by Mark McKay
Chapter 20
He sensed them before he heard them. He was lying on the bed next to Lauren, stroking her hair and staring at the ceiling. He had no idea how long he’d been here, it could have been minutes or hours, the passing of time had lost all significance. Then his body stiffened and in that moment he knew someone was about to come through the front door. Suddenly, every sense was amplified. His body moved ahead of his mind and when he heard the key turn in the lock he was already up and waiting by the bedroom door.
He heard two men talking in low voices, then one set of footsteps came down the hallway and stopped outside the door. If whoever it was expected to find the key to the bedroom where he’d left it, then he gave no indication of any concern he might have at not seeing it there. He came straight into the room with no hesitation whatsoever.
He was reaching for the light switch when Nick stepped out of the shadows. The eyes widened in shock, but before the man could react Nick had driven an open palm directly under his chin, snapping his head back. The neck went with an audible crack and the man slumped to the floor, in a lifeless heap.
Nick stepped over the body, drawn sword in his left hand. He had it raised above his head when the second man came out of the living room, holding a gun. Before the man could turn into the hall, Nick brought the sword down in a flashing arc, severing the gun hand at the wrist. The hand’s owner stared in disbelief as he watched his useless limb tumble to the floor, the fingers still wrapped tightly around the gun’s handle. Then he clutched at the stump of his arm and roared in pain as he turned to face his tormentor.
He was a big man, with a thick neck. There wasn’t much room in the hall to swing a sword, so Nick improvised a diagonal overhead sweep, which he straightened out into a horizontal slicing stroke at the last moment. When it connected with the man’s neck, the sword went through the flesh and bone almost as if it wasn’t there. His roar of pain became a gurgle and his head hit the floor, closely followed by the rest of him. Nick stepped back as the arterial blood spray spattered the walls. He looked at the carnage in front of him and felt absolutely nothing.
He walked calmly into the kitchen and cleaned the blade with a tea towel. He laid the sword carefully on the worktop while he splashed some water on his face and wondered how he might explain the situation when the local police turned up, as they eventually would. It was only now that he thought to look at his watch. It was almost midnight. He felt a vague surge of wonder at just how much time had passed. In a minute it would be Sunday, the last day of the kidnappers’ deadline. There was a voice in the back of his head telling him he’d just cold-bloodedly killed two people, but if it was trying to tell him he should feel some remorse about that fact, then it had already lost the argument. He was too numb to feel anything.
He couldn’t stay here indefinitely. He went back into the hall. The arterial blood fountain had diminished to a steady flow, most of it bound for the front door. He quickly searched the body for ID, removing a wallet from one inside pocket and a phone from the other. He prised the fingers of the severed hand off the gun and pocketed it. Then he examined the second body, taking a second wallet, phone and gun. The two men were Europeans, he thought. Both about forty, with tough, lived in faces. He used his own phone to take a photo of the man slumped outside the bedroom door. If these people were connected with Sylvie Dajani, they might be on record somewhere. The photo would help.
He wondered why they’d come here, then when he went into the living room and saw the body bags, he had his answer. There was nothing more he could do now and although he hated leaving Lauren like this, he needed to move. He went back into the bedroom for the last time, smoothed her hair back from her forehead, and kissed it. Then he found a sturdy carrier bag under the sink in the kitchen for the items he’d collected from the two men. He knew he’d left traces of himself in the house, but there was little point in trying to erase them. Whoever investigated the scene of this particular crime would put it together soon enough. Before leaving, he called the ambulance service and gave them the address. Then he went out through the kitchen door, into the darkness. It was less conspicuous than using the front door and a lot less bloody.
When he got back to the flat, he packed as much as he could into the three suitcases he had. Then he set off for Oyama’s place, near Sevenoaks. The sensei would hardly be expecting him, but he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. As he’d never been there before and didn’t have an exact address, he would have to wait till a decent hour before calling and asking for directions. Showing up at 4 in the morning would not be ideal.
He found a lay by close to Sevenoaks and parked there. His phone had been off since leaving Hastings. From now on he could only use it sparingly, if at all. He couldn’t sleep and when the sun began to come up a few hours later, he decided to try Oyama. He used one of the phones he’d picked up in Hastings to make the call. To Nick’s relief, Oyama answered straight away.
‘Any news?’ asked the sensei.
‘Lauren is dead.’
‘Ah.’ There was a silence, while Oyama digested this. ‘How do you know?’
‘And your sword tasted blood,’ Nick continued. ‘I need somewhere to stay for a while. I know it’s asking a lot…’
‘Come over, it’s not a problem,’ Oyama seemed unfazed by the grim statements he’d just heard. ‘Are you close?’
‘Just outside Sevenoaks. Where do you live?’
Oyama told him. ‘I have a visitor,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry, she is completely trustworthy. See you soon.’
He drove through the town, which was deserted at this hour on a Sunday, and then turned off into the Kent countryside two miles later. The land here was thick with forest, and the tall trees on either side of the road stretched their topmost branches towards each other in a perfect arch, hiding the sun. When he came out of the tunnel into more open country a few minutes later, he found Oyama’s driveway, just on the right.
The house was a picture postcard English country cottage, complete with thatched roof. There was a farm outbuilding to one side, which might have been used as a stable once. As he pulled up in front of the cottage, Oyama came out to greet him.
‘Nice place,’ said Nick. It was the only thing that came into his head at that moment.
Oyama looked at him with undisguised concern. ‘Come inside.’
They went through into the living room. ‘Sit,’ commanded Oyama. ‘I’ll bring the tea.’
Nick heard a woman’s voice, speaking Japanese. Then Mariko appeared, carrying a tea tray.
‘Hello, Nick.’
He was surprised enough to manage something approaching a smile. ‘What are you doing here?’
He could see the expression Oyama had shown a minute earlier, now mirrored on her face. He must look like shit, he decided. She smiled back briefly and put the tray on the coffee table.
‘My father sent me,’ she said, as she began pouring the tea. ‘Tell us what happened.’
He managed to impart all the relevant events in chronological order, without losing his focus. Already, the incident was assuming a dreamlike quality, as if the whole thing had happened to someone else.
‘Did that all make sense?’ he asked his audience.
Mariko came and sat next to him and took his hand, squeezing it tight.
‘I’m sorry about Lauren,’ she said. ‘You did the right thing to those men.’
‘Yes, I think I did,’ he replied. He felt a wave of fatigue wash over him. ‘I need to sleep for a while, or at least try.’
‘I’ll make you a special herbal tea. I brought some things with me from Japan.’ She got up and went off to the kitchen.
‘What’s Mariko doing here?’ he asked Oyama, once she was out of earshot.
‘Actually, she came to help you. We will explain after you’ve had some sleep. Just drink the tea now and then there is a spare room upstairs you can use.’
Whatever Mariko had put in the tea did the trick,
he was asleep twenty minutes later. In his dreams, he met his unborn daughter. They were standing on a hill somewhere, overlooking a lake. She wasn’t a blonde like her mother though, she had long, dark hair and was already five years old. She said she was sorry she had to go somewhere else to be born and asked him if he missed her. He said of course he did and how would he ever know her, now she was someone else’s child? She laughed and then showed him the palm of her hand. There was an ivory coloured scar dead centre, in the shape of a crescent moon. ‘I was born with this,’ she said. ‘That’s how you’ll know me.’ Then it was just him on the hill.
He woke to the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside. He looked at his watch, it was 3pm. The dream was still vivid; he remembered every detail, which was unusual. The memory of Hastings was still clear, too. For a moment he wondered if it was a police car outside and he quickly rolled out of bed and padded across to the window. No, it was a UPS truck, and whatever was being delivered was heavy. He could see Oyama and the delivery man, a large package between them, heading for the outbuilding.
He got dressed and went downstairs. He found Mariko in the kitchen.
‘You look much better,’ she said. ‘More tea?’
‘Without the herbs this time, if you don’t mind.’
The delivery truck was moving off, now. Oyama came in a minute later. He gave Nick a measured look.
‘Yes, much better,’ he pronounced.
‘What was that you just took delivery of?’
‘Pieces of hardened steel, from Japan.’ He smiled at Nick’s incomprehension. ‘Enough for two, maybe three swords.’
‘What’s wrong with British steel?’
‘This is made the traditional samurai way. The furnace master mixes the best iron sand and charcoal in a fire for three days and three nights. Then, if he thinks the steel he makes is the right quality and the swordsmith is also the right quality, he may sell it to you.’
‘So when do you start your next sword?’
Oyama’s face became stern. ‘I need a pure state of mind, to work well. When certain matters are resolved, then we will see.’
‘Speaking of swords, yours is in the car.’
‘It belongs to you now. I can’t take it back.’
Nick was mystified. ‘I thought it was just to practise with.’
Oyama grunted. ‘You are the one who gave the sword its first taste of blood. Now the two of you are bound by that blood. It may sound strange to you, but that is simply the way it is. You will keep it.’
There was something in Oyama’s voice that brooked no argument. Nick remembered the bag of goodies he had stashed in the car.
‘Alright, I’ll keep it. I just need to get something from the car. Excuse me.’
When he came back, he spread out his haul on the kitchen worktop.
‘From the two men I met in Hastings,’ he explained. The wallets contained assorted credit cards and cash, one had a driving licence. With an address.
‘These will be very useful,’ said Mariko. ‘I’ll take them back with me, the phones too.’
‘Did your father make any progress with the information I gave him?’
‘Not yet. But these items will make our work much easier.’
‘So, what are you doing here, Mariko?’
She exchanged glances with Oyama. ‘Let’s go and sit down and I’ll tell you.’
Mariko brought him up to date with the situation in Japan. Takashi Yamada had barricaded himself in his house while his lawyers prepared his case. But he hadn’t forgotten the foreign devil he held responsible for his current predicament. The chauffeur that Yoshi Mashida had planted among the staff was still there, with his ear to the ground. From him, they had learned that Yamada had dispatched someone to deal with Nick. It came as no real shock, Nick just had to think of Kate Suzuki to know how vindictive Yamada could be.
‘And he’s here in the UK?’ was his first reaction.
‘We believe so.’
‘I really don’t understand. To be blunt, the best thing would be to eliminate Yamada. Then he wouldn’t ask people to kill me, or anyone else.’
Oyama smiled, without humour. ‘No, we make Yamada wait. He knows our intentions. Death is quick, making him wait prolongs his suffering.’
Must be the Japanese form of schadenfreude, thought Nick. And ruthless. ‘Doesn’t help me much. Do we know what this guy looks like?’
‘No,’ said Mariko. ‘We know he is part of a group of automobile executives who are visiting possible manufacturing sites in England. The problem is, there are around fifteen of them, all men.’
‘Well, if the Metropolitan Police can’t find me, I doubt very much that he’ll do any better.’
Mariko frowned. ‘Yes, but he will know your connection to us, specifically Katsu Oyama, the famous swordsmith who is about to work again in England. If he’s any good, it won’t take long to track you this far.’
‘What do you propose we do about it, then?’
‘I have a plan,’ replied Mariko. ‘The group is here for ten days. We are going to make it easy for him to find you in that time. I know which hotel they are using in London, so I will lay a trail that leads right here. All you need to do is be home when he arrives. I will do the rest.’
The deaths in Hastings was a leading news item on television, that evening. The fact that one victim had been decapitated gave the announcer plenty of opportunity to emphasise the “horrific” nature of the crime. Nick considered the situation. It was a Sunday evening. Jamie was the only person who knew that he’d gone to Hastings. Jamie probably wouldn’t put two and two together till he knew what had happened at the scene. And when Nick didn’t show up for work next week the next news broadcast might well run with an update, which would include his photograph and a message asking members of the public to look out for him. Should he just turn himself in? He knew he was looking at manslaughter at the very least, more likely a murder charge. The law really is an ass, he thought, it was justice, not murder. As a cop, he knew these subjective distinctions wouldn’t mean a great deal to the legal system, but what he did know was that he had no intention of spending the next 20 years in jail if he could possibly avoid it.
Mariko and Oyama were sitting in the living room with him when the news came on.
‘You can stay here for as long as necessary,’ said Oyama. ‘I expect the police to arrive at some point, though.’
‘The question is, where do I go when I leave here? They’ll catch up with me, eventually.’
‘Let’s think about that. While you’re here, you can help me out. We begin in the morning.’
They moved the Golf into the outbuilding the following morning. Oyama had asked Rory to take his classes in London for the next week or two, he wanted to be on site to take delivery of a furnace he would need to start working the steel. There was some preparatory work to be done before it arrived, so Nick found himself digging a ventilation pit at one end of what was now to become a forge.
Oyama had already done some work. He’d converted part of the outbuilding into a makeshift dojo. At the moment it was simply a collection of mats spread across the space, but that was all that was needed. The furnace would be located at the other end, along with the various tools required to hammer red hot steel. Mariko had gone to London, to do whatever it was she needed to do to put her plan into action. She was staying away for a few days, according to Oyama. She would be in touch when she had to be, that was as much as he was prepared to share on the subject.
They began a routine. Early in the morning they would both meditate and do the ki exercises. Trying to do that and deal with the grief of Lauren’s death seemed like an impossible combination as far as Nick was concerned, but he sat with it anyway. He told himself that it would pass like everything else, but this philosophical musing did little to dull the pain. Then they would practise Aikido for an hour, by which time they were both ready for breakfast. Then they would work on setting up the forge. The furnace arr
ived on the back of a large truck with a mini-crane, which was used to unload it on to rollers as close to the forge entrance as possible. Nick had made himself scarce, but the two men delivering the furnace helped Oyama get it into position before leaving.
A day later, the furnace was ready to go. It looked like Oyama had decided to make a sword regardless of his current purity of mind. The selected pieces of steel were bound together and then heated and hammered into one block. That block would then be re-heated and folded to remove impurities and strengthen the steel. This process would be repeated at least fifteen times. Once Nick had helped Oyama by holding the first block with tongs while it was hammered into shape, he had nothing more to do. He wasn’t qualified from this point on, so Oyama would be doing the folding work. He took over the cooking duties, instead. He was glad to get away from the forge, working in the intense heat was an exhausting business.
It was quite secluded here. If the forces of law and order should come down the driveway, they’d be seen or heard well in advance and there would be time to secrete himself until they left. Only if they decided to take the place apart, would he be compromised. It was frustrating to be out of the loop, though. He didn’t know if Le Roux had finally broken or if they had a lead on Sylvie. And he would have liked to attend Lauren’s funeral, but that was impossible, given his current circumstances.
That evening, Oyama took a call from Rory. A Japanese businessman in his thirties had dropped by the dojo, claiming to represent someone Oyama knew in Japan. This “associate” had asked him to personally deliver some private papers, but he needed Oyama’s current address. Rory had given it to him.
‘This must be the man sent to kill you,’ said Oyama, once he was off the phone.
‘Rory just pointed him right at me.’
‘Yes, I said he should do that.’
It seemed like a recipe for disaster, in Nick’s opinion. ‘So, what do we do now?’
‘We wait. He will act quickly, I think. First, he must establish that you’re here. Then after that, we’ll see.’
They agreed that if the assassin wanted to confirm Nick’s presence that night, the only way to do it would be to knock at the door and ask. It seemed an unlikely scenario, but they decided to split the night into two watches just the same. Nick would stay up till 2am and then Oyama would take over.
‘Where are the guns you brought from Hastings?’ asked Oyama.
Nick fetched the guns and checked them. They were both fully loaded.
‘Let’s keep these with us all the time,’ said Oyama. ‘And when you sleep, keep your sword somewhere close by, where it isn’t visible. You may need it.’
The night passed, uneventfully. Nick found Oyama in the kitchen when he went downstairs in the morning.
‘Stay close to the house, today,’ said Oyama. He looked quite fresh, despite the lack of sleep. ‘Show yourself, but not for too long. We’ll do some work in the forge, later on.’
They followed the customary routine of meditation and Aikido practice. That afternoon he watched as Oyama worked, now beginning to wield the hot steel and lengthening it into the shape of a blade. He positioned himself close to the entrance in case they had a surprise visitor, but no one showed. His nerves were beginning to fray around nightfall, whereas Oyama seemed as calm as ever. After dinner, they positioned the television so they could watch it and remain out of the line of sight of anyone who might have a weapon trained on the window. The place was locked up tight, all windows shut and curtains drawn.
They watched the news. There was no further update on events in Hastings, which puzzled Nick. Still, from his perspective he felt more comfortable knowing his mug shot hadn’t been plastered all over the media. He wondered what his colleagues must be thinking about him and concluded that although they wouldn’t condone his actions, they would certainly understand them.
Around 11.30, they retired for the night. Or to all intents and purposes, that’s what it would look like to anyone outside. Nick stayed in the darkened living room. It was a full moon and a clear night, so even through the curtains there was still a little illumination creeping in. He settled in on the sofa knowing he was too wound up to sleep, even if he wanted to. Oyama had gone upstairs, saying he was to be woken up at 3am.
Apart from the occasional hooting of barn owls, there was no sound or movement to disturb Nick’s solace. Perhaps this guy wasn’t coming, he thought. Perhaps he had the good sense to realise he was outnumbered and had decided that looking for the next manufacturing site for the next generation of Japanese automobiles was a better use of his time.
The arrival of the morning appeared to confirm his hypothesis. Oyama’s watch had also passed, uneventfully. It was just after sunrise when they heard a knock at the door. Oyama got up from the kitchen table right away to answer it.
‘Wait a minute,’ began Nick. Oyama waved him away.
‘I know who it is,’ he said.
A moment later he was back, with Mariko. She was wearing a heavy long-sleeved outdoor shirt and jeans, both in black. She’d just taken off a black balaclava and her hair was dishevelled. She looked tired.
‘There was someone out there,’ she said. ‘He left just before dawn.’
‘You’ve been out there all night?’ asked Nick, confused by her sudden appearance.
‘And the previous day. Waiting in the forest.’ She smiled at the look on his face. ‘He was here yesterday, too. He didn’t see me, but I couldn’t get close to him.’
‘Your guardian angel,’ said Oyama. Then he began talking to Mariko, in rapid Japanese. Nick thought the best thing he could do was make some tea, Mariko looked like she could use it. While he prepared it he listened to them both conversing, not understanding a word.
‘It appears something changed his mind,’ said Mariko, when he handed her a cup of tea a few minutes later.
‘Perhaps he went for reinforcements.’
She shrugged. ‘Maybe he isn’t being paid enough.’
Mariko excused herself shortly afterwards, saying she wanted to sleep in a real bed for a while. Oyama insisted on practising as usual, even though Nick pleaded exhaustion. After breakfast, Oyama said there was nearly nothing left to eat in the house and that he was going to the supermarket. He told Nick to keep his eyes open and then he got into his Toyota and drove off.
A lot of ado about nothing then, thought Nick as he stood under the shower, washing off the sweat of this morning’s session. Now that this latest crisis had been averted, perhaps he could pump Oyama for his thoughts on what a fugitive from justice could do to avoid detection in the long run. That was something he had to figure out, and soon.
He got dressed. He knew Oyama would want to work this afternoon and as the swordsmith’s unlikely apprentice he should fill the furnace with wood and charcoal, so it would be ready for later. He was about to open the front door to do just that, when someone opened it from the outside instead.
He stopped dead. An unknown and inscrutable Japanese face looked back at him. A man, dressed head to foot in black, no mask. He was slim and light, his eyes as black as the clothes, their expression unreadable. Then he moved, very fast.
Nick stepped out of the way as a fist meant for his throat sailed past. He thought the man’s momentum would take him right by, but he halted as if the normal rules of physics didn’t apply, lashing out suddenly with an elbow. It caught Nick on the side of the head, missing his temple by a millimetre. He crashed against the wall.
He was stunned, but managed to evade the next blow and get a grip on his attacker’s wrist. This time he used the man’s momentum against him and the assailant was swung around in a circular movement, his wrist bent back at a painful angle. Somehow he managed to yield out of it and get a fist into Nick’s groin. Then he kicked Nick’s legs away. As he lay on the floor, he saw the man draw a long-bladed knife from a sheath he had taped to his side. Nick rolled up to standing. He was a little unsteady on his feet and knew if he wasn’t effec
tive in dealing with the next attack, he was dead.
The man came at him slowly, knife outstretched. Nick looked at the eyes again. No expression, this was just business. As his attacker moved in for the kill there was a whooshing sound from behind him and suddenly the point of an arrow and about six inches of shaft was protruding from his chest. The knife fell to the ground as the man dropped to his knees. Nick saw Mariko fit another arrow and unleash it from her long bow. It found its target, right next to the first one. The man died without a sound, still on his knees.
He stared at Mariko. She had an expression on her face he hadn’t seen before. It had always been hinted at by the twist in her mouth that both she and her father shared, but now it was displayed in all its ruthless cruelty. She was completely without mercy. As she stared back, her eyes were blazing. Slowly, as she lowered the bow, he saw her face relax a little. Neither of them spoke.
A car was coming fast down the driveway, now. He looked outside and saw it was the Toyota. Oyama brought it to a stop and leaped out. He came inside and looked at the arrow-ridden corpse in the hall.
‘It worked,’ was all he said.
Nick finally found his voice. ‘What worked?’
‘We thought that if I left, he would come back.’
‘And he wouldn’t know I was here,’ added Mariko.
‘Christ,’ said Nick. ‘You could have told me.’
Neither of them replied to that. Mariko took out a mobile phone and then came round to face the dead man and took a photo of him.
‘We will send that to Yamada,’ she said.
‘What are we going to do with him?’ asked Nick.
‘Go and start up the furnace,’ said Oyama. ‘When it gets to 1300 degrees, we’ll burn him.’