He went back into the garage and shut the door.
Kojiro grabbed the spare car key off the workbench. He also picked up the slim remote control that opened the garage door. Walking towards the car, he pushed a button on the keyring and a beeping noise told him that the Bentley was unlocked. He took off his sword belt and opening the driver’s door, placed it in the passenger seat. Kojiro then climbed in behind the wheel. The car smelled musty and stale inside.
“Please,” he said, thinking about the battery.
He slid the key into the ignition. With his heart pounding, he turned it.
The engine growled. The car was alive.
“Thank you,” he said.
Kojiro aimed the remote control at the garage door. His hand froze. This was it. The house was on fire – the crashing, roaring flames had taken hold and everything, including his parents, was about to turn into ash and rubble. Was this the cost of defending his family honour? Destroying the past? And would it – could it – ever atone for his sins?
He pushed the button on the remote.
The garage door crept open. The light was still switched on outside the house, which gave Kojiro a clear view of what was waiting for him. The remaining Vampire People were standing on the street – the old man and Morrison. They looked towards the garage with hatred in their eyes. There were two others there, a teenage boy and girl who were restraining the two wolves. The wolves were restless on their leads.
Kojiro flicked on the car headlights. His foot flirted with the accelerator while the engine hummed in anticipation.
He saw the look in their eyes – all of them. It was the realisation that they’d made a mistake. They were looking down the barrel of their own extinction. Had it been worth it for such a tiny glimpse of land and power?
“Merry Christmas,” Kojiro said.
He slid the car into drive and slammed his foot on the floor. The Bentley hurled itself out of the garage, its tyres clamping down on the icy driveway as it shot towards the street.
He went after the old man. The Bentley’s headlights locked onto those giant bug-like eyes and Kojiro pressed the gas harder, fuelled by his hatred for the bastard who’d forced him to end so many young lives tonight.
The old man turned and fled through the snow, his paper-thin body fighting to stay upright on the slippery surface.
As Kojiro went after the old man, Morrison jumped out of the Bentley’s way and ran off in the opposite direction. The two wolves jumped back in fright. They struggled and broke free of the girl and boy who were desperately holding onto their leads. The creatures ran off into the darkness, spooked by the growling, four-wheeled monster with the blazing eyes. In the rear-view mirror, Kojiro saw the two young Vampire People call it quits. They ran off without looking back.
The car skidded back and forth on the treacherous surface.
The old man fled with a speed that defied his advancing years. He seemed to possess a superhuman power only within reach of those people whose fear had tapped into something primal in their brain, something that forced ordinary people into performing extraordinary actions under duress.
But the conditions were poor. He kept slipping on the icy ground, unable to keep the momentum of escape going.
The car kept coming. Closer now.
Kojiro heard a wild, cackling sound at his back. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw Morrison standing in the middle of the road. He was pointing at the car, grinning and laughing like a madman who was under the spell of the moon. He ran over towards the ghetto blaster, which was half-buried in the snow and frantically pushed buttons on the control panel.
The road was getting slippier. Kojiro wrestled with the steering wheel as the Bentley howled and skidded, the tyres skating over the icy snow. At last, he was driving parallel alongside the running man.
Kojiro pulled at a switch and the driver’s window slid down. With his spare hand, he reached for the sword on the passenger seat and pulled it out of the scabbard.
The old man looked at Kojiro, his eyes ablaze with horror. Kojiro jerked the car to the right and the Bentley skidded sharply on the ice. Quickly he took his foot off the accelerator and steered gently to the right again until it settled. He was still level with the old man and now he lifted his backside off the seat and leaned out of the open window, still keeping his foot on the gas pedal.
One hand was on the steering wheel. The other was locked tightly around the sword handle.
Kojiro slid his sword arm through the gap in the window. Then his head and right shoulder popped out too so that half his body was now hanging outside the car. In that moment, he was like an ancient warrior riding to victory on four-wheeled horseback.
The old man screamed. Kojiro yelled – a great warlike scream – as he brought a slashing blow down onto the back of the exposed neck.
Blood sprayed onto the car bonnet. The old man dropped like a stone.
Kojiro pushed his body back inside the car. Then he hit the brakes. He turned the steering wheel to the left and the Bentley skidded to a violent halt in the snow. His body jerked forwards and he felt an explosion of pain.
“Shit,” he said.
He pushed the car door open and stepped outside. Further along the road, the old man was still moving – a half-human, half-insect, crawling through the snow and leaving a long trail of blood in his wake.
Kojiro caught up with him easily enough. He stood behind the wounded creature, following it, listening to it ramble on about territory and other things – about life’s injustices.
“My territory!” he said in a croaky, fading voice. “Not fair. Why does it always end up going wrong? Motherfuckers. You can’t take this from me.”
Kojiro lifted his sword high above his head. Both hands gripped the hilt and he brought it down on the old man’s skeletal back. A grasping, withered hand reached for the sky. Then he fell face first into the bloody snow.
“I was here first,” Kojiro said. “I take nothing that isn’t already mine.”
He stood over the body for a second, waiting to see if he felt anything. He felt nothing.
“Stranger!” a familiar voice yelled out.
Music exploded out of the ghetto blaster. A raucous guitar and bass riff went around in a manic, hypnotic rhythm.
‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’ by Iron Butterfly.
Kojiro turned around.
Morrison was dancing in the snow. His body jerked back and forth, out of time, like somebody listening to a different song than everyone else. Then he stopped. His long, pale fingers grasped at his eyes – picking and pulling at the sockets like something icky had flown in there. He threw something to the ground – the contact lenses. Morrison reached a hand into his mouth and forcibly removed the false row of upper teeth with the golden canines. These too, were tossed onto the snow.
He looked at Kojiro and smiled. At last, Morrison was human again.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kojiro saw the outline of two wolves hovering in the distance. They were watching, eagerly awaiting the final act.
“I was wrong about you,” Morrison said. As he spoke, he reached a hand into the inside pocket of his wrinkled leather jacket. Slowly, he pulled out the revolver and his eyes lit up at the sight of the gun.
“Looks like you will be my emergency after all.”
Chapter 13
Morrison walked down the street, pointing the gun at Kojiro.
He paid no heed to the slippery conditions. He didn’t seem to notice the wolves lurking on the sidelines. Nothing mattered, except the end goal.
Kojiro watched him approach. Meanwhile the house that he grew up in was on fire. It was an inferno. The flames permeated the building, seeping into every room and incinerating memories – both good and bad – with extreme prejudice. He stole a glance at the guest bedroom window. His father’s hunched remains were barely visible, still wrapped underneath the Gothic coat. Fire and smoke danced in the background, creeping slowly closer to Eiji’s corpse.
&nb
sp; “I’m going to shoot you stranger.”
Morrison was closing the distance fast. He was clearly trying to get as close as possible to Kojiro before shooting. There was only one bullet left and he couldn’t miss.
Kojiro walked forward. His body was spilling over with aches and pains. His sword was drawn and he carried it low on his right side.
They were like two gunslingers in the Old West. This was the final showdown and winner takes all. Except there wasn’t much left to take.
Kojiro lifted the sword and wrapped both hands around the hilt. He pressed it flat against his chest so that the tip of the blade was pointing at the sky. The sword shielded his heart and even if Morrison shot him, Kojiro was determined not to die outright. It didn’t matter how badly he was hurt. He was taking Morrison with him.
“I told you,” Morrison said, screaming over the raucous guitars that bled out of the speakers. His gun arm jerked back and forth, tracking the moving target that was coming towards him. “One bullet left for emergencies. But tell me something. Did you have more bullets in that house of yours?”
Kojiro glanced at the burning house. “Guess you’ll never know,” he said.
“You think I’m afraid of you?” Morrison said, his voice high and screechy. His eyes gleamed and his nostrils twitched constantly. “You think I’m afraid of a little fire? I’ll go in there and take what’s due to me. The Vampire People aren’t finished if that’s what you’re thinking stranger. Not while I’m around. I’m going in that house and I’m going to walk through the fire and take those swords of yours.”
“You’ll have to climb over the ashes of your friends,” Kojiro said.
Morrison cackled. “So be it!”
They were standing less than thirty feet apart.
“Now see what you did,” Morrison said, looking past Kojiro towards the stranded Bentley. “You killed my father.”
Kojiro came to a halt. “Yes,” he said.
Morrison looked crestfallen. “How dare you?” he said. “I was supposed to do that.”
“Think of it as a Christmas present,” Kojiro said. He started walking again.
After about ten seconds, Kojiro exploded into a sudden sprint. He ran as fast and as hard as he could towards the man with the gun. Kojiro came forwards, zigzagging like a slalom skier, left to right, skiing through invisible poles and doing his best to be an impossible target.
Morrison stood with his mouth hanging wide open. He was rooted to the spot like a leather-clad snowman that had sprouted out of the street. After a moment, he snapped out of his daze and aimed the revolver at Kojiro. His gun arm trembled.
“No!” he screamed.
There was an explosion of noise. For a moment, Kojiro thought he’d been shot and yet he couldn’t feel anything. Perhaps this was what dying was – chaos and confusion and that was all before the lights went out for good.
But when he heard the high-pitched sound of glass shattering at his back, Kojiro turned around. He saw a small puff of smoke rising in the distance; it poured out of a hole in the cracked passenger side window of the Bentley.
That was it – one shot. He was still alive and he turned back to Morrison, who was looking at the smoking car, his mouth agape in horror. Morrison took several steps backwards, still pointing the gun at Kojiro. His pale fingers squeezed the trigger again and again but the empty clicking sound was his only reward.
“Fuck!” Morrison said. He looked at the gun in disgust and threw the weapon at Kojiro. It was miles off target and landed in the snow with a thud.
Kojiro walked towards Morrison. His feet crunched over the hard surface and there was grim purpose in his every stride. Morrison turned and ran, wading through the snow as quickly as he could.
The wolves stood on the outskirts, watching with keen eyes.
Morrison ran for about thirty seconds and then dropped onto the snow. He let out an agonised groan and held his arms above his head in surrender. As Kojiro got closer, he rolled onto his back like a submissive dog.
“Mercy please!” he said. He was fighting back the tears. “I beg you stranger, don’t kill me.”
Kojiro stood over the fallen man. Looking up, he saw the wolves creeping forward slowly.
“The wolves are hungry,” he said. “You haven’t been feeding them enough.”
He pressed the tip of the sword against the protruding jugular vein on Morrison’s neck.
“Please!” Morrison said. “Don’t. Oh God please no.”
Kojiro noticed that Morrison’s eyes – stripped of the red lenses – were a similar shade of brown to his own.
“It wasn’t me,” Morrison said. “It was my father – he made us like this. All of this is because of him. He told us if we wanted to stay alive we had to become monsters. Please! He was wrong, I can see that now.”
Kill him boy. What do you think he’d do if that was you on the ground?
“Please,” Morrison said, his eyes tightly shut.
Kill him. Honour demands it. And you owe me boy. After what you did to me, you know you owe me something.
Kojiro looked at Morrison. “Stand up,” he said.
Morrison opened his eyes and struggled back to his feet.
“Your father wasn’t wrong about the monsters,” Kojiro said. He swung hard with his left and cracked Morrison in the jaw. It was a clean shot and Morrison crashed onto the ground like he’d been hit by an assault rifle. He brought both hands to his face, cupping the spot where the punch had landed. His brown eyes looked up at Kojiro, begging for mercy.
Kojiro’s left hand was in agony. Blood poured from his wounds.
Nice and slow. Do it again.
“Stand up,” Kojiro said.
Morrison was still cradling his battered jaw and he didn’t move. Kojiro thrust the tip of the xiphos to his throat and tore off a fine layer of skin. Morrison yelped and leapt back to his feet quickly, his hand rushing to the fresh wound on his neck. It was little more than a shaving nick.
Kojiro hit him again, sending him onto the snow in a battered heap. Blood spilled out of Morrison’s nose while Kojiro’s arm trembled with pain.
Again. You owe me.
“Stand up,” Kojiro said.
Morrison crawled back to his feet, much slower this time. He was crying. One hand was clamped over his nose, trying to stem the flow of blood.
Kojiro knocked him down again. “Monsters,” he said. “That’s what we are.”
And you are a monster boy. I never knew you had it in you. Maybe you are my son after all.
“Stand up!” Kojiro said. He didn’t recognise his own voice anymore.
“Stand up boy.”
Morrison wobbled back to his feet like a crippled drunk. His face was a mask of blood.
Kill him.
Kojiro’s fist was cocked. He was ready to do it. But his arm didn’t move, not this time. He stared at the pathetic, cowering shape in front of him – an overgrown child, frightened of everything. He looked at the burning house to his right. He couldn’t see his father’s corpse anymore – it was ablaze along with everything else.
Morrison stood with his head hung low, a sacrificial punch bag.
Kojiro turned towards the house. He unclenched his bloody fist, which was shaking with pain.
“Burn, you old bastard. But you’re not taking me with you. I’m nothing like you.”
He looked at Morrison.
“Go,” he said. “Don’t stay here.”
Morrison lifted his battered head. Confusion spilled into his eyes.
“I said go,” Kojiro said. “Before I change my mind.”
Morrison almost tripped over his feet as he backed off. He tried to say something but couldn’t get the words out. Then he turned around and ran.
“Hey,” Kojiro said, calling after him.
Morrison stopped dead. He turned around, his eyes wide with terror. He probably thought that Kojiro was only pretending to let him go.
Kojiro bowed his head. “My name is Kojiro.�
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Morrison nodded briefly. Then he took several steps backwards, his feet clawing at the snow in search of a solid grip. He turned and ran off into the night.
Kojiro watched him go. Then he turned back to the house, daring his father’s voice to leap out of the flames and challenge him. But all the ghosts in Richmond were silent at last, as the building spewed a thick plume of black smoke into the sky.
He looked at the blue suit, using firelight to comb it for any sign of damage.
“Not a drop of blood,” he said, with a satisfied smile.
With that, Kojiro walked back to the car, his limbs heavy and painful. Reaching inside, he turned off the engine and headlights. Then he took the belt from the passenger side and wrapped it around his waist. He sheathed the sword and groaned as he straightened up – it had been one of the longest days of his life. Thank God it was almost…
He heard footsteps at his back.
Kojiro’s fingers wrapped themselves around the sword hilt. What the hell? How much fight did he have left in him?
He drew his sword and spun around.
The two grey wolves crept forward, their eyes bright and eager. They wanted to approach but when Kojiro took a step in their direction, their tails went between their legs and they shrank backwards.
They repositioned themselves further down the street, all the while looking back at something that had piqued their interest nearby. They were anxious to come forward but wouldn’t while Kojiro was still there.
Kojiro looked over his shoulder. When he finally realised what they wanted he laughed softly.
“I’m going now,” he said, looking at them. “It’s all yours.”
He nodded to the wolves, a silent show of respect. Then he went on his way, passing by the two animals at a safe distance. As he walked, Iron Butterfly howled out of the ghetto blaster. The flames roared in Richmond and showed little sign of ever waning.
Kojiro glanced over his shoulder. The two wolves had crept forwards and were now standing beside the car, eagerly tearing at the flesh on the old man’s neck.
The Future of London Box Set Page 79