Highlander

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘Want some action, baby. I’m really good,’ she murmured.

  But he wasn’t looking for action. He was merely changing address. He grinned at her. ‘When I do, I’ll snap.’

  Her own false smile disappeared, the muscles in her face loosening. Flaccid. She looked about fifty. Sex and drugs and long, long nights. A fifty-year-old woman in a fifteen-year-old body. His own body was many hundreds of years old. Yet it had not lost that vitality that she seemed to lack. It was still full of energy. She was lost in the darkness of herself.

  Not that he, the Kurgan, did not have dark areas within him. But he reasoned that everyone had those, mortal or immortal.

  Immortal. Soon to be a god, a living god. That surely was the prize for being the only one left? What else could it be? His power was phenomenal now. Once only he remained, why, he would surely have absolute power. Omnipotent. Invincible. God only wise. Then he could reveal himself to the world. There would be no need to remain hidden.

  A pusher wandered over to the car.

  ‘Hey, man, you’re bumin’ my pocket with them eyes.’

  ‘Yeah? You got something you want to show me?’ The pusher looked nervously around him.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Are you selling, or just strutting?’

  The pusher hopped from one foot to the other. He wanted a customer, but it was a bad place to do business. ‘Can’t you. . .’

  ‘No, here.’ The Kurgan was enjoying himself. He gunned the engine, as if he were about to pull away from the kerb.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said the other, ‘here.’ He opened his hand to reveal a small cellophane packet of white powder.

  ‘Open it,’ said the Kurgan.

  ‘You crazy?’

  ‘I wanna see what shit I’m buying.’ The Kurgan flashed a roll of notes. Greed opened the other man’s eyes wide. He slit the packet and tipped some of the stuff onto his palm. The Kurgan licked his finger as if he were about to dip, then leaned forward and blew hard. The powder and packet scattered, the former now a small white cloud.

  He laughed into the distressed face.

  The pusher screamed. ‘You fucker . . .’ He kicked the car door savagely and poured out more obscenities. The Kurgan reached through the open window and swallowed the man’s face with his huge hand, throwing him backwards, at the feet of the hooker who had first approached him.

  ‘Go play hopscotch,’ grinned the Kurgan, and roared away from the kerb.

  As he drove along, through the backstreets, he switched on the car radio. The newscaster’s voice filled the vehicle.

  ‘. . . garage and water from the sprinklers. It also left a man’s decapitated body - lying on the floor, next to his own severed head. . .’ The Kurgan adjusted his studded belt.

  ‘. . . a head which at this time has no name.’

  ‘I know his name,’ said the Kurgan, softly. The police had obviously decided to keep Fasil’s identity a secret for the time being. No doubt they were concerned about public alarm, and an unknown person seems less frightening to ordinary people, than someone with a name and a history. It was less easy to identify with an unknown corpse. Most would think it was a gangland killing, which would not concern them or restrict them from going out.

  ‘And I know who did it,’ sang the Kurgan, softly. The Kurgan’s vehicle had drifted over to the left side of the road, but he made no attempt to cross back to the right. Soon a car came towards him, it’s lights flashing and it’s horn blaring. The Kurgan hummed softly to himself, maintaining his direction. Just before there would have been a head on collision the other car skidded and spun out of the way, the horn still going strong.

  The Kurgan placed a cassette into the player, filling the car with rock music. Just when he was beginning to enjoy himself, he saw a sign flashing. ANSONIA HOTEL. That would do. No king-sized beds - king-sized fleas more like - but it would do. It was in the right area for him. He was not fussy about temporary accommodation. Suddenly the power failed on the sign and it spluttered for a few moments before coming on again. Someone had switched on an extra appliance. Limited power.

  Not a phrase the Kurgan liked. Unlimited power. That was more to his taste. He remembered those, in his past, who professed to have unlimited power. Sorcerers, magicians, wizards. All charlatans. He had dispatched a few of those in his time, too. He had enjoyed killing them. The acts had added to his own prestige amongst those with whom he was living at the time. To scorn the powers of the darkness...

  He took his luggage out of the boot. and stepped into the drab lobby of the doss-house that called itself a hotel. There was an old black guy with a white beard reading a newspaper by the desk. Behind the desk itself, a young guy who needed at least three showers to remove his surface grime, was flicking peanuts at a singer on the television screen. The sound was off and he seemed to be aiming at the singer’s opening and closing mouth.

  ‘A room,’ said the Kurgan, interrupting this engrossing activity.

  He picked up a pen and signed the register. The desk clerk spun in his chair and studied the name in the book.

  ‘Okay, Mr Victor Kruger - Room 315 - ‘

  ‘You tell ‘im, Kenny,’ murmured the old man, not looking up from his paper.

  This was ignored. ‘. . . and I’m going to hit you for twenty in advance.’

  The Kurgan reached into his leather jacket and produced his roll. He peeled off a twenty-dollar bill and tossed it down on the counter. Kenny’s eyes were starting. He licked his lips as the roll was replaced in the jacket pocket.

  ‘Er, hey - God - if there’s anything you need - you know, broads - blow -‘, he stuttered, ‘just - dial 0.’

  Then he placed the sword out of sight but within easy reach.

  ‘Come in,’ he growled, hoarsely.

  The door opened and in the light from the hall behind, a woman stood. He studied her legs, naked to the thighs. Her breasts were spilling over the tight blouse top. She was chewing on some gum, violently.

  ‘Hi - I’m Candy,’ she said, peering through the dimness.

  He switched on the light as she closed the door.

  ‘Of course you are,’ he said.

  She stripped off her clothes as if she were going for a swim, tossing them into a corner. The Kurgan watched her dispassionately.

  ‘Okay,’ she shrugged. ‘What?’

  He slapped the bed. ‘Poon-tang time, baby. Spread ‘em.’

  ‘Just that?’

  ‘Just that.’

  He was disappointed with the results. Perhaps, thought the Kurgan, there have been too many? A sea of faces. It had been a long time since the act had been more than a few moments of amusement. The dark area in him seemed to spread. He had to keep it in check, or it would engulf him. Why now? Why did a few minutes with a woman trigger those deeper, inner feelings which had no name and which were the only things he feared on the whole earth? They were like black, ravenous birds within him, carrion crows, eating outwards from that pitch-dense void that ordinary men would call their soul.

  ‘Do you have any tissues?’ the gum-chewing mouth asked him.

  ‘Use that rag they call a towel - and then get dressed and get out.’

  The girl did as she was told, used to them hating her, afterwards. Oh, they would whine and wheedle for what they wanted beforehand, but they blamed her for having needed it afterwards, when they were spent and empty and like this one - disappointed, the act having failed to live up to their expectations. She pulled on her shorts and blouse and left the room, the money safely in her purse. The Kurgan watched her go and then thought about dressing his scarred body himself. The girl hadn’t questioned the blemishes and marks. No doubt she had had too many Vietnam vets either talk her into the ground with their stories, or run screaming at the wall on being reminded of where they had been.

  He remembered a whore he had had in Florence, at the time of the Borgias. Someone had sliced off her nipples and she had white scars where they used to be. She had hidden them, with her hands, a
fraid he would laugh. Then, when he had revealed his own scars, she had lowered her hands, thinking him a soul-mate. Of course, he had laughed - but then encouraged her to laugh at him. The Kurgan was not without a sense of humour .

  He dressed, quickly, wrapped his sword in a coat and left the room. Kenny, at the desk, said, ‘Going out Mr Kruger?’

  ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘Er - the girl- did you like her?’ He knew what the desk clerk wanted.

  ‘You got your cut - from her.’ Kenny looked a little aggrieved. ‘Yeah, sure. I just wondered. .

  The Kurgan left him wondering. He took the car and drove to the building which housed MacLeod’s apartment. There he sat and waited, intending to follow Mr Nash to a suitable site for a duel. Only one. There could be only one. The end was in sight. The Gathering - at last.

  Chapter 11

  MACLEOD LEFT THE restaurant a few moments after his enquiries about Brenda. There did not seem to be too much to worry about. So she was in forensics? And she had a few fragments of his Samurai blade? They would surely mean nothing to her. And what if they did?

  He stood outside the door of P.J.’s for a moment, breathing in the soft night air. The city was humming with life. He could feel it pulsing through the sidewalk under his feet. New York, like most capital cities, never fully laid down its head and got a night’s sleep.

  MacLeod had seen them all: Rome, London, Paris, Moscow maybe Moscow slept? No, there were those who ruled the night, even there. The mighty hearts of the cities were never still, not these days, these nights.

  He strode off, down the street, intending to take a short cut back to his apartment. There was a construction site across which he had to walk and as he stepped into the shadows from the scaffolding he regretted not bringing his sword. It was a foolish omission. In the middle of the site, he stopped. He had heard something - a small sound behind him.

  Someone was following. It might be a mugger. He was lucky if it was a mugger.

  A second later he saw a shape and ducked into the shadows. The figure came on, paused, and looked about uncertainly. MacLeod waited. As she came up alongside him, he reached out and grabbed her, pulling her out of the moonlight.

  ‘Hey. . .’, she began, but he put his finger to his lips. ‘There’s someone else,’ he whispered. ‘Quiet.’

  She did as she was told for a moment, then wrenched herself away from him. It was Brenda.

  ‘There’s no one else - what are you trying to do?’ she said, in a normal voice. She backed away from him.

  The next moment there was a thump, as someone jumped between them, from above. MacLeod anticipated the stroke from the sword and ducked out of the way. The blade struck the scaffolding just above his head and sparks showered his hair. The Kurgan cursed.

  ‘Damn you.’

  MacLeod kept moving and the sword slammed into the wall where he had been standing. He could hear Brenda making a peculiar noise.

  ‘Run!’ he shouted.

  There was a heavy cable at his feet, about a yard in length. He snatched it up and backed away from the Kurgan, swinging the cable in an attempt to ward off the blows. The Kurgan grunted and swung again, catching the cable and almost ripping it from MacLeod’s hands.

  Brenda was still there. He saw her stoop then she called, ‘Catch. Here.’

  A metal pipe came through the air and he dropped the cable and caught it, holding it like a sword. The next blow rang against the metal pipe and MacLeod sidestepped. He slammed the pipe into the Kurgan’s chest and the big man stopped in his tracks, letting out another grunt.

  ‘Come,’ said the Kurgan, making a beckoning gesture. MacLeod turned and ran, hoping to draw the Kurgan away from Brenda. Once she was out of danger, he could look for an escape himself. What a stupid thing - to come out without his sword. They could have settled it now, which was what the Kurgan was hoping to do, of course.

  MacLeod put a truck between them and the Kurgan rained blows on the metal bodywork, in an attempt to hit his adversary. MacLeod rolled under the truck and out the other side, coming up behind the Kurgan. He swung the pipe at the skull and the Kurgan staggered sideways, dropping his sword and turning to face MacLeod. The Scot struck again, burying the pipe in the Kurgan’s gut. He brought it back for a third blow. The Kurgan parried this with his arm and then gripped the pipe, wrenching it from MacLeod’s grasp.

  The big man grinned, twirling the pipe like a drum major’s baton.

  ‘Now,’ he said.

  MacLeod’s legs went from under him as the pipe smashed into his knees. He fell on his back and the Kurgan stood over him, still smiling. .

  ‘Nice to see you again, MacLeod.’ He reached down, picked up the Scot and slammed him bodily against the scaffolding. All the wind went out of MacLeod’s lungs and pain shot through his chest. He heard someone shrieking. It was Brenda.

  ‘Stop it! Stop!’

  Why didn’t she run? What was she waiting for? MacLeod slumped forward as the Kurgan hit him again. ‘There can be only one!’

  He kicked MacLeod in the groin, then stepped away to retrieve his sword. MacLeod snatched up the pipe again, holding it like a bar in front of his face. The sword sent up another shower of sparks and the frustration in the Kurgan was evident in the stream of curses that followed. Suddenly there was a wind and the air was full of sound. A light came on, blinding the pair of them for a moment. Over the sound of the rotors above came a voice from a megaphone.

  ‘You - on the ground - ‘ Where the hell else would we be? thought MacLeod. The helicopter came lower.

  ‘. . . separate - now.’

  The Kurgan looked at MacLeod and he braced himself, ready for another blow.

  ‘Put down your weapons,’ said the policeman. Brenda then stepped forward, into the light. ‘Put your hands on your head.’

  The Kurgan lowered his sword. ‘Another time, Highlander.’ He nodded.

  ‘It’s not hard to find you.’

  ‘Hey!’ cried the voice from above.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said MacLeod, as the Kurgan disappeared into the shadows.

  ‘Hold it right there. Come back here,’ cried the cop. .

  MacLeod began running in the opposite direction to the Kurgan, leaping over stacks of pipes. He could hear the chopper lifting again, its searchlight trying to pick him out of the night. He kept on running for a while, then realized that Brenda was following him. He could hear her gasping and stumbling some way behind. He stopped and waited. As she reached him he grabbed her.

  She gasped, , - wait a minute. Who in the name of God was that?’ She paused to catch her breath. ‘He called you Highlander. And what did he mean - “there can be only one”? Only one what?’

  ‘Listen lady. You almost. . .’

  ‘I want to know. . .’

  ‘Shut up!’ he was angry with her. ‘Don’t you ever follow me again.’

  She stuck out her jaw. ‘You followed me first. What is this? Macho time? You quit following me and I’ll think about it.’

  She was right. But he wasn’t going to say so.

  ‘You only have one life,’ he said, in a quieter tone now. ‘If you value it - go home - and don’t try to see me again.’

  She looked at him with mock innocent eyes and said in a coquettish voice, ‘Yes, you can.’

  He was taken aback for a moment by this sudden change in attitude. ‘Can what?’

  ‘You can take me home. You asked me in the bar and I’m accepting.’

  He smiled. and shook his head. He knew what her game was and he wasn’t going to fall for it.

  ‘So you can pump me? I think you know too much already. It’s enough.’

  ‘You - interest me.’

  ‘Look, I’ll tell you again. While you stick around me you’re in great danger. I can take care of myself - I can’t take care of you too. It’s nothing to do with being macho - it’s to do with being sensible. If you were a six-foot male boxer with a gun in your hand, I’d tell you the same th
ing. Go home. Leave me alone.’

  ‘Well, walk me to the subway.’

  ‘That I don’t mind doing.’ He took her arm. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer a cab?’

  ‘Either. ‘

  They found they way out of the construction site on the far side and MacLeod hailed a cab. She said nothing more and he watched the driver pull away, taking her into the heart of the city. Then MacLeod began to walk back to his own apartment, keeping a wary eye on the alleys and dimly lit arcades which might harbour his old enemy.

  Back in his apartment he made himself a cup of coffee and took the Samurai sword from its hiding place. He took an oily rag and began to wipe the blade, noting the edge and where it had been chipped by the concrete pillar. Then he took out a whetstone and began to hone the edge, back to its original sharpness. It was a magnificent weapon, two-and-a-half thousand years old and still unmatched by any modern equivalent. He had inherited it from his friend and mentor a long time ago.

  The telephone rang, interrupting his thoughts. He let it ring. It would not be Rachel and she was the only one he wanted to hear from, if anyone. After a while the ringing ceased. He moved around the apartment, collecting his thoughts, pausing to lift an African antique statuette, weighing it in his hand. It was of a bad god, a squat little demon with bulbous lips and a leer that told of secret deaths in the night. There were spirits of healing, and devils for killing. Devils. He had been accused, once, of witchcraft. Of having the Devil in him.

  Chapter 12

  CONNER MACLEOD LISTENED to the skirl of the pipes, expecting them to fade from him at any time as death overtook him. The wound in his stomach still burned, but strangely he seemed to be growing stronger, not weaker. Still, they said that that happened just before death.

  The senses flared into a final high flame, before dying. A last mean trick from the physical side of a man, before the spirit was thrown out, into the ether. Yes, that was it. A heightening of the senses, nothing more. A blaze that would soon be snuffed by the invisible hand of God.

  He opened his eyes. Kate was still there, sitting, head bowed, on a stool by the door. The dawn’s rays were just beginning to strike the earth-packed floor. MacLeod could smell woodsmoke from the fires in the village, and fish, yes, fish, being roasted for breakfast.