The Keeper

by Natasha Mostert

  Caroline said, ‘I’ve moved into the spare bedroom.’

  Mia was shocked. ‘Things between you and Tom are that bad?’

  ‘No. It’s so Tom won’t get tempted.’ Caroline snorted. ‘It’s all rubbish, of course. After all those hours of training, I could walk round the house dressed in only a G-string and he’d be too exhausted to lift… a finger. Banishing me from the bed is just so he can pat himself on the back for being so disciplined.’

  Mia bit back a smile. ‘Not long now.’

  ‘No. And’—Caroline brightened up—‘the post-fight sex is great. All that testosterone and adrenalin and feel-good hormones sluicing round…’

  ‘That’s if he wins.’

  Caroline shook her head. ‘How I ended up with a fighter, I’ll never know. You’d think a librarian would fall for a Woody Allen type. I sometimes think I’m like Françoise Sagan. You know—she said she liked her men to behave like men: strong and childish.’

  Okie stuck his head round the door, dreadlocks swinging. ‘Hi, ladies.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘Some hungry blokes out there. When will the food be ready? Before Christmas?’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky.’ Caroline tried to swat him with a dishcloth but Okie stepped back smartly. Okie prided himself on his reflexes.

  ‘Almost ready.’ Mia placed a colander over the sink. ‘How’s the rib? Better?’

  ‘Yeah, the rib’s on the mend.’

  ‘Great. In that case you can make yourself useful.’ She pointed at the colander. ‘Empty the pasta in there for me, will you?’

  Picking up a stack of bowls, Mia headed back to the living room. The music system had been turned off but the noise level was still high as everyone had gathered in front of the TV to watch a DVD which was drawing exaggerated cheers and groans. Mia glanced at the screen. It was an old rerun of a cage fight between Randy Couture and Pedro Rizzo.

  ‘Now, that’s heart.’ JC jabbed a finger at the TV. Couture was lying on his back but still throwing a last desperate kick at an upright Rizzo. ‘No retreat, no surrender.’

  ‘That might be heart but Randy didn’t deserve to win that one.’

  Nick came up to her. ‘Do you need help with those, Mia?’

  ‘Thanks. Just pass them out to everyone, will you, and tell them to go and help themselves in the kitchen.’ As he took the bowls from her she noticed he was stifling a yawn.

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘I’m shattered. My new training buddy put me through my paces this morning.’

  In her mind’s eye came the image of grey eyes, sensuous mouth, elegant hands. And a sense of clamped-down power. Just thinking about the man made her feel short of breath. She frowned.

  ‘Do you think it will work out?’ she asked Nick. ‘Having him as a training buddy, I mean.’

  ‘If I survive it, it should work out fine. But I can’t remember the last time I was this exhausted.’ He yawned again. ‘Let me get everyone rounded up for you.’

  The noise level dropped as soon as they started eating. As Mia watched the men dig in, slurping their pasta, a wave of affection swept through her. She felt like a den mother. She had known many of the men for a long time. They were good guys. They did not live the glamorous lives of highly-paid superstar sportsmen but worked as policemen, firemen, gym instructors, DJs, and there was even a hairdresser in the group. But whatever they had to do to pay the bills and whatever turmoil they had to deal with in their personal lives, the discipline of their training held them fast. Inside the dojo, friendship was of the true kind, not the virtual kind. In there you did not have the option to log off when you got bored. You had to engage for real.

  Suddenly a cold hand rested on her heart. She looked at the group and it was as though she were looking at their laughing faces from a distance; as though the sound of their voices came to her from a long way off. There was something in the air—something lethal, menacing—and she had the strongest feeling all at once that the little gang gathered under the yellow electric light in her living room was under threat. She didn’t know what that might be, but she was light-headed from the adrenalin pumping through her body. She stood there surrounded by friends and the sound of laughter, not understanding why her heart was suddenly beating like a trip-hammer.

  ‘Mia!’

  She looked up, shocked out of her stupor by Caroline’s voice.

  ‘Wasn’t that the doorbell?’ Caroline pointed to the ceiling.

  She wondered who it could be. Mia walked up the stairs. The fighters knew to use the kitchen door at basement level. The front door was used mainly by clients, but the studio was closed on Monday nights.

  The first thing she noticed as she opened the door was the orchid. He was holding a glazed pot from which grew a spray of moth-white orchids. The second thing she noticed was his eyes: those cool grey eyes with the intent gaze.

  ‘Mia? Remember me? I’m Adrian Ashton. I was here at your studio the other day. I train with Nick.’ When she still did not answer, he continued, ‘Nick said to come. He said you wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘Oh, no, of course not.’

  He looked at her arm, which was stretched across the doorway like a barrier.

  ‘Sorry.’ She dropped her arm, feeling embarrassed. ‘Please come inside, Adrian.’

  ‘Call me Ash.’ As he stepped over the threshold, his body brushed against hers and for just a moment she felt closed in by his tall figure, the powerful shoulders.

  ‘This is for you.’

  She took the orchid from him and looked down at the creamy blooms that were shot through with veins as delicate as spider’s thread. Lovely, but for some reason she felt slightly repulsed as she stared at the fleshy petals.

  ‘Thank you.’ He was too close. It made her feel breathless. And why did she have butterflies in her stomach all of a sudden, like some stupid teenager? She pulled herself up and tried to look dignified. ‘This is very kind of you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ His voice was solemn but there was laughter in his eyes.

  She gestured to the staircase. ‘Shall we go down?’ She edged past him, acutely aware of his eyes on her as they walked down the stairs.

  Nick’s face creased into a smile as they entered the living room. ‘Ash. Let me introduce you to everyone.’

  Mia watched as Nick took Ash round. It was interesting to see how easily Ashton was absorbed into the group. This was a tight circle and although these men were good-humoured they did not readily allow outsiders in. She would have thought Ashton’s extreme good looks, obvious wealth and subtle elegance would have made them look at him askance. But not so.

  Nick had a similar ability to win people over, but then, Nick was very much part of the neighbourhood despite all his dosh and the success he enjoyed in his professional life. He and Ash could not be more different. Nick—easygoing, laid-back, non-judgemental—was the kind of guy other men liked to hang out with. Nick, Mia always thought, was like the favourite jersey you reached for when there was a chill in the air. He was the friend you called when the chips were down. With Ash it was different. You did not feel that immediate, easy familiarity with him but there was no doubt the others were responding to his presence. She felt the attraction as well—there was no use denying it—and she was intrigued by this man, but why, when she looked at him, did the back of her neck go cool?

  Nick and Ash were now standing next to each other, slightly outside the circle. Nick was laughing at something the other man had said, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. Ash touched Nick on the shoulder and the gesture was brief, but strangely intimate. There was just something about that moment, the two men sharing a private joke, their heads close together, that seemed offbeat and flash-froze the image into her mind.

  She was still staring at them when she heard the phone ring in the other room. By the time she reached the kitchen, Okie had already answered and was speaking into the receiver. He obviously knew the caller.

  ‘Oh, man, that’s too bad.’ Okie was shaking his
head in what looked like commiseration. ‘Is no one else able to replace him?’ A pause while he listened. ‘Man, what can I say? Go and eat a steak. Take your wife to the cinema. Something.’ Another pause. ‘Stop by Scorpio next time you’re in town, yeah? Anyway, here’s Mia. So long, mate, and sorry again. That’s a bummer.’

  Okie held out the receiver. ‘Jeff Carruthers. His fight’s been cancelled.’

  She took the phone from him. ‘Jeff? What happened?’

  ‘Dammit, Mia. The bugger just pulled out. A day before the fight. Said he knew he wouldn’t be able to make the weight at the weigh-in tomorrow so he wouldn’t even be coming in. Bloody wanker.’ Jeff’s voice was filled with frustration. ‘Twelve weeks. Twelve bloody weeks of training, wasted.’

  ‘Jeff, I’m sorry.’ And she was. For a fighter to pull out at this late stage was bad form. It left it too late to find his opponent a replacement, which meant that all the back-breaking training Jeff had put in, not to mention the effort of psyching himself up for the actual event, was for nothing. Jeff was at peak fitness right now but he wouldn’t be able to keep to his excessive training schedule and stick to his combat weight during the weeks it would take his trainer to find him a new opponent. He’d have to go back to his cruising weight, get rested and then start again. Jeff worked as a computer engineer for a data-protection company and she knew he had agreed to work over the school holidays in exchange for taking time off to prepare for this fight. A big sacrifice, considering his three children had all been looking forward to some fun time.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, but this time she also knew she was lying. Much as she sympathised with Jeff, she couldn’t help feeling relieved as well. Only at this moment did she realise how much Valentine’s death had scared her. With Jeff not fighting and Okie still out of commission, she could relax.

  ‘Well, I just called to let you know, Mia. No stepping out and no dreams on my behalf tonight. You can have a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘You too, Jeff. Try and chill, OK?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice sounded tired now. ‘I’ll try.’

  Back in the living room everyone had an opinion about Jeff’s former opponent.

  ‘No class. They should ring-ban him for months…’

  ‘Hang him by the balls…’

  Nick walked over to her. ‘I think I should hit the sack, sweetheart. I’ll be facing the torture meister tomorrow.’ He nodded at Ash, who had come up to them.

  ‘OK. Good luck.’ She leant over and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘I’m heading out as well,’ Ash said.

  ‘Thanks for coming.’ She looked up into his eyes and then quickly away again.

  He lingered. ‘Would it be possible to see you this week? I’d like to discuss that tattoo I’ve been thinking about.’

  ‘Of course. Stop by or call me.’

  ‘Will do.’

  She watched the two men cross the courtyard. The yellow light within, streaming over her shoulder, cut into the darkness and created long shadows in their wake: two black shapes—clearly separate at first—gradually merging as they walked together up the steps.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  He wondered if the man whose fight was cancelled was one of her charges. It seemed likely. Which meant that she would not be stepping out soon, which was a great pity. A Keeper stepping out—he could not imagine anything more exciting.

  But there would be another fighter in her keep; he just needed to find out who it was. And when she stepped out on this man’s behalf, he would make sure to follow close behind.

  He looked over to where Nick was talking on his mobile. Interesting that Mia hadn’t adopted Nick as one of her charges. He wondered why. They were obviously close.

  He and Nick had just finished another round of training together and Nick’s hair was slick with sweat. But his eyes were sharp with concentration and his voice crisp. From what he could tell by eavesdropping on the one-sided phone conversation, Nick was considering a buy-out offer for Kime. A very lucrative offer, by the sound of it.

  He was surprised by Nick. This was a man who had achieved substantial professional success in his life. Most local boys made good couldn’t wait to move away from their roots and tended to layer their lives with all the trappings success had brought within their grasp. But not Nick. Nick travelled lightly.

  Nick closed his mobile and slipped it into the pocket of his shorts. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘I couldn’t help but overhear. Are you thinking of selling Kime?’

  ‘It’s a good offer.’ Nick grimaced. ‘And I’ll need to discuss it with the shareholders. But I am still the majority shareholder and I think I’m going to recommend we pass.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m having too much fun.’ Nick flashed a sudden grin. ‘When it stops being fun, that’s when I’ll move on.’

  ‘Is that when you’ll stop fighting too? When it is no longer fun?’

  Nick had been about to turn away, but at these words he stopped. ‘Fighting isn’t fun.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why fight?’

  Nick shrugged.

  ‘What about death?’

  ‘What about it?’ Nick’s face was suddenly guarded.

  ‘Do you ever think about it? When you’re in the ring?’

  ‘Not when I’m in the ring.’

  He watched as Nick turned away to pick up his sweatshirt where it lay crumpled on the grass. Many years ago, as a trainee doctor, he had studied the brain scan of a boxer who had died in a fight. The brain, connected to the side of the head by blood vessels, had rotated bizarrely at the moment of the knockout punch. The vessels had severed and the wildly careening brain had crashed from side to side inside the man’s skull, a stream of blood pouring into the cranium. It hadn’t helped that the fighter, struggling to make his weight allowance, had allowed himself to dehydrate, robbing his brain of the essential fluid that might have helped protect it.

  He remembered staring at the scan—at the ethereal, almost spectral image floating within its depths: three pounds of tissue and blood and murky dreams and searing desire. The brain—easily bored, easily blue, relentless in its search for the white-hot thrill of feeling truly aware. And he had thought how it was that at the brink of death one feels most alive.

  Nick’s head emerged from the sweatshirt. ‘Well, I’m off. See you tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  His eyes followed Nick as he crossed the street towards his car and he thought how things had changed. In the beginning he had sought out this man solely because he knew he was friends with Mia. After all, if Nick accepted him as a friend, Mia would be inclined to do the same. But since then his interest in Nick had deepened. When they had first been introduced he had thought Nick to be only another weekend fighter—not vastly ambitious, not extraordinarily talented—but he had come to realise very quickly that behind the good-humoured exterior was a steely core and a great heart. The man was a warrior.

  Nick had something he wanted. He suddenly decided he would steal it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Nick did a double take as he passed by Flash’s desk. ‘What the hell?’

  Flash looked up. ‘Wicked, eh? What do you think: crop-top or T-shirt?’

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘I’m dressing Desiree.’

  ‘You’re playing with dolls?’ Nick stared disbelievingly at the screen. Seated on a chair was an avatar: a long-legged girl with Bambi eyes and pigtails. She was also naked from the waist up and, judging by the pubescent breasts, Desiree was, as the Britney song said, not yet a woman, no longer a girl.

  ‘Crop-top, I think.’ Flash’s fingers moved over the keyboard. ‘And maybe I’ll give her a belly ring as well.’ Another few taps on the keyboard and Desiree was suddenly presentable. Grateful, Desiree blew a kiss.

  ‘Seriously, what is this?’

  ‘It’s a new social networking site developed by a
friend of mine. A little bit like Cyworld. You should check it out: it’s a fun site. See, I’ve built my own room. Desiree here is my room-mate. And there’s my profile.’

  Nick squinted at the screen. ‘I notice you do bungee jumping in your spare time.’

  ‘If you read on, you’ll see I also know who killed Tupac.’ Flash took a swig from his Coke can. ‘I’ll build you a room too, if you want. You can tell me how you’d like it decorated. And if you ask nicely I’ll let you play with Desiree. All my friends can play with her.’

  ‘You’re a pervert.’

  Flash waved a nerveless hand. ‘Why are you sweaty, by the way?’

  ‘Because I just worked out, mouse potato.’

  ‘I thought you usually took a shower first before coming in.’

  ‘I did.’ Nick touched his forehead. It was damp at the hairline. Even though he had stumbled into a cold shower after his torture session with Ashton, he was still sweating. Probably delayed shock. What surprised him—and amused him a little as well—was that he was getting quite desperate to impress the man. Looking for a pat on the back was not usually his style.

  Wincing as a muscle in his thigh protested, Nick sat down at his desk and quickly scanned through the posts on the communal board. As he expected, there was another one by Dragonfly. The guy had become one of the most prolific of Kime’s contributors and, although the entries sometimes still hovered on the dark side of weird, Nick was starting to look out for them. The man had an interesting take on things, to say the least.

  What makes a great fighter? Is it the fighter who is undefeated? Is it the intelligent fighter with the long-range style and graceful footwork that keeps him out of harm’s way?

  Or is it the fighter who takes the punches? The fighter who moves forward no matter what the punishment—who does not care that he may already have lost—who staggers out of his corner again and again until bloodily defeated or bloodily victorious?