The Keeper

by Natasha Mostert

  When Nick placed her back on her feet, she glanced up self-consciously. ‘Ash, hi.’ She was smiling but there was just a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

  For a moment he flashed back on the kiss he had given her in the studio. The feel of her tongue moving against his. The warmth of her skin where his hand had lingered at the crease of her blouse. He remembered the rush he felt at the knowledge of her beating heart against his palm, of the meridians of energy flowing cleanly beneath the tips of his fingers.

  She cleared her throat. ‘How’s Nick looking for Saturday?’

  ‘He’s going to be unstoppable.’

  There was something different about her, he thought. She had bruises under her eyes but they were not shadows left by worry. Her lips, he noticed, were just slightly swollen. Nick was looking down at Mia and the expression in his eyes was veiled, but there was no mistaking the tenderness with which he brushed a tendril of hair from her forehead.

  They were lovers. The realisation struck him with the force of a blow.

  ‘Ash?’

  He looked Nick in the face and for a moment he had difficulty focusing. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve got to dash. I have a plane to catch.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Work. But I’ll be back later tonight. And we’ll meet up at the dojo tomorrow morning. Our final spar before the fight, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked away from Nick to Mia. ‘You still need to finish my tattoo.’

  ‘I know.’ Her eyes slid away from his. ‘Let’s plan on doing that after the fight.’

  ‘OK.’

  He watched them walk away down the lane with its russet-coloured trees. Mia was wearing a long dress in some kind of pale, floaty material, her waist cinched by a big leather belt. She was talking to Nick and her face was tilted up to his. Nick had one arm round her shoulders, his head bent down to listen. The effect was as determinedly romantic as a Kodak moment.

  He closed his eyes. He suddenly had a blinding headache.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  After Nick had left for Liverpool, Mia felt restless. Even though it was a typical autumn day with muted sunlight, the air felt suffocating and oppressive. The day passed slowly. In fact, it was so quiet in the studio that she and Lisa decided to close early. Hoping to escape the sense of foreboding, Mia headed for Scorpio.

  On the front desk was a photograph of Okie and a black ribbon trailing across it. The atmosphere inside the dojo was subdued. Someone laughed and then checked himself abruptly.

  She trained hard for an hour but the feeling of serenity that usually followed after a demanding workout proved elusive. As she stood at the water cooler, drinking from a plastic cup, someone touched her elbow. It was Chilli.

  Chilli was half Portuguese, half Japanese, and had been her sensei since she was a little girl. But as she looked at his narrow, clever face, she realised again how little she knew about him. He was divorced and had a daughter and a son who lived with their mother in Portugal; that much she knew. But whether he was close to his children she had no idea. She had never even met them. Still, Chilli had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember. He was her martial-arts mentor in the most important sense of the word, helping her in her search for the way—do. She and Chilli might not ever have spent much time exchanging personal information, but he was her sensei and she was his student and this was a profound relationship.

  For a few minutes they stood silently side by side, watching the fighters and trainers at work—this small, tight-knit world with its rivalries and camaraderies—and, as always, Chilli’s presence had a calming effect on her.

  There was a sudden shout at the far side of the dojo where a sparring bout was taking place and one of the fighters held his hand up against his nose, blood spurting crimson between his fingers.

  ‘You must sometimes find this very odd, Chilli.’

  He inclined his head enquiringly.

  She gestured at the injured man. ‘The idea that you have to injure your body in pursuit of excellence. What you teach is so different.’

  ‘I teach martial arts, not fine arts.’ His voice was mild. ‘A sword is beautiful to look at but it is still a sword. It is made for combat. I’ve told you that often enough.’

  ‘I know, but we practise budo. We strive for refinement of the spirit.’

  ‘Budo is not an abstraction, Mia. Searching for the way is a physical thing. The fighting applications I teach you are real.’

  His eyes travelled back to the injured fighter who was now allowing his bloody nose to be tended to by his sparring partner, who was making clucking noises like a worried hen.

  ‘That’s not my way, you’re right. That’s his way. But it, too, is valid. That man there knows what it feels like to confront his fears. In some ways he manages easily what you and I strive for through thousands of hours of practice: he goes directly to the goal. He lives now, he feels now. His experience is not filtered through the constant internal dialogue we have going on inside our minds. It is immediate.’

  He looked back at her. ‘By this time, the fighting applications I have taught you are hardwired into your bones and your brain. If you are ever called to do so, you will be able to draw on them like a warrior draws his sword. No, you will become the sword.’

  Mia didn’t answer. Into her mind came the memory of a man dressed in black, throwing her to the ground, placing his hands on her, leaving her terrified and helpless.

  Chilli tapped her lightly on the arm. ‘You should take a shower before you cool down.’

  ‘I will.’ She bowed to him.

  He nodded and returned her bow. She watched as he moved away from her with a fluid shuffle that made it seem as though his feet barely touched the ground.

  • • •

  In the dressing room, Mia removed her gym bag from the locker and checked her mobile phone. She had one missed call: it was from Nick. The message was brief. He had seen Amy but didn’t have much to report and was now heading for John Lennon Airport. He would call her when he arrived at Gatwick. She tried to return the call but only reached his voicemail.

  Well, no matter, she would see him in a few hours. Time for her to head home.

  By the time she reached her house, the dusk had settled into darkness. Mia turned the key and opened the front door. As she stepped inside, she stopped. Something was wrong. She couldn’t say what it was, but the feeling was acute. She was sensing… rage?

  Switching on the light in the lobby, she stood for a moment, listening. It was very quiet inside the house. The dark square of the door leading to the studio was to her right. It stood ajar. She was almost sure it had been fully open when she had left the house earlier in the day.

  She took a few steps forward and placed her hand against the door. It opened silently. The light coming from behind her in the lobby cut into the dark studio and fell across the wooden floor in a sharply-edged wedge shape.

  The studio was empty. At the window the lace curtain billowed as a breeze pushed against it. The top page of the open appointment book flipped over lazily, as though touched by a ghostly hand.

  Had she left the window open? She sometimes would: across the studio windows there were bars that kept out intruders. But had she done so today?

  The window was almost closed, but not quite. As she stretched out her hand to the latch, she stopped. There was something stuck between the frame and the window but in the uncertain light she couldn’t make out what it was. She brought her head down closer.

  Sweetpea’s body was squashed in the middle, her soft stomach creased grotesquely. The edge of the window had slammed into her side and had pinned her there. Her eyes were dead.

  Oh, God. Mia brought her hand up to her mouth. Oh, God.

  In the pocket of her jacket, her mobile pinged.

  Her eyes still on Sweetpea, she fumbled with clumsy hands.

  YOU FAILED OKIE. WILL YOU FAIL NICK?

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  YOU FAILED OKIE. W
ILL YOU FAIL NICK?

  Nick grimaced as he read the text on Mia’s mobile phone. He had to admit, this was creepy.

  Mia’s eyes were fixed on the shoebox in which she had placed Sweetpea’s body. ‘Read the next message.’ Her voice was thin. ‘I asked him who he was and what he wanted.’

  Nick placed his finger on the scroll button and clicked on the next entry.

  MY NAME IS DRAGONFLY. I’LL BE WAITING FOR YOU AT THE RETREAT.

  Dragonfly… Nick frowned. ‘Can I use your computer?’

  She gestured listlessly at the laptop. ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s this member who leaves regular posts on the Kime discussion board. He calls himself Dragonfly. What are the chances this is him?’

  Nick logged in and typed ‘Dragonfly’ into the Kime search box. The screen blinked and opened at Dragonfly’s profile page.

  It was still incomplete. It showed only the Chinese ideograms that identified Dragonfly’s call sign and some bare bones personal information. Dragonfly was male. He was based in London. No age. No hobbies. He listed no musical preferences or favourite TV shows. He didn’t give the name of his gym. Under fighting styles, he had entered ‘Various’. He could just as easily be a cage fighter as a t’ai chi practitioner.

  Mia placed her hand on Nick’s shoulder and leant forward. ‘I’ve seen those ideograms before.’

  ‘Really?’ Nick peered at the Chinese characters. ‘These things always look the same to me. Do you know what they mean?’

  ‘No. And often they look the same to me too. But every second vogue who comes in here wants one, so my eye is probably more attuned than yours.’ She made a frustrated movement with her hand. ‘I know I’ve seen these. I just can’t think where.’

  ‘So this could be our man.’

  ‘And he was inside my house.’

  Nick glanced at the shoebox and then quickly away again. ‘Sweetpea’s death could be an accident, Mia. The wind could have blown the window shut at exactly the wrong moment.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘I always make sure to tighten the latch very firmly on every window in the house—exactly because I was worried about something like this happening. And Sweetpea never stepped outside the sill. She just didn’t.’

  ‘Well, that’s settled. We’re getting you new locks.’

  ‘What’s settled is that you’re not fighting on Saturday.’

  ‘OK, wait. Hold on—’

  ‘Nick. The fight is three days away.’ Her eyes were desperate. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Mia, just don’t go to the… Retreat… or whatever exactly it is you do.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? He has targeted you!’

  He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘Tomorrow is my last training session with Ash and JC. After that, it is downtime for me until the fight. Let me finish my training and then I’ll concentrate on this, OK? And we’ll figure it out. Together.’

  ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ He pulled her towards him.

  ‘I can’t lose you.’

  He pressed his lips to her forehead. ‘You won’t.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Mia scrolled down the Kime discussion board. She was systematically reading every one of Dragonfly’s posts, from his last to his first.

  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 his energy becomes yours… Only warriors with indomitable spirit would be accorded this honour…

  Mia grimaced. If she had wondered if the writer was really the man they were looking for, she was no longer doubtful: this was him. And wasn’t the name Dragonfly appropriate? She still remembered what Ash had told her about these insects. The ultimate predators, he had called them. Both lethal and beautiful.

  Ash. And suddenly she knew where she had seen those ideograms before.

  In her mind’s eye she is standing in the men’s locker room at Scorpio. The cement floor shows damp footprints. Her breathing is furtive. She is watching a man: water is running down his lean body. Mingled with the admiration she feels for his physical beauty is the sense that something is happening—that this is a defining moment—which as yet eludes her understanding.

  Until now.

  Dragonfly. She knew who he was.

  When she stretched out her hand to the phone, she noticed her fingers were trembling.

  • • •

  The door of Okie’s locker stood open. It had not yet been assigned to someone else. Nick closed it gently.

  ‘Good luck on Saturday, mate.’ Dirk Dubois, another fighter, slapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Remember: no surrender, no retreat.’ It was the fighter’s mantra.

  ‘You’ve got it.’ Nick gathered up his shinpads and gloves. It felt strange to think he was on his way to his last training session. After today, the next two days would be complete rest. On Saturday he would step into the ring and hope the sweat and concentration of the last three months would see him through.

  As he walked out of the door and into the corridor leading to the dojo, he heard, faintly, the sound of his mobile going off inside his locker. He had recently decided to change the tune from ‘Eye of the Tiger’—the ringtone of choice for most fighters, which made things difficult when you were trying to determine whether it was your own phone ringing or that of one of the ten other guys who were also reaching for their mobile—to a rooster’s crow. No mistake: it was definitely his phone that was ringing.

  He hesitated. But he was already running late. Whoever it was would have to leave a message. He continued walking.

  JC and Ash were waiting for him at the far side of the dojo.

  Ash grinned at him. ‘Closing orders, Mr Duffy.’

  ‘You bet.’ Nick smiled back.

  ‘Three rounds of fists, followed by two rounds of groundwork?’ Ash turned to JC for approval.

  ‘Right.’ JC nodded. ‘But take it easy with Nick, especially on the mat. Lay off those arm-locks. We need him in prime shape.’

  ‘One prime fighter coming up.’

  Nick closed the velcro strap of his glove with his teeth and opened his mouth so JC could slip in his mouth guard. He turned to face Ash and said the words he had repeated so often over the past three months: ‘Let’s rock.’

  • • •

  Nick wasn’t answering his phone. Every time she called, Mia got his voicemail message. And no one was picking up at the office either. She wasn’t quite sure at what time Nick was training today, but maybe she should head over to Scorpio and see if he was there.

  She hesitated. One more time. She’d try one more time and then go and look for him.

  • • •

  Nick pulled off his head guard and Ash followed suit. They hugged, their arms slippery with sweat.

  ‘Thanks.’ Nick felt emotional. ‘Thank you for everything, Ash.’

  ‘Thanks for allowing me to go along for the ride.’ Ash smiled. ‘I live through you vicariously, you know.’

  Some of the other fighters were coming up to Nick to wish him good luck. As he shook hands and traded friendly abuse, Nick thought how this was the best moment. He was in his fighting home, surrounded by mates who had watched him make the journey. His nerves were rock steady and he felt invincible. Another two days from now and it would be a different story, but right now it couldn’t get any better.

  His mood crashed the moment he opened his locker and took out his mobile phone. Twelve missed calls: all from Mia. Bloody hell, something must be seriously wrong. His heart beating fast, he pressed the reply button. The relief when he heard her voice was overwhelming.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I was just on my way over.’ Her voice sounded unnaturally high. ‘Get out of there. It’s him.’

  Nick was struggling to hear over the shouts of laughter and the sound of water
running in the showers. ‘Him? Who?’

  ‘Ash. Ash is Dragonfly.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Nick looked over at Ash, who was rummaging inside his own bag.

  ‘I remember where I saw those ideograms. They’re tattoos. They’re on his skin.’

  ‘The ones you gave him?’

  ‘No.’

  He glanced at Ash again. ‘Where are they then?’

  A pause. ‘On his bum.’

  ‘Oh.’ What he wanted to ask was how Mia knew the guy had a tat on his arse. Come to think of it, he had never had a glimpse of Ash’s backside despite the fact that they had trained together for three months and had shared this changing room more times than he could remember.

  ‘I’ll explain later, Nicky. Just get out of there.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  He looked up to see Ash watching him. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yes. Everything’s fine.’ He forced himself to keep his voice casual. ‘So I’ll see you at the fight.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘OK.’ Nick nodded again and smiled as though he did not have a care in the world.

  Once inside his car, he took out his phone again and dialled Coach Driver—Bill Muso’s trainer in Edinburgh.

  Coach Driver sounded rushed and Nick got straight to the point. ‘Muso’s training buddy. You said they were close.’

  ‘Very much so. As I told you, the man left after Bill’s death. He was that upset.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Robert. Robert Dell.’

  ‘Oh.’ Nick frowned.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Could you describe him for me?’

  ‘Tall guy. Fair-haired. Not bad-looking. Fit as hell.’

  ‘And you don’t know where I can find him?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  The next call Nick made was to Amy. As he listened to the phone ringing, he braced himself. When he had left her in Liverpool yesterday, she had been teary-eyed.

  But she sounded more composed today and her voice lightened when he asked her if Valentine had worked with a training buddy for the last fight.