burning on her cheeks. Her eyes were desperate.

  ‘Mia. Calm down.’ He was trying to calm down himself but it was fair to say she was doing a good job of freaking him out. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘There isn’t time to explain it to you, Nick. Just trust me. He shouldn’t go out there.’

  He stared at her, feeling at a complete loss. But before he could say anything else, the lights di
mmed and a roar of sound erupted from an overhead speaker: the Backstreet Boys launching into ‘Larger than Life’. It was Okie’s fight song, which meant he had started his walk out to the ring.

  ‘I have to go.’ He removed Mia’s hand from his sleeve, giving her fingers what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, OK? I’m going to be right there in his corner. Everything will be fine.’

  Without giving her another chance to speak, he turned on his heel and hurried back.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Dragonfly typed in the URL for the Lancaster Tavern scoreboard and waited for the screen to load. Then he moved the cursor to the menu and clicked on the flashing LIVE UPDATE link.

  The first fight, Brown vs. Dorking, was over and the judges’ scorecards were up on the screen. Five rounds and from the scorecards it was clear that Brown had dominated. The second fight had been stopped early on by the referee because the cut man had been unable to seal the gouge above one of the fighter’s eyes. The third fight, Rodriguez vs. Little, was into the final round with two minutes left. Okie was facing the last stretch.

  He leant back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  Right at this moment Okie’s body would be awash in adrenalin and catecholamine, his cerebral cortex alight with electricity. If he had an injury, he would be insensible to the pain. If a spectator shouted abuse at him, he would not hear it. The baying crowd with their open mouths, the white upturned faces of the judges: none of this would register with him. His ears would be filled with the drumbeat of his own heart and JC’s commands coming from the corner at him as if from a long way away. Maybe his mouth was dry. Maybe he was shaking the sweat from his eyes. Three rounds only. But no one who didn’t fight himself could possibly understand how incredibly tiring nine minutes of full-contact fighting was. By now, Okie’s legs would start moving just a little bit sluggishly and he would have to concentrate just that little bit more on keeping his hands from slipping as fatigue started to take its toll. And on the other side of the punches and kicks slamming into his face and into his body would be the eyes of his opponent. Who could dig the deepest? Who had the greater heart?

  He opened his eyes. The screen in front of him had changed. The judge’s scorecards were up, 9–10, 9–10, 9–10, in favour of Rodriguez. Okie had lost.

  As he logged off, he wondered how long Okie still had to live. Two days, probably. Maybe three.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The dream was back.

  She could hear her mother’s voice calling her name, leading her hesitant footsteps towards the weak pool of light bleeding into the darkness.

  Books all round her, but only one book that mattered. The Book of Light and Dust. A precious book, this; you knew it from its weight, from the carefully tooled leather. A book of secrets.

  Her pulse racing, she opened the first page. And went blind.

  Such despair! Her heart slumped and tears ran down her cheeks as she stared into the mirror and found her withered eyes staring back at her, dead and useless. No energy, no life…

  No! Mia came to with a gasp like a swimmer breaking water. Her eyelids flew open. Her heart was thudding. For a moment she did not recognise her bedroom: rain was pearling against the window and the light inside the room was pale.

  She touched her fingers to her cheek and realised she had been crying. For a few more moments she continued to lie with her body coiled. Then she swung her feet over the side of the bed, placed her elbows on her knees and propped her head on her hands. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this miserable.

  It was four days after Okie’s fight. He was alive and, as far as she could tell, well. But she remained scared. The last time she had this dream, Valentine died. Was the dream last night an omen that Okie would die too?

  What would her mother have done? The answer to that was easy: Molly would have stepped out. If a Keeper was in doubt or encountered difficulties, the Retreat was where she headed. But her mother had never encountered a shadowy figure who wanted to kill her.

  You die in here. You die out there. An OBE was a liberating experience for a Keeper but it had its dangers. Mia was fully aware that it was important not to drift too far away from the body and to return in good time. And many researchers believed there was a reason so many people who experienced OBEs were near to death. If you die inside the alternative realm created by your brain, it might be the signal that your physical body is shutting down as well.

  Mia was too frightened to go to the Retreat. It used to be her sanctuary, but her sanctuary had been breached. Who knew who was lurking there, waiting? And how had the intruder managed to step out with her? How had he managed to access her meditation space? The only person who had ever managed to accompany her to the Retreat was Molly.

  Mia reached for her mobile phone and flipped open the lid. For the hundredth time, she read the final text message:

  WE WILL GO ANOTHER ROUND YET: YOU AND ME. KEEPER AND THIEF. BUT FOR OKIE IT’S TOO LATE.

  Okie. He was her big worry. But he seemed all right. His pride had been bruised and he was sulking after his loss but he was in fairly good shape. There was a nasty bruise on his cheekbone and despite the protection of the mouth guard he had split his lip, but these injuries could hardly be considered life-threatening.

  After the fight, she had apologised to Nick for her strange behaviour. She had experienced a panic attack, she told him. She could see he found her explanation hugely unsatisfactory but what could she say? ‘I forgot to mention I’m a Keeper and I lost a fight against an intruder who is threatening Okie’s life?’ She could imagine how well that would go down with feet-on-the-ground Nick.

  Still, she had made up her mind to tell him everything after his own fight was over. She was tempted to take him into her confidence right now, but that would not be fair: this was not the time to mess with Nick’s focus. His fight was ten days away and he was concentrating on it to the exclusion of anything else—as he should. Their conversation would have to wait. She also knew Nick was still training with Ash and because of that she avoided them both.

  Ash. Just thinking about him made her feel lost and confused. But she also longed for him. What was it she really wanted from this man? Unquestionably, she felt sexual desire. When he had kissed her, she had been tempted to give herself over to him completely, for him to do with her as he wanted. She remembered the scent of his skin, the feel of his hands sliding down her back, the taste of his mouth. But then came that moment—black and cold—like a viper’s darting tongue, and she had drawn back. Something was wrong.

  Ash or Nick? The choice should be easy. She loved Nick and when she thought of him her spirits lifted and she felt warmed and nourished in a way that felt right. And Ash? Her heart sagged. With some dreadful inner knowledge that rang completely true, she recognised Ash as her true mate, not Nick.

  But her feelings for the two men were of no importance right now. Okie was the only one who mattered: everything else could wait. And so far, so good. Four days had passed since his fight: surely that must mean he was safe?

  She might even be over-reacting. Maybe the intruder wasn’t really dangerous. Maybe he was simply taunting her. It was time for her to stop obsessing and get on with things. And tonight she would make sure she swallowed the strongest sleeping pill she could lay her hands on. No creepy dreams allowed: no books with weird titles, no voices calling her.

  She was starting to feel better. And as she walked into the kitchen, the rain stopped. She opened the window and a fresh, light breeze blew inside.

  She was drinking her second cup of tea when Nick called to tell her that Okie had died on the bus on his way to work.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Okie’s memorial service felt deeply unreal to Nick. The low-ceilinged, impersonal room where the service was held seemed utterly bland and completely wrong. As he sat there listening to JC reading laboriously from his overworked eulogy, Nick realised that he had always vaguely believed that one day, wh
en his own time came, he would be buried outside where the air was clean and there was a scent of flowers. An old village churchyard, maybe, filled with headstones leaning sideways like drunken men.

  It was a wistful fantasy. With the shortage of burial space, cremation was becoming the most common form of disposing of the dead. Scenes of mourners congregating round open graves set in bright green grass were rare. These days you were asked to say goodbye in places like this.

  The room was packed. Scorpio’s members had turned out in full force and the men were trying to do it right: most of them were wearing jackets and ties. The women were dressed in muted colours, except for Claudine Normandy, who was dressed in a scarlet waist-nipping outfit. As he glanced over his shoulder, Nick noticed Ash standing at the door. When he saw Nick looking at him, he inclined his head in a slight nod.

  Sitting next to Nick was Mia. Her hand was inside his and it was so cold. Her eyes were fixed on the lectern where Okie’s favourite pair of boxing gloves was arranged next to each other. The gloves were an eye-popping yellow. None of your boring run-of-the-mill black or red leather gloves for Okie.

  Okie was dead. The thought kept repeating itself in Nick’s head like a needle sticking on a scratch in a vinyl record. Okie was dead. The words meant little.

  At the front of the room was a big photograph of Okie in his fighting stance, with rounded shoulders and raised fists. Sweat pearled on his dreadlocks. But it was the uncomplicated expression of joy in his eyes that grabbed you: I am young. I am strong. I am alive.

  And suddenly it hit home for Nick. He would never again walk into the locker room at Scorpio and find Okie, propped up on the bench, eating liquorice and reading Passion’s Harbour. Never again would he witness the fluid grace of that devastating left hook or smell the nutmeg scent of Okie’s skin as they clinched. Okie was dead. The macho swagger, the ready smile, the immense capacity for friendship: all of Okie was gone. For a second, the feeling of loss was so complete, Nick found it hard to breathe.