‘I think they’re being mugged!’ said Amir, incredulous.
When Flat Nose entered the fray and seized hold of Zhen, Connor dashed for the courtyard’s front door. But, by the time he’d opened it and run into the lane, he was too late. Lăolao had let go of her bags … but she appeared to have timed this when Scarface was most off-balance. The thug stumbled backwards, shopping in hand, and hit the low wall of the bridge. Then, moving forward with astonishing speed, Lăolao punched her attacker in the chest. Even from where he was standing, Connor heard the distinct crack of ribs. Eyes bulging, Scarface let out a pained whoosh of breath, dropped the bags and tumbled over the side into the canal.
Before Flat Nose could comprehend the extraordinary defeat of his partner, Lăolao turned on him and took up the crane stance from her tai-chi form. Flat Nose gave the old grandmother a contemptuous snort. Pushing Zhen aside, he advanced on her and swung a boulder-like fist. Clearly having no qualms at hitting an old woman, he struck her full force in the stomach.
But Lăolao didn’t even flinch. It was as if the heavyweight boxer had hit a brick wall. His thick brow creased in dumb disbelief, astounded at the impotence of his punch. Taking advantage of his confusion, Lăolao drove her own fist into his flabby stomach. By all rights, being punched by an eighty-something-old woman, the sixteen-stone thug should’ve barely felt a thing. Instead he groaned like a kicked cow, his face went bright red and he crumpled to his knees. Then, like a felled tree, Flat Nose keeled forwards and landed face first on the stone bridge, his already-sorry nose mashed to an even flatter pulp.
Dusting her hands, Lăolao picked up her shopping bags and shuffled home. She passed an open-mouthed Connor with no more than the briefest nod of acknowledgement as she entered the courtyard.
Hurrying after her grandmother, Zhen urgently ushered Connor inside. ‘What do you think you’re doing out here? Someone might see you!’ she said, glancing over her shoulder at the comatose thug on the bridge and the other half-drowning in the canal as a boatman paddled over to help.
‘I … was coming to rescue you,’ murmured Connor, stunned by the miraculous fighting skills of the grandmother.
‘Did we look like we needed rescuing?’
‘Well … err … no, but I didn’t expect your grandmother to take out two oversized gorillas single-handedly.’
Zhen shook her head wearily and sighed. ‘I did try to stop her.’ She locked the courtyard door behind them.
‘Who were those two men anyway?’ asked Amir.
‘Local Triad enforcers.’ A smirk cut across Zhen’s lips. ‘They’ll think twice about trying to steal Lăolao’s shopping in future!’ Then the smile faded. ‘But they were asking if we’d seen two foreign kids in the area. Of course, Lăolao said we hadn’t and told them to look for someone their own size. That’s when the one with the scar swiped an apple. Bad decision on his part!’
Connor was greatly relieved to discover that the two men weren’t Equilibrium agents, but the sizeable bounty on their heads was evidently attracting unwanted criminal attention. This would make any getaway to Hong Kong even more risky.
Lăolao seemed unaffected by the confrontation. She was busying herself boiling water and setting a small teapot and a set of cups on the breakfast table. Amir perched on one of the stools, eyeing her with a mix of awe and fear. ‘Is she Supergran or something?’
Zhen laughed. ‘No! But when she was a little girl the local master refused to teach her kung fu. So she taught herself. Then she went back to the martial arts school and beat the master until he apologized!’
‘But how does she do it?’ Connor asked. ‘I’ve trained in martial arts and never seen anything like that. I mean, one of them hit her in the stomach and your grandmother didn’t even bat an eyelid. Then she took each of them down with a single punch. It’s unbelievable!’
Zhen conveyed this to her grandmother. Lăolao appraised Connor a moment, then muttered a few words. Zhen translated: ‘She will teach you the techniques of Iron Shirt and Iron Hand.’
Connor couldn’t believe his luck. What he’d witnessed was a martial art beyond any other. In the back of his mind the idea kindled that just such skill might give him the edge over Mr Grey. ‘When?’ he asked eagerly.
Zhen enquired, then turned back to Connor. ‘When she’s had her tea.’
‘Stand like a tree,’ Lăolao instructed through her granddaughter. ‘Tall and strong.’
In the centre of the courtyard, Connor grounded his feet, loosened his knees, straightened his back and held his head high. Familiar with kamae stances from his martial arts training, the zhàn zhuāng pose came naturally to him. He imagined himself being rooted deep into the ground, while the top of his head touched the clouds as if pulled taut by an invisible thread.
Lăolao shuffled round him, studying his posture critically. She tapped his feet with the end of a wooden broom shaft, signalling for him to widen his stance. Then she knocked his knees, for being over-bent. Next she poked his stomach for being too far forward, then his hips for being too far back, and his shoulders for being too rounded. Finally, she lifted his chin a fraction of an inch.
Once satisfied, she instructed via Zhen, ‘Cup your hands below your dāntián.’
‘My what?’ asked Connor, shooting a mildly alarmed look at his guide.
The corner of Zhen’s mouth curled impishly. ‘The energy centre just below your belly button.’
‘Oh, my hara!’ said Connor, resting his hands close to his navel. Having a black belt in jujitsu, he only knew the Japanese term for the lower qi point.
Following Lăolao’s guidance, Connor relaxed his muscles and regulated his breathing. Amir watched from the sidelines, opting to work on the encrypted flash drive instead. An amused grin spread across his face as Connor was made to stand perfectly still, breathing in and out, for several minutes. Losing interest, he returned his attention to the tablet laptop.
‘Imagine a ball of fire in your lower belly,’ instructed Zhen, translating Lăolao’s words. ‘Sense it grow with each breath.’
Closing his eyes, Connor concentrated. At first there was nothing. Just a flat cool emptiness. Then a warm tingling sensation, like the heat of a small candle, flickered into life at the pit of his stomach.
‘Fuel the fire. Let the light swell into a small sun.’
Channelling each breath to his dāntián, Connor felt the energy intensify, the heat spread and the power fill him up like a solar battery. The strange experience would’ve been unsettling were it not so pleasurable and energizing. The ball of fire now burned hot and bright.
Connor heard Lăolao by his side, speaking.
‘She asks, do you feel the qi in your stomach?’
Connor gave a nod.
Without warning, Lăolao thwacked him in the gut with the broom handle. Taken completely by surprise, Connor doubled over with the force of the blow, all the wind knocked out of him. He dropped to his knees, clutching his throbbing stomach, the fire in his belly now for real.
‘Looks like you got the short end of the stick there!’ said Amir, laughing as he glanced up from his work.
Eyes bulging, Connor wheezed at the old grandmother, ‘What was that for?’
Lăolao shook her head in dismay. ‘Zài shì yīcì.’
‘Try again,’ Zhen translated as she helped Connor to stand.
Rubbing his battered belly, Connor took a moment to get his breath back. ‘What did I do wrong?’
‘You need to lock in the qi,’ Lăolao explained through Zhen. ‘Imagine it fusing with your body. Becoming part of you. Otherwise it’s like a boat without an anchor. The qi will drift and won’t protect you. A strike will simply knock the energy aside.’
Taking up his zhàn zhuāng stance again, Connor resumed his breathing ritual. Gradually the throb in his stomach abated and the fire returned. He visualized the ball of qi hardening, sinking into every fibre of his belly. Lăolao wound up to hit him again.
This time he was ready. As she
wielded the broom handle at him, Connor clenched his stomach muscles. For an old woman she had a surprisingly hefty swing. The blow struck like a battering ram. Once again he collapsed to his knees, pain rocketing through him.
Tutting loudly, Lăolao waved for him to stand up. Dragging himself back to his feet, Connor lifted his shirt to examine himself. A long red line cut across his torso like a whip mark.
Zhen winced at Connor’s eye-watering bruise. ‘Iron Shirt isn’t about brute strength. It’s about harnessing your internal life force. No tension. Your body needs to be relaxed yet powerful. Like a wave.’
‘Like a wave,’ repeated Connor, carefully lowering his shirt and preparing for a third attempt.
He adopted the stance. He breathed deeply. He gathered his qi. His mind calmed. His muscles relaxed. His body absorbed the energy. He was like a wave …
Then the broom handle hit him and he crashed to the floor, winded and beaten again.
Lăolao stood over him, her wrinkled upper lip curled in disdain at his pathetic performance. She uttered a disgruntled stream of Chinese at him. Zhen smiled down, her grin a little too forced. ‘She says you’re doing really well.’
‘The Demon Gate is located here,’ said Zhen, her grandmother prodding a stubby finger hard as a nail into Connor’s chest. Just above his right nipple and between his pectoral muscles, he could already feel a sharp pain from her pressure. After two days of relentless Iron Shirt exercises – where he’d been beaten in the stomach, had heavy bricks piled on top of his chest and lain on sharp rocks to condition his body – Connor had been relieved when Lăolao suggested they move on to Iron Hand techniques. Now he was thinking that he might regret that decision.
‘This point should be hit in and towards the spine,’ continued Zhen, translating Lăolao’s words. ‘A strike here disrupts a person’s qi flow and can cause injury … or even death.’
Without warning, Lăolao jabbed hard with her fingers and Connor’s chest seemed to implode. A tidal wave of agony crippled him to his very core. As if his life force was swirling down a drain, his body became completely sapped of energy and he dropped to his knees. Unable to stand or defend himself, he could only manage to utter a feeble plea of ‘Why?’
An amused Amir looked on from his usual perch, his tablet and keyboard on his lap, as Zhen knelt down beside Connor in the courtyard. ‘Lăolao says, you must experience Demon Gate in order to do Demon Gate.’
‘OK,’ he wheezed with a weak nod, ‘that’s enough experience for one day!’
Zhen beckoned Amir over to help. Lifting him to his feet, the two of them supported Connor as her grandmother thumped him on the back in three specific qi points. The reaction was instantaneous. Like a floodgate opening, Connor’s energy rushed into him and the debilitating effects of the Demon Gate strike vanished. Aside from a dull throb in his chest at the point where he’d been hit, Connor felt completely fine.
He blinked in astonishment. From his bodyguard training he was acquainted with kyusho pressure points – physical vulnerabilities in the human body and nervous system that could be exploited to control or subdue an attacker. But this qi style of attack, targeting the energy centres, was a revelation to him. If he could master this particular technique, then he’d surely possess an unbeatable defence against Mr Grey when they next met.
Connor pointed to his chest. ‘Is this where you hit that thug who took your shopping?’
Lăolao responded with a toothless grin and nodded. ‘Combined with Iron Hand, no man can withstand such a strike,’ she said via Zhen.
Connor turned eagerly to Amir. ‘I need to practise this – on you.’
Less than keen at the prospect, Amir began to back away. ‘Erm … I’m a bit busy with the encryption.’
‘Come on – it’ll be like Buddyguard training,’ coaxed Connor. ‘It’ll only take ten minutes, promise.’
In fact, it took half that time. Connor’s prior skill in martial arts meant his strikes had pinpoint accuracy. After three or so semi-effective attempts, he hit the Demon Gate on the button and Amir dropped like a sack of rice.
‘I think … you’ve mastered that technique,’ gasped Amir as they helped him to his feet and Lăolao restarted his flow of qi.
‘A few more goes,’ pleaded Connor. ‘Just to be sure.’
Gritting his teeth, Amir braced himself as Connor tried again. A second later he was slumped on the floor in an enfeebled heap. After the third successful Demon Gate strike in a row, he rasped, ‘I really need to get on with hacking that flash drive!’
‘Of course,’ said Connor, pulling his friend to standing. ‘Thanks for your help. I’ve nailed that technique.’
Amir offered a pained smile. ‘No problem,’ he replied, rubbing his chest and tottering over to the corner to resume his work. ‘But next time you want a punchbag … ask someone else!’
But Lăolao had already set up another punchbag. She’d hung a hessian sack of rice from the top spar of the wooden muk yan jong training post, now denuded of coats. She gestured for Connor to hit it.
Connor launched a rear cross, his knuckles striking the sack with a heavy thud. Lăolao tutted disapprovingly.
‘Lăolao says you’re wasting sixty per cent of your potential power,’ explained Zhen. ‘Iron Hand is not only about making your punch hard; it’s about making your fist strong with qi.’
Lăolao shooed Connor aside and lined herself up with the makeshift punchbag.
‘By concentrating your qi into your fist and energizing your muscles, you can increase the power and efficiency of your punch,’ Zhen translated.
Breathing in deeply, her grandmother circled her hands around an imaginary ball as in her tai chi, then clenched her fist and let loose a short, sharp punch. The sack of rice burst apart with the brutal force of her strike, white grains cascading on to the courtyard floor in a shimmering waterfall. Connor stared open-mouthed at the old woman’s remarkable feat.
‘You’re not practising that on me!’ said Amir from his safe corner in the courtyard.
After Lăolao had made him sweep up the rice, it was Connor’s turn on a fresh sack. He stood before the muk yan jong, rubbing his hands together briskly and pulling them apart several times. The twice-daily t’ai chi sessions had helped him control and nourish his qi, so he soon generated a flow of inner energy. Then, visualizing a ball of fire between his palms, he closed his right fist around it and imagined locking in the qi, before throwing a punch with all his might. His fist pounded the rice and the bag swung like a pendulum.
Connor was chuffed. But Lăolao wasn’t happy. ‘Too tense,’ she said through Zhen.
He tried again. And again. And again. But still Lăolao was dissatisfied, and the bag remained stubbornly whole. He kept up the barrage for another twenty minutes before exhaustion and pain overcame him.
‘I don’t know how you made it look so easy!’ gasped Connor, examining his raw and bloody knuckles.
‘All things are difficult before they are easy,’ said Lăolao through her granddaughter, before shuffling off to the kitchen and lighting the stove. She scooped out four cups of ‘punchbag’ rice into a pot and began boiling the water for dinner.
Worn out and aching, Connor slumped down next to Amir. ‘Look at my hands!’
‘Don’t expect sympathy from me,’ said his friend. ‘My chest is still throbbing!’
Connor sighed. ‘Well, I hope you’ve beaten more out of that flash drive than I did out of the rice sack.’
Amir wearily shook his head. ‘It’s high-level military-grade encryption. With only this tablet, it’s like trying to break into a tank with a can opener!’
‘Are you saying you can’t hack into the drive?’
‘It’s just the hacker bots available online aren’t up to the job …’ Amir’s brow creased in concentration. ‘But I suppose I could try to write my own decryption program …’ He trailed off, losing himself once again in the code.
Zhen strolled over, carrying a glass bottle of dark
-coloured liquid. ‘Lăolao says to rub this into your knuckles.’
‘What is it?’ asked Connor as he uncorked the bottle, poured some out and applied it gingerly to his grazed skin.
‘Diē dǎ jiǔ, a traditional Chinese herbal remedy.’
Almost immediately the pain began to subside. ‘Wow, that’s neat stuff,’ remarked Connor.
‘Lăolao’s special formula,’ replied Zhen with a warm smile. ‘It unblocks the meridians and allows the qi to flow freely again. You must put it on after every session.’
As he massaged the miracle lotion into his other hand, Connor asked, ‘Have you had any luck yet finding us a way to get to Hong Kong?’
‘Possibly,’ said Zhen. ‘My cousin is a truck driver. He sometimes delivers freight there.’
Connor frowned. ‘I thought you said your cousin was a girl.’
Zhen glanced away, hiding her embarrassment. ‘Er, those were my clothes at the flat. No one else stays there.’
‘Oh, of course!’ Connor laughed, realizing how obvious it all was now. ‘So, when will your cousin know if he’s going to Hong Kong?’
‘In a day or so, I expect.’
‘Well, let’s hope it’s an easier journey than the one we had getting here!’
‘You made a promise to me,’ said the Director, peeling an apple with a small silver fruit knife.
Yuan glanced nervously over the gallery’s handrail. Spread out below like a monstrous spiderweb was an intricate network of staircases, ramps and floating corridors that formed the hub of the Hive. The interlocking ‘air bridges’ had once controlled the flow of thousands of cattle as they were herded to the top of the former 1933 slaughterhouse to be butchered. Now scores of workers in white lab coats ascended and descended the grey concrete maze.
Bodyguard_Fugitive Page 14
