The Foreigners

by James Lovegrove

  In his hand – the selfsame violin-shaped club. A few smeary bloodstains on its striking surface.

  There was no time to think. MacLeod was coming too fast. Parry brought his arms up reflexively, covering his face. He twisted sideways, hunching himself. The club whirred through the air, and there was a dull detonation just below his right shoulderblade. He reeled from the impact. There was an instant of numbness, then a sudden sunburst of pain, shooting up through his ribs and along his arm. He gasped. Hissed. Gritted his teeth. Looked up. The club was on the backswing, MacLeod’s muscle-clustered forearm drawing it behind his head. Parry recalled the self-defence techniques drilled into him years ago during his police training. How to deal with close-combat weapons. Instinct was to back away, but the best method of rendering a close-combat weapon ineffectual was to do the reverse and move in, getting inside the arc of use.

  With a desperate growl, he threw himself at MacLeod. It was like colliding with the flank of an ox – sheer meaty solidity. He grabbed MacLeod around the chest with his right arm. With his left hand, he seized MacLeod’s wrist, halting the club on the downstroke. The wrist twisted and turned in his grasp. He dug his fingers in hard enough to have left dents in cold wax, then lowered his head and shoved, thrusting MacLeod bodily backwards at the nearest wall, sending him thumping shoulders-first against a woven rug of some kind, richly coloured and patterned.

  Still struggling to control MacLeod’s clubbing arm, he began punching him in the side. Ribs. Waist. Hip. Again and again he drove his knuckles into MacLeod. MacLeod took it. He rammed a knee into MacLeod’s thigh. MacLeod did not flinch. He aimed a jab at MacLeod’s solar plexus. MacLeod grunted at the blow.

  Then, in a lofty, lordly manner, MacLeod began to laugh, and all at once it was clear to Parry that he was being toyed with here. MacLeod, like a schoolyard bully, was allowing him to get a few licks in first so that his punishment, when it came, would be all the more deserved and all the more severe. Still, there was nothing for it but to keep hitting him. Stopping now would be tantamount to admitting defeat.

  MacLeod tolerated the assault for a few moments longer, then, deciding enough was enough, he grabbed the back of Parry’s shirt-collar with his free hand, yanked Parry backwards and, with a grin, kicked his legs out from under him. As Parry sagged, MacLeod held him by the collar, supporting his weight. Parry saw MacLeod’s head rise and go back. He saw neck tendons tensing, jaw muscles tightening, and he knew what was coming. There was no way to avoid it. The best he could do was try to limit the damage.

  It came like a violent nod, a gesture of agreement perverted. Aiming for the bridge of Parry’s nose, MacLeod delivered the headbutt with all the force he could muster, but just as the blow descended Parry brought his own head forwards and down, and so instead of brow meeting cartilage, brow met brow, bone against bone, a hollow, teeth-clacking collision that stunned both him and MacLeod. Losing their grip on each other, the two of them stumbled apart. Scarlet-and-gold catherine wheels flew across Parry’s vision. He clutched the top of his forehead, staggering. A field of pain flared through his skull. He tasted bile at the back of his throat. He swallowed hard and searched through screwed-up eyelids for MacLeod.

  MacLeod, hunched over, was also clutching his forehead. Looking up, his gaze met Parry’s, and his mouth elongated into a sneer.

  “Fucking pakeha,” he snarled, and lumbered towards Parry again, club aloft.

  He’s going to kill me, Parry thought, even as he braced himself for this new assault. He’s not going to stop until he’s fucking killed me.

  Every violent situation Parry had been in during his Met. days, there had always been at least one other police officer at his side and the security of knowing that back-up on its way. Not only that, but more often than not his opponents had been drunk or out of their heads on drugs, and therefore clumsy and easy to outwit. MacLeod was none of those things. MacLeod was a born fighter, and physically outclassed Parry as a pitbull outclasses a Yorkshire terrier. Not only that, but Parry was on his own. Van Wyk had his own Xenophobe to handle, and even supposing he was able to come to Parry’s assistance, would it make any difference? MacLeod was more than a match for the two of them. And he had a weapon.

  These thoughts flashed through Parry’s mind in the space of less than a second, and then MacLeod was on him. He blocked a clout from the club with his forearm, and Jesus Christ it hurt, pain jangling along his ulna and radius like vibrations along the twin tines of a tuning fork, but then he had his hand on MacLeod’s face and he was clawing at it, sinking his fingers in. He felt the moistness of mouth and the roughness of eyebrows and the resilient protrusion of nose, and he imagined MacLeod’s face as a piece of paper he was scrunching up, and he clenched his fingers tighter, and he heard MacLeod yell out in pain, and then he himself was the one yelling out in pain as something struck him hard on the side of the head, MacLeod’s fist, and struck him again, his ear going numb and thunderously deaf, and again, his skull shaking atop its vertebral stem, and he let go of MacLeod’s face, and MacLeod was growling, and almost by feel alone Parry found the club and tried to wrench it out of the Xenophobe’s grasp, because that was the real danger here, fists could hurt but the club could truly harm, and then he and MacLeod were grappling over the weapon, and then (he did not know how it happened – maybe MacLeod tripped him, maybe he tripped MacLeod) they were on the floor, lying on their sides on the zigzag-pattern parquet, still grappling over the weapon, pressed against each other like lovers, grunting, furious, Parry kicking MacLeod, MacLeod pummelling Parry with his free hand, and Parry was prising hard with his fingers and at last he felt the handle of the club coming loose, and all of a sudden the club was free and skidding across the floor, and Parry thought he glimpsed feet, bare feet, just where it fetched up, and then he realised that MacLeod must have let go of the club on purpose, probably because it was not so easily wielded while they were both struggling on the floor, and then he understood the real reason why MacLeod had let go as he felt both of MacLeod’s hands clamp around his neck –

  – what an exposed portion of the anatomy a neck was; how terrifyingly vital, vulnerable, it was –

  – MacLeod’s hands like pincers, squeezing, crushing –

  – Parry flailing his fists against MacLeod’s arms, and they were girder-thick, implacable –

  – Christ, he couldn’t breathe –

  – head bloating with blood –

  – a sound in his ears like a torrent of water –

  – chrysanthemum-bursts of colour in his vision –

  – couldn’t breathe –

  – this was it –

  – flailing, failing –

  – Anna –

  Inhale!

  Sharp, sweet air. Coughing, choking, and his windpipe feeling ragged, lined with broken glass. Inhale! Another wheezing in-gulp of air, and yes, he was breathing, he was able to breathe, his throat was no longer constricted, he could breathe. MacLeod had let go. MacLeod had spared him?

  MacLeod?

  Nearby. Sprawled on the floor like a sleeping infant. Blood glistening in his hair. Blood?

  Beyond him, the violin-shaped club, dangling from a man’s hand.

  Parry blinked. Logical thought was beginning to return, comprehension dawning.

  The Tibetan Xenophobe, clad in a striped cotton dressing-gown, was standing over MacLeod, clasping the club loosely as if unsure whether to keep a hold of it or drop it. On his face there was a look of grim revulsion, whether directed at MacLeod or himself it was hard to say.

  Parry struggled up to a kneeling position. His head was ringing. His throttled throat throbbed. “Sir?” he said. The word came out as rough as sandpaper.

  “Is he dead?” the monk asked, not looking up.

  As if in answer to the question, MacLeod softly moaned.

  The monk’s shoulders sank, and the club fell from his fingers, hitting the floor with a clunk.

  “Karma,” he murmured to MacLeod.

&n
bsp; Parry clambered to his feet.

  “Phone,” he croaked to the monk.

  40. Spiritual

  THE AMBULANCE PULLED away from Free World House and nosed slowly and carefully past a trio of tethered FPP launches. In clear water beyond, it picked up speed, and its roof-mounted emergency lights came on, enclosing it within a whirling, hectic cocoon of reflected red. Parry watched it make a right turn and disappear from view. It would be at St Cecilia’s within quarter of an hour. There, emergency-room doctors were waiting. The paramedics had reassured him that both the injured men aboard the ambulance would receive immediate and first-rate medical attention, the very best that any resort-city had to offer. The wellbeing of MacLeod, who according to the paramedics was suffering from concussion and possibly a fractured skull, Parry was not so worried about. Johansen, though, was a different matter. If for any reason he didn’t pull through...

  He told himself not to think that way. Not only was Johansen in good hands, but he was fit, strong, healthy. In fact, barely twenty minutes ago, Parry had been marvelling at his lieutenant’s might and tenacity. This was when he emerged from Free World House after summoning the ambulance, to find Johansen clinging to the side of the Xenophobes’ launch, one arm hooked over the gunwhales, kicking with his good leg to stay afloat. The Alsatians had, by this time, extricated themselves from the canal by means of a nearby slipway and were sitting on the walkway, sodden, bedraggled, and looking not at all vicious or threatening – more sheepish than German Shepherd. Their dunk in the water had had a chastening effect on them, and when the monk called to them from the gateway, they responded only too eagerly, hurrying ahead of him up the path, glad to be returning to the warmth and the dryness and the certainty of indoors.

  With some effort, Parry managed to haul Johansen around the boat and, with Johansen’s groaning assistance, out of the canal and onto the walkway. The lieutenant had lost a lot of blood, and was losing still more, rapidly. It was spilling from his wounds, mingling pinkly with the rivulets of water pouring from his clothing. He was going into shock, starting to shudder, burbling incomprehensibly in Norwegian. Kneeling, Parry undid Johansen’s trouser-belt, slid it off and tied it around Johansen’s thigh as a tourniquet, then pressed a wadded-up handtowel, which the monk fetched from the house, to the deep ragged dog-bite in Johansen’s calf. It seemed to work, the flow of blood abating, but Parry could not have been more relieved when, at last, the paramedics appeared and took over. He stood back and watched them set to work with quick, cool efficiency – giving oxygen, administering morphine, inserting a plasma drip, binding wounds – and he sent up a small prayer of gratitude that these men and women existed. You seldom gave them a thought until they were needed, and then, when they were saving the life of someone you cared about, you gave thanks to every deity you could think of that they were there.

  As the ambulance’s wake settled, Parry turned away from the canal, passed back through the gateway and followed the path up to the house. Although Pinkerton and Butterfly were locked up securely inside, he none the less could not bring himself to take a direct route to the front door, straight across the lawn. Silly, but there you are. Every step he took triggered a fanfare of small agonies. His neck hurt the worst of all, with the top of his forehead coming a close second. His right latissimus dorsi muscle, just below the shoulderblade, was beginning to stiffen up as a consequence of the clout it had received from the club. A great oval bruise was welling on his left forearm. Various other aches and abrasions, too many to count, added to his suffering. One of the paramedics had suggested to him that he might consider coming along to the hospital too, but he had declined the offer. Though everything seemed pretty much sorted out here, there was still work to be done, and as long as he felt fit enough to do it – which he did, just barely – then he had to remain. The paramedic had given him an analgesic patch, and he had attached it to the underside of his wrist but it had yet to take effect.

  In the hallway, an officer from van Wyk’s district was keeping watch over the club, which lay on the floor where the Tibetan monk had dropped it. The club, which Parry now knew to be a Maori weapon called a patu, was the crucial piece of evidence in the shinju case. Blood samples taken from it, and a comparison between it and the injuries inflicted on the Siren found in the alley next to the Scroll, would determine if it had been the murder weapon in that instance. Van Wyk had ordered that it was not to be moved or even touched until the criminalists came.

  Upstairs, in the Xenophobes’ campaign office, van Wyk was attempting to interrogate Greg, and not having much joy. The aborigine sat in silence, massaging his left shoulder and keeping his gaze truculently lowered, refusing to meet his questioner’s eye. As Parry glanced in through the doorway, van Wyk threw him a look of exasperation. Parry nodded noncommittally. Not his concern. He had someone else to talk to. He carried on up to the next floor, where, in the conference room in which he had first met MacLeod, the Tibetan monk was now waiting for him.

  The monk was still wearing nothing but the striped dressing-gown, and it looked incongruous on him, too mundanely modern for a man whose customary attire embodied a centuries-old spiritual tradition. He looked round when Parry entered the room, and as his head turned, his cap of fine hair-stubble caught the glare of the downlighters with an iridescent ripple.

  “Your lieutenant,” he asked, “how is he?”

  “As well as can be expected,” Parry replied. His voice was a laryngitic rasp, hoarse and strained.

  “And Toroa?”

  “He’ll recover.”

  “I’m glad. For his sake and for mine. The Buddha holds that all life is sacred. To take life is absolutely forbidden.”

  “Well, I think you’re safe on that count. And you prevented the taking of my life, which has got to balance things out, surely.” “Possibly.” The monk gave a half-smile. “It could almost be a koan, couldn’t it? Something for the novices to ponder. ‘Should one be prepared to kill in order to prevent killing?’”

  “If it helps, I’m very grateful to you for intervening.”

  The monk waved a hand, as if to say, It’s nothing.

  Parry sat down opposite him, lowering himself gingerly so as not to jar his neck. “Listen, you haven’t told me your name...”

  Either the monk did not hear, or heard but did not think the matter important, for he said, “I could have prevented more death tonight, captain. I was aware what Toroa and Greg were planning. I could have told you yesterday at FPP Headquarters what they were intending to do. I am ashamed that I did not, but my loyalties were in conflict.”

  Parry recalled the significant look the monk had given him as the Xenophobes were leaving the basement.

  “I have my religious beliefs, you understand,” the monk continued, “but also my political ones. Mostly the two coincide, but sometimes they do not. You perhaps wonder why someone like me has thrown in his lot with the Xenophobe movement.”

  “It had crossed my mind.”

  “The reason is very simple. I was born, captain, in a country under siege, a country occupied by a nation hostile to its people and traditions and religion. I grew up watching Chinese soldiers break up peaceful demonstrations with tear gas and guns. I saw members of my own family imprisoned for daring to voice opposition to Beijing. Resistance to occupation and adherence to faith were all but synonymous then. And as I come from such a background, it would be hard for me, both as a Tibetan and a Buddhist, to stand back and do nothing while the entire world suffers a similar kind of occupation. China attempted to stamp out Tibet’s native culture and religion and even its language, and almost succeeded, and the Foreigners, as I see it, are doing something similar to our planet, not with violence, nor it seems with any degree of deliberate intent, but no less effectively for that.”

  “I’d dispute that point, but my voice just isn’t up to it.” Parry tried to laugh, but all that emerged from his windpipe was a rough hiss.

  “Though there might appear to be a contradicti
on between the tenets of Buddhism and Xenophobia, captain,” the monk went on, in his measured, accentless English, “to my mind there is none. To be a Xenophobe and engage in nonviolent protest against Foreigners does not run counter to the teachings of the Buddha. Indeed, when it comes to Foreigners, there is no Buddhist doctrine at all. At least, no official doctrine. Perhaps you are aware of a belief held by certain denominations of my religion, a belief not sanctioned by the Dalai Lama but popular none the less, that Foreigners are brahma deities. You have heard of this?”

  Parry shook his head, or rather moved it a few degrees to the right then stopped because it hurt. “No,” he said.

  The monk sat forward in his chair, pressing his hands together in the manner of one zealous about explaining. “In Buddhist cosmology, captain, there are many realms of existence. The second highest of these is the rupa-dhatu, the realm of form. It is the home of lesser gods, those who still have a connection with events in the lower cosmological strata, unlike the gods of the arupa-dhatu, the realm of formlessness, the highest realm, who spend their long lives in the deepest levels of yogic trance and are beyond all earthly concerns. According to our myths, the gods of the rupa-dhatu enter the lower realms at the time of earthly cataclysm, which recurs periodically through the ages. As the destruction takes hold, in the form of a flood that deluges the land and wipes out the human race, they come down to take up residence. From them, the next race of humans is descended.” The monk held up a hand, as if in anticipation of a question. “Of course, doubtless you are thinking, If the Foreigners are these gods, why are we not all drowned and dead? And you are right. What has happened this time round – or so, at any rate, those who hold this belief say – is that the gods of the rupa-dhatu have taken pity on us and come down early. Their timely arrival has averted the flood and broken the cycle of destruction and creation. It is for this reason that this belief is considered in some quarters heretical, since it runs counter to accepted Buddhist teachings. Although there is, I must admit, other evidence that would seem to give it some credence.”