Authors: JL Merrow
“Well, I hardly see how
that
is anything to boast about. Now, mind out, Timothy, I need to carry on packing things up. James, darling, are you sure you’re up to the move?”
I didn’t stay much longer.
It was only when I got back home to find Wolverine glaring pointedly at the empty food bowl that I realised I’d forgotten to ask Jay if he owned a cat.
It looked like I was going to be down in Totton for a while. Fortunately, I’d packed my
gi
, so all I had to do now was find a karate club to train with. It’d be good to find some new sparring partners, anyway. If you’ve sparred with the same guys for a while, you get to know how they fight, and you can predict their attacks. Swapping things around a bit would help keep me on my toes.
I did a quick Google search on Jay’s computer and came up with a club that met in Totton Sports Centre. They met on Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings—both times I’d be able to make, with the added bonus I could go along tonight. Cheered by the prospect of an actual social life, even if it was only one predicated on a mutual love of physical violence, I whistled as I shut down the computer.
A quick microwave curry later, I changed into my gi and made my way down to the sports centre, which was a bright, modern building in a quiet cul-de-sac just off the Ringwood Road. As I parked my car, I thought a bit guiltily I probably shouldn’t be using it for a journey of only a couple of miles. Maybe I should do what Matt had suggested and take a closer look at the stock tomorrow. After all, if trade was always as slow as today’s had been, we could do with the custom.
I negotiated with the chirpy young woman behind the desk until she agreed to let me through the turnstile, then made my way up to what was encouragingly billed as the combat room. The class hadn’t started yet, and brown and black belts were milling around, chatting and laughing. I introduced myself to them—figured I might as well get in a plug for Jay’s shop while I was there—and they pointed out the Sensei to me.
Sensei Ray Cole was a 5th Dan black guy with a cockney accent and a wide smile, who pumped my hand with so much enthusiasm I was worried it might fall off. “Good to have you here, mate. Just fall in line and give us a shout if you’re not sure about anything.” He turned away to give a sergeant major’s bellow to the class. “Right you lot—line up!”
As I bowed at the entrance of the dojo, the familiar smell of rubber mats and sweat in all degrees of freshness hit my nostrils like a back fist strike. I breathed in deeply. It was good to be home. The remaining tension rolled away from my shoulders as we went through the warm-up before moving on to basics. I suppose it’s a bit like meditation, in a way. You’re completely focussed on the techniques you’re practicing, and it clears your mind like nothing else can. I could feel myself gradually chilling out about the situation with my job, Jay, Kate and—yes—Matt. The problems didn’t disappear, but my sense of perspective reasserted itself. Jay would be fine. I’d get another job. Kate and I were never meant to be. Matt…
Okay. That one was a little trickier, and I hadn’t quite sorted it all out in my head by the time we moved on to kata, which takes a whole different kind of concentration. Kata, if you’re not familiar with the term, is a sequence of around twenty or so predetermined martial arts moves, based on the concept of fighting off a series of attackers. It’s a little like a dance, if your idea of dancing involves kicks to the head and strikes to the gonads, which, for all I know, it does—it’s not like I’ve been clubbing much in the last few years.
And then we went on to sparring, at which point a meaty hand descended on my back with bruising force and landed me with the partner from hell.
My local sports centre back in London has a sign up saying “Martial Arts for All”. Which is all very well in principle, but in practice, in my considered opinion, there are certain people who shouldn’t be allowed within a hundred yards of anything that’ll show them how to beat the crap out of people even more effectively. And the bloke I ended up fighting with that night was definitely one of those people.
You can tell them a mile off. They’re the ones who, when they go through their basics, give it 100 per cent power
all the time
. They punch the air like it just mugged their granny, and when they
kiai
you need earplugs to avoid permanent damage to your hearing. Their gis are stained with sweat and pulling at the seams over steroid-enhanced muscles. They tend not to be black belts, because a key requirement for passing your black belt is the possession of control.
And you do not want to be stuck with these guys when it comes to sparring. I soon found out my new partner was a vicious bastard, to put it mildly. He might be good-looking and have shoulders half as broad as he was long, but he had a chip on those shoulders the size of the New Forest and a natural ability to channel his fury through his fists and feet. He was supple too, as I found out when he set my head ringing with a snap kick to the left ear. There’s not many people who can get their feet up to my six foot two, but we were fairly evenly matched for height. He was half my weight again, though, with legs roughly the girth and weight of tree trunks.
As the pins-and-needles numbness in my ear settled into a dull pain, I backed off a bit, hopping lightly on the balls of my feet. “How about we take it a bit easier?” I suggested without taking my eyes off him for a minute. His hair was thinning noticeably on top, probably a result of all that raging testosterone. He looked a bit like a young Bruce Willis, if Bruce had spent his formative years chomping on steroids and then got really angry about something.
“Not going to learn anything that way, are we?” Bruce countered and lunged in with a jab punch to the solar plexus with his left fist that would have taken out several internal organs if I hadn’t managed to block it. I’d swear I felt the bones in my arm vibrate from the impact—I’d have a bruise there tomorrow. I just hoped he wouldn’t go for the face, as two members of staff with black eyes wouldn’t do the reputation of Jay’s bike shop any good at all.
I decided the best form of defence was attack, and I feinted with my left arm before lunging in with a roundhouse kick. It landed just above Bruce’s kidney, the impact solid and satisfying. Even though it was barely half power, he was not a happy bunny. His chiselled features twisted in a snarl, and he drove at me like a white Ford Transit van with a red-and-brown stripe round the middle.
I danced to one side, letting all that power and aggression fly uselessly past me; then, when he turned, too slow, I was ready for the roundhouse kick. It was full power and then some, and it was aimed at a point about six inches the other side of my kidney. Message:
I can do anything you can, and I can do it better.
I sidestepped again and blocked. Even though I only caught the edge of the kick on my forearm, it was a numbing blow—bruise number two on my beleaguered left arm. At the unwelcome return of sensation, I tried not to show how much it had hurt—Bruce was like a pit bull who could smell weakness and wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage.
The trouble was, he already had an advantage here. Because, although he was only a brown belt, his technique was at least as good as mine, and he had all the weight and power behind it. And at the end of the day, I didn’t want to hurt him—I was the higher belt; I had a responsibility here. Whereas he’d obviously like nothing better than to see me carted off on a stretcher. At which point he’d swear blind he’d thought I could handle it, me being a black belt and all.
Okay. Maybe Mum had a bit of a point about it not being real fighting. But it wasn’t like I
couldn’t
; I just didn’t want to.
Get a grip
, I told myself.
Of course you can handle him.
So what if my black belt was so new it still had folds in it from where it had been in the packet? I felt my resolve strengthen at the sight of the killing rage in his narrowed eyes as we circled each other. This guy needed to be taught a lesson.
Time seemed to slow—and when the next attack came, I was ready for it. I didn’t block—just took myself out of his path and let him blunder on by. When he turned, his face had reddened. I hopped lightly on my toes and waited for him to make the next move. It seemed his Neanderthal brain managed to grasp my subtle message that I was ready for anything he could throw at me, as his lips curled in a snarl. Anger made him clumsy, and I easily spotted the feint, blocked it and danced to one side as he steamrollered past.
“Come on and fight, you bastard,” he ground out from between teeth so tightly clenched his dentist would probably never forgive me. I braced myself for the next onslaught—and almost jumped out of my gi when Sensei Cole’s voice bellowed past my left ear.
“
Mister
Pritchard, change partners, please.” Sensei moved into my field of view, bouncing on the balls of his feet like the Duracell bunny with a fresh battery, despite this being his third class of the evening. “Right, Mr. Knight, let’s see what you can do.” Sensei Cole was the old-fashioned type—everyone in the class, down to the tiniest tots, was Mr. or Ms. Somebody.
Bruce shot me a murderous look and slunk off with the rangy Asian guy I’d already pegged as Sensei’s second in command—I didn’t know what grade black belt he was, but I reckoned he had to be third Dan at least. He’d probably survive a spar with Bruce, anyway. We shifted over to a vacant space, and Sensei started putting me through my paces.
Sparring with Sensei Cole was a completely different ball game. For a big guy, he was incredibly light on his feet—but it was his control that impressed me the most. He started off slow with me, then upped the speed by precise increments, testing my reactions. Fighting with a guy like that is an incredible buzz. I knew I could trust him not to go too far—and equally, to get himself out of trouble if I misjudged things.
We were both grinning like maniacs by the time the session ended. Sensei patted me on the back. “Very good, Mr. Knight. Very good indeed. Will we be seeing you again?”
I couldn’t help a glance over to Bruce, who was glowering in a corner and wiping sweat off his forehead.
Sensei laughed. “He’s just a little bit enthusiastic at times, our Mr. Pritchard. Don’t worry about it. You’ll get used to him.” He coughed. “You might want to pick a different partner for a while, though.”
As I bowed and walked out of the
dojo
, Bruce glared at me. I half expected his foot to shoot out and trip me as I squeezed past his pumped-up physique, but nothing happened.
I hoped that didn’t mean he was biding his time for a more satisfying revenge later.
When I got home, Wolverine was in the kitchen glaring pointedly at the empty food bowl. “Who’s a cute little pussy-wussy, then?” I crooned, hoping it might wind him up. He didn’t even dignify me with a disdainful look. “All right, all right. It’s coming.” Feeling smug because I’d remembered to get some cat food at Asda, I grabbed a fork and opened up a can.
Ye gods, that stuff hummed. It was worse than the tuna first thing in the morning. “You actually eat this stuff?” I asked Wolverine in disbelief, trying to hold my breath while forking the glutinous mass out into the bowl. He
miaowed
at me. Maybe he was annoyed at me for dissing his dinner.
Then again, maybe not. It turned out Wolverine didn’t believe the stuff was edible either. He took one sniff and then backed away hurriedly, turning to me and
miaowing
again, this time with a definite note of reproach. “It’s all you’re getting,” I warned him. He hissed, and it was my turn to back off. Then I felt a bit ridiculous. “If you think you’re going to bully me into giving you tuna again, you can think again. I’m going to have a shower,” I said firmly.
I escaped upstairs and sluiced off the grime of the day with a certain amount of relief—after all that sparring, I was humming a bit myself. My thoughts wandered, as they do at times like this. There’s only so much concentration you can give to lathering up. I wondered how Kate and Alex were doing, and whether they’d had their first row about him leaving the toilet seat up yet. Of course, that wouldn’t be a problem for Matt and Steve, would it? Their life was probably one long, happy round of leaving the seat up, drinking beer on the sofa in their underwear, and sharing fart jokes.
I frowned. Did gay guys think fart jokes were funny? Maybe they weren’t like that at all. I’d never really known any gay guys all that well—except Graham at Uni, and at the time I hadn’t even known he was gay. We’d sort of drifted apart after he got his first boyfriend and came out. But maybe gay guys were different. Maybe they kept their house as neat as Kate did and liked to drink wine and talk about the theatre in the evening?
Common sense reasserted itself forcefully in the form of a vivid, and frankly ridiculous, mental image of Matt sipping Chablis with his little finger cocked. If he had a total personality transplant, maybe. No, Matt was just a regular guy. Which meant that, in all likelihood, Steve was just a regular guy. Right now, they were probably relaxing together on the sofa watching Sky Sports, maybe having a bit of a cuddle…
I turned the tap off sharply. I was clean enough now.
Of course, when I went downstairs again, the kitchen was still full of uneaten cat food and unhappy cat. And the smell… It was like walking into a wall of silage. If I stayed in the room much longer, I’d need another shower. If I left the food here all night, it’d probably follow me upstairs and suffocate me in my sleep.