The Keeper

by Natasha Mostert

  A fighting great is a skilled fighter: a champion worthy of admiration. But a great fighter is a fighter with that most elusive of qualities: heart.

  Well, he couldn’t argue with Dragonfly on this one, Nick thought. Heart was where it’s at.

  He logged off and swivelled his chair round to open the bottom drawer of his desk. He wasn’t going to spend any more time on Kime today. He had managed to post Rick Cobra’s new adventure on time and there were no other looming crises. Which meant he could finally turn his attention to checking out the information Lee had given him.

  After rummaging round in the drawer, he found the piece of paper with the names of the four dead fighters. He placed it next to the computer and entered the first name on the list into his favourite search engine.

  For the next hour Nick surfed the net, moving from link to link. As he expected, all these fighters had been low-profile weekend fighters—just like Valentine. At the time of their death none of them had suffered from any injuries or stealth medical problems.

  But he could find little else they had in common. The fighters all lived in different parts of the UK and they all fought out of different gyms. The first fighter had died five years earlier, the last one—not counting Valentine—a year ago. One was a boxer. Two were kickboxers. Valentine was a Thai fighter. The fifth fighter, Bill Muso, fought in the cage. One fighter died a day after his fight. Three of the men died two days later and Valentine’s death came three days after he had stepped into the ring. One of the fighters had lost his fight, one drew and three, including Valentine, had been victorious.

  There was only one common denominator: the fight itself. These men had all died within days of their fight. Despite all the signs to the contrary, the answer to their deaths must lie in the ring.

  Nick picked up the phone and dialled directory enquiries. He wanted to talk to Valentine’s wife but he didn’t want to ask Mia for the number. No use upsetting her with far-fetched theories at this point.

  He had never met Valentine’s wife. They had no personal connection and he wasn’t quite sure what he was going to ask her. Do you think someone might have killed your husband? Not a great opening line.

  But introducing himself to her was easier than he had expected. She accepted without problem his explanation that he and Valentine had been childhood friends and sounded grateful when he offered his condolences. And without much prompting she started talking about Valentine. In fact, she hardly drew breath. The headlong rush of words made him realise: she was lonely.

  ‘There’s no one here in Liverpool who knew him when he was a kid,’ she said at one point. ‘It’s good to talk to someone who knew him from way back.’

  ‘Did he like Liverpool?’

  ‘Yeah. But he missed London. He missed Scorpio and the fights. You know he had retired—before this last fight?’

  ‘Yes, I know. A mutual friend told me. You probably know her: Mia Lockhart.’

  ‘Mia? You’re a friend of Mia’s?’

  OK. Something was wrong. The tone of her voice had changed from one of gentle reminiscence to open animosity.

  ‘Well,’ he hedged, ‘we all grew up together in the same neighbourhood, you know. Mia, Valentine and me—we all lived within spitting distance of each other when we were children. And I know she’s always been interested in his fighting career.’

  ‘Interested? That’s one way of putting it. Valentine was far too dependent on that woman.’

  That woman? Oh, no. Did Mia and Valentine…

  But Amy probably realised what impression her words had created, because she immediately continued, ‘Let me make it clear: my husband did not have an affair with her. Valentine would never do that. But she had a way of worming herself into his life, you know?’

  No, Nick thought. He did not know. This was getting stranger by the minute.

  ‘Fortunately,’ Amy continued, ‘I wasn’t the only one round here who thought it was time he cut the umbilical cord. He couldn’t simply accuse me of playing the jealous wife.’ In the background a child started crying. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, suddenly sounding rushed, ‘I have to go.’

  ‘I understand. Thank you for speaking to me.’

  ‘It was a pleasure.’ Her voice was small and forlorn. Just before she hung up she said, ‘I have no one to talk to about him, you know?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Art was bleeding profusely. Mia was annoyed with herself. She should have realised right away that the man was drunk. When he entered her studio his attitude had been borderline belligerent and he reeked of Listerine. Normally that would have alerted her and she wouldn’t have brought Angelique to within a foot of him. Alcohol in the bloodstream can cause one to bleed excessively and this made life very difficult for the tattooist. But for some reason she had missed the signs that the guy was sloshed and now it was too late: she’d have to push on. Wiping the bubbles of blood away with a paper towel, she pressed down on the foot switch once again.

  ‘Mia…’

  She looked up. Lisa was standing in the doorway, her handbag under her arm. Lisa jerked her head to one side, indicating she wanted a word in private.

  Mia pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she said as she pulled off her gloves and left Art to stare at the ceiling on his own.

  ‘Are you off home?’ she asked as she joined Lisa outside the door.

  ‘I’m meeting Rufus at the cinema. We have tickets for the late show. But I don’t want to leave you alone with that character.’

  ‘It’ll be OK. I’ve almost finished.’

  ‘I don’t know, Mia. I’m getting a bad vibe off this one. He’s a Biro boy.’ Lisa was referring to the fact that Art had tattoos on his arms and knuckles that had been done with a ballpoint pen. This was usually a sure sign he had received them in prison. But if she and Lisa turned away every bloke who had done time, they would lose a fair number of clients.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Mia nodded her head encouragingly. ‘You go and have fun. Go on,’ she repeated, waving Lisa out of the gate.

  When Mia stepped back into the room, she found Art sitting bolt upright and peering down at his chest.

  ‘What the fuck have you done to me?’ He jabbed at his chest with a stubby forefinger. The ink and the blood had mixed and instead of a clean-lined tattoo the image looked like a child’s finger painting.

  Mia sat down on her heels and fished in the bottom drawer of the trolley for a fresh pair of gloves. ‘Don’t panic,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘It’s all superficial. All I need to do is blot off the excess ink and blood. Why don’t you lie down again?’ She gave him what she hoped was a soothing smile before turning her attention to the drawer once more.

  It was stupid of her to have turned her back on him. With surprising speed he launched himself from the chair to right behind her and slammed her head into the trolley.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, bitch!’

  The pain as her forehead hit the sharp edge of the trolley was instant and intense. She was sitting on her heels when it happened and the force of the impact made her lose her balance. As she toppled to the side, he pushed her—hard—and sent her sprawling on to her stomach. The next moment he had placed one knee on to her back and grabbed her by the hair.

  The unexpectedness of it all stunned her. She struggled and pushed down on her hands to try and move out from underneath him, but he was too heavy. She threw one hand backwards and grabbed him by the arm, boring her nails into the soft skin of his wrist. In response, he jerked her by the hair so sharply that her neck snapped back and her eyes watered. Then he placed his other hand round her throat and squeezed.

  He did not have a comfortable grip but he was strong, and flashes of light and dark spots started to blur her vision. And she was unable to scream. She hoped he would turn her over—on her back she would have far better mobility and might be able to use her knee or elbow or crash her palm into his nose or gouge his eyes—but he was obviously going to wait until she had pa
ssed out.

  Which seemed to be imminent. There was a roaring in her ears and she could feel herself slipping…

  The next moment the pressure on her throat disappeared and the weight on her back lifted. Art made a strange bleating sound.

  As fast as she could, Mia rowed forward with her arms, snaking away from him. When she reached the wall, she turned over, breathless. Propped up on her elbows, she stared disbelievingly at the scene in front of her.

  Art was standing upright but his legs were buckling. His head drooped, chin to chest, and he was gasping—deep, horrible gasps—as though desperately searching for air. Standing behind and to one side of him was Adrian Ashton. He was gripping Art’s forearm, pulling it sideways.

  He looked at her. ‘Do you want to call the police?’

  She hesitated. Then she shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’

  She nodded.

  Ashton switched his grip to Art’s upper arm and pulled him backwards. Opening the front door, he jabbed his palm into the man’s back, then pushed him outside. By the time Mia had scrambled to her feet, Ashton had closed the door.

  ‘Is he gone?’

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘He will be. He might have an attack of diarrhoea within the next twelve hours but that’s about it.’

  She looked at him doubtfully. Not that she didn’t like the idea of Art under bathroom arrest but he had looked truly deathly. And that sound he made…

  ‘What was that you did to him?’

  ‘I combined a wrist lock with pressure to a Dim Ching point in his forearm. Very painful and it causes shortness of breath and weak legs.’ He smiled. ‘And stomach problems.’

  ‘But you’re certain he’s going to be OK?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mia. It’s a pressure-point technique taught to riot police in Tokyo. It works well but it’s harmless.’

  She suddenly realised that her throat ached fiercely. She coughed, painfully.

  He moved towards her at once, his face concerned. ‘The important thing is, are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ If ‘fine’ meant nauseated and shivery. She touched her hands to her scalp, feeling for bald spots. It felt as though he had ripped out chunks of hair.

  ‘Why didn’t you want me to call the police?’

  ‘I don’t want the publicity. Can you imagine how many clients I’ll attract if he starts talking to the newspapers, saying he lost it because I messed up his tattoo?’

  ‘Did you?’

  She gave him a look.

  He grinned. ‘OK. You can’t blame me for asking, though. I came here tonight to give you a job, Ms Lockhart. But we’ll talk about it later. This is not the time.’

  ‘No.’ She started walking in the direction of the workbench. Strange how her legs felt like straw. ‘You’re here. Let’s talk. What did you have in mind?’

  He looked at her for a few moments, then shrugged. ‘A couple of years ago, I visited Wat Phraw monastery near Bangkok. There was a group of monks there, doing tattoos for visitors. These tattoos were supposed to grant protection to the wearer—help him in his journey through life. I was hoping we could do something similar: something unique and customised.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask one of the monks to do it for you while you had the chance? They’re masters at manual body art.’

  ‘The idea of some muscular monk attacking me with a three-foot-long chopstick did not appeal. And I’m still enough of a squeamish Western quack to want to know that the instruments are properly sterilised.’

  ‘What do you think you’ll gain from this tattoo?’

  ‘Protection, what else?’ His voice was light.

  ‘Protection hinges on the person giving the tattoo. It has nothing to do with the actual markings. See that?’ She gestured at a design that was pasted up on one of the studio walls. It was in the shape of a mandala and filled with delicate glyphs. ‘That’s a protection tattoo. It looks attractive and all those symbols appear heavy with meaning. But, really, it could just as well be Donald Duck instead of a mandala filled with charms. It is all about the intent of the person giving the tattoo: that person’s energy. Not the tattoo itself. The symbols are meaningless without the intent behind it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m not a monk, Adrian.’

  He touched the Usui symbols round her wrist. ‘No, but you practise Reiki. You heal through energy.’

  She moved her hand away, feeling suddenly irritable. ‘Tattoos can lie… just like people can. Tattoo lore is filled with stories of tattoos bringing curses and bad luck.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll just have to trust you.’ He smiled faintly.

  She stared at him, perplexed. ‘You’re a scientist; a doctor. And yet you’re talking to me about healing—not through drugs, but through energy. I find that…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Surprising,’ she added lamely.

  ‘Good. I would hate to be predictable.’

  All of a sudden she felt tremendously tired and she realised just how much her forehead ached. ‘Maybe we should talk about this another time, after all.’

  ‘Absolutely. And now I’m going to make you some tea. With lots of sugar. You’re in shock.’

  ‘No, really, I’m OK.’

  ‘As you said, I’m a doctor. You should do as I tell you. Come on.’ He placed his hand gently under her elbow and steered her towards the door. ‘Let’s go. The kitchen’s down there, right?’

  Once inside the kitchen, he insisted that she sit down. Without asking her permission, he opened the fridge door. ‘Have you any ice?’

  ‘Ice? No.’

  He pulled open the freezer drawer and looked inside. ‘This will do.’ He removed a bag of frozen Brussels sprouts and wrapped it up with a dishcloth. ‘Here. Hold this to your forehead while I make the tea.’

  She kept the sprouts in place and watched as he filled the kettle with water and removed two mugs from the cupboard. His movements were neat and graceful. It was oddly relaxing to relinquish control, as it were: to simply leave everything to him.

  ‘Tea?’ He looked over his shoulder.

  ‘In that canister there.’

  He poured her tea, and not only spooned sugar into the mug but even stirred it the way one would do for a small child or an invalid. Under normal circumstances, this might have seemed over the top, but right now it felt enormously comforting.

  ‘Thanks.’ She dropped the bag of sprouts on the table and picked up the mug. The warmth between her hands was comforting too.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  She looked up quickly. He was pointing in the direction of the window.

  ‘That’s Sweetpea.’

  He walked over to the curtain and placed his finger against Sweetpea’s side. ‘She doesn’t want to come to me.’

  ‘She’s not that kind of girl. You’ll have to win her trust first.’

  ‘To be continued, then.’ He gently touched Sweetpea’s dorsal crest. ‘Where did you find her?’

  ‘I’ve always had chameleons in my life. My mum gave me my first Sweetpea when I was only ten years old.’

  ‘Cool mum. Mine gave me a goldfish.’

  ‘She’s my third chameleon. They don’t live that long, you know.’

  He walked back to the table and sat down next to her. ‘There’s an African legend that the gods had planned to give the chameleon the gift of eternal life.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘The chameleon blew it. He was too slow and turned up late. The gods were insulted and left.’

  ‘That’s a sad legend.’

  ‘Most legends are.’

  He stirred his own tea, looking down at his cup and frowning slightly. The long lashes masked the expression in his eyes.

  He really was beautiful. She had always believed that small imperfections were necessary to save beauty from blandness, and this man’s features were so perfect they should have given him a kind of vacant attractiveness. Bu
t Adrian Ashton was anything but bland. The curve of his mouth was too sensuous; the intelligence in his eyes too obvious. He had amazing skin for a man. It was stretched taut over prominent cheekbones; smooth, poreless and glowing with a high sheen of good health.

  The two times she had met him before, there had been something about him that had made her look at him warily. She had no way of articulating to herself what it was. Maybe it was the sense of almost brutal energy that he projected: as though he had to purposefully clamp down on some inner wellspring of explosive power. The fact that his movements were always measured and relaxed merely accentuated this quality. Tonight, though, she found it rather attractive. But then she supposed it was only right to feel kindly disposed towards a man who had just come to your rescue like some knight in a story-book.

  She pushed the mug away from her. ‘OK. I’ll do it. I’ll do your tattoo.’

  He looked up quickly. ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great.’ He sounded truly elated. ‘It will be an adventure: my first tattoo.’

  ‘Do you have anything specific in mind?’

  ‘Yes. But let me get back to you on that. Right now, I think you should go to bed. You look all in.’

  ‘I’ll let you out.’

  The night air was warm and soft. The light from the kitchen fell into the courtyard and the darkness glowed orange.

  She held out her hand formally. ‘Thanks for stepping in.’

  ‘Right time, right place.’ He ignored her outstretched hand and touched her forehead briefly, his touch gentle. ‘You’re going to have a bump.’

  She sighed. ‘Some martial artist, I am.’

  ‘There’s fighting and there’s fighting, Mia. What you do in the dojo is something very pure, very clean. In the street, it’s different.’

  ‘This didn’t happen in the street, it happened inside my home.’

  ‘Your own home is the most dangerous place because that’s where you feel safe. You don’t feel the need to stay alert.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Were you afraid?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘No. It happened too fast. Fear is anticipation of what’s coming, not the actual event.’