Linnear 01 - The Ninja (17 page)

‘The only thing to do, for the moment, is to stay with you.’

Justine nodded. Oddly, this did not fill her with fear. Quite the opposite, in fact. She might even begin to relax with it. God knew, she wanted to. Yes, she thought, I do want to.

Suddenly she was feeling much better.

Doc Deerforth was dreaming. He lay on the hammock tied to his porch beams, swaying slightly. The delicate, insistent drone of the unceasing rain had lulled him to sleep.

He dreamed of a forest, gleaming like a great emerald, dripping with moisture. But it was not a place of pleasure or beauty. Not for him. He ran through the angled underbrush and, from time to time, as he twisted his head to peer fearfully behind him, he caught a glimpse of the hideous beast that pursued him relentlessly. It was a tiger. Fully ten feet long, the beast seemed to move effortlessly through the thick foliage that otherwise sought to pull him down. Its massive muscles worked with astounding fluidity beneath its glossy striped coat. Now and again, Doc Deerforth’s eyes would lock on those of his foe. They glowed green in the night like lambent beacons, lighting the way before it. Yet they were not the shape of cats’ eyes but the unmistakable oval - epicanthic fold and all - of a human: a Japanese, to be more specific.

They were the eyes of the ninja Doc Deerforth had encountered just before war’s end in the jungles of the Philippines.

Now his way was balked by an enormous stand of bamboo. No matter which way he looked, there was no passage forward. He turned to see the man-beast open its mouth. Hot flame poured out like a river, inundating him in a jelly-like substance that clung to him, stinging like a man-of-war. He writhed, slapping at himself to rid himself of the burning substance. Still it clung to him tenaciously as if it were sentient. He had acquired a second skin: a malignancy which now started to eat into his flesh. His skin curled and cindered, peeling away to tendon and sinew. Only this was left to him, as the substance saturated him, piercing his bones. These were slowly powdered. And all the while the tiger with the ninja’s face grinned at him. Then, as he felt all strength running out of him, as if he were urinating his life away, puddling it on the ground before him, the beast lifted its right forepaw. It

was a human arm that had been amputated at the elbow. Above, the skin was black, the muscles gone, the arm - what was left of it - virtually fleshless, as if it had been crisped in some terrible swift blast. The tiger with the ninja’s face lifted this limb up to him as if to say, ‘See this and remember.’ On the inside of the arm was tattooed a seven-digit number. Camp, he thought over and over. Camp, camp, camp. He was a jellyfish now, shorn of manhood, even his ape heritage. Beyond that, he now swayed in the jungle; when man was still a part of the gravid seas; before the spark; before the first fish crawled to the edge of its world and became an amphibian; before the land was fit for life. In this jungle sea, he drifted with his implacable foe. ‘See, see, see,’ said the beast, moving towards him who hung helpless on the tides, the evolutionary avatar. ‘No!’ cried the jellyfish. ‘Don’t you see? You’ll destroy everyone!’ But, unheeding, the man-tiger was upon him. “This I do for my -‘

Doc Deerforth awoke with a start. He was drenched in sweat and his cotton shirt was twisted to one side so that he felt as if he were inside a strait jacket. He gasped, taking several deep breaths. The rain had ceased some time while he was asleep but water still dripped from the eaves, making him think of the sea and the jellyfish and the ninja and annihilation.

Terry was almost killed on his way to meet Vincent. This, in itself, held no import for him; he was far too busy with his thoughts.

He was thinking about Hideoshi as he stepped off the kerb at Sixth Avenue, walking east on Forty-sixth Street. He was meeting Vincent at Michita, a small Japanese restaurant on Forty-sixth between Sixth and Fifth avenues. This place, run in the traditional style - a sushi bar and tatami rooms - was open virtually twenty-four hours a day because it catered, in large part, for the many Japanese businessmen new to the country, still on Tokyo time. It was a favourite haunt of Nicholas’s, Vincent’s and his because they all felt quite at home there.

He was against the light and, in the gutter, he was almost

run down by an old rattling Checker cab, hurtling up the avenue. The shrill blast of the horn snapped him out of his reverie and he leaped back onto the sidewalk amid the screech of brakes and the heartfelt curses of the obese, shaggy-haired driver. ‘Fuckin’ asshole gook!’ he heard as the taxi swerved past him. He felt the cool breeze of its close passage and then it was accelerating uptown.

This incident, however, did not long deter him from his inner contemplation. Upstairs in the dojo, while he had been preparing his bokken for the coming matches, he had observed the man at work on his aikido and, somewhat later, at karate. He had been appalled at the man’s strength and agility. Also, it was obvious after a few short moments that he knew far more about strategy than did Terry’s instructors. Since opening, the dojo had rapidly built a reputation as being one of the finest facilities of its kind, not only in America, but in all the world. Much of this, of course, came from Terry’s astute selection of sensei. To a man, his instructors were top-level masters in each of their specialities. To see them’ thus handled was disquieting indeed. As he went through Michita’s thick blond-wood and iron door, he wondered whether he should tell Vincent of Hideoshi’s visit.

Eileen went shopping after leaving the dojo. She went crosstown to Bloomingdale’s and bought several new pieces of lingerie. On a whim, she picked up a bottle of a cologne she had been meaning to try. On the way back to Terry’s she stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of 1970 Dom Perignon.

It was still light when she reached Terry’s brownstone. She put the champagne in the refrigerator and threw her Bloomingdale’s packages on the wide bed. Returning to the kitchen, she put four eggs in to boil for the caviar, checked to make sure there were enough onions, and bread for toast.

Then she went through into the bedroom and, crossing its ample width, into the bathroom, turning on the shower. She undressed and was about to step into the stall when she remembered something. Without bothering to wrap a towel

round her, she returned to the living-room and put a record on the stereo, turning it up so that she could hear it in the shower.

She sang with the water beating down on her, hearing the distant sounds of the music as if from the far side of a waterfall. She imagined herself on a tropical island, bathing in the turquoise water of a deserted lagoon. She washed her hair and soaped her body, revelling in the slipperiness against her skin.

She turned off the water and got out, towelling her hair first. In Terry’s full-length mirror, she regarded her naked self critically. She was proud of her body. Her skin was sleek and unblemished, her flesh firm despite her age. Her neck was long and slender, her shoulders as delicate as a china doll’s. Her breasts, sloping gently, were still ripe and firm, the nipples dark and long. Her waist was narrow, her hips flaring gently. But it was her legs of which she was most proud. They were long and firm, the muscles taut and supple, the ankles narrow, her feet small. She watched her muscles rippling as she worked the thick blue-green towel over her wet flesh. Her nipples sprang erect at the rough contact and she felt the first beginning warmth as she moved the towel slowly down her belly, between her thighs, back and forth, anticipating Terry’s arrival. She loved his hands on her body; they were so soft and gentle and knowing; she abhorred anything rough; he knew she loved that part as much as when he was inside her, both of them coming in concert. She loved to make love to music, the changing melodies, harmonies, tempi somehow enhancing the process. And, of course, the added sounds made vocalizing easier for both of them. She watched the flush of blood throughout her body reflected in the mirror as her thoughts pushed onward, inward. She imagined that Terry was already home, moving around the living-room, preparing the caviar and champagne. She dropped the towel as, with one hand, she rubbed her nipples, with the other she probed gently between her thighs.

After a time, she sighed deeply and stepped out into the bedroom. She crossed to the bed and, bending over, slit open the bag. She took out the bottle of cologne, Chanel No. 19, opened it and dabbed it on her richly glowing skin. Then she

stepped into the cream silk teddy she had bought, luxuriating in the feel of the sensuous fabric. This was how Terry would see her when he arrived.

She turned towards the open doorway and a frown creased her brow. Darkness prevailed there and, while it was night now, the sunset having slipped away while she was in the shower, she was certain she had turned on the lights there when she had come in. Or had she? She shrugged and went through the doorway.

Half way to the small porcelain lamp on the table next to the sofa, she paused, turning her head. Had there been some movement in the room to her exfreme left? Now she saw only clumps of dense shadows. Outside, a cat yowled twice as if it were being skinned alive, then there was the brief clatter of metal garbage-can lids in the cement alley at the side of the house, coming clear through the wall. The music was still playing. Henry Mancini. A bittersweet melody that she knew ended the side of the record. Mancini was so romantic.

She crossed to the table and pressed the switch; the lights in the bedroom went out. She turned round, oblivious for a moment of the fact that the lamp had not lit. The music was over and she was conscious of the minute sounds of the tone arm lifting, setting down on its cradle and the turn-table stopping. There was only one sound now, very close to her, and she realized that it was her harsh breathing.

‘Is anyone there?’ She felt foolish.

The total absence of sound was infinitely more frightening than if she had heard a voice reply. She looked down at the glowing dial of her watch and all she could think of was: Terry will be home soon.

As if drawn towards the unknown, she went slowly across the living-room until she was standing at the doorway. She peered in, trying to see in the gloom; the curtains were closed and here, at the back of the house, the trees of the back yard intervened behind the closed windows, the working air-conditioner, vitiating the lamps from the neighbouring houses.

She went into the bedroom, her hand feeling along the wall for the light-switch. But before she got to it, she heard the click of the stereo from the other room; heard, after a tiny

delay, Mancini’s piano and the double bass begin a jazz duet. Soon the drums joined them and then the strings. Last of all was the sax, a crying, almost human voice among the myriad instruments. The music was filled with tension.

She whirled towards the doorway, could not see through it. Something or someone blocked her view. She took a step forward and gasped as something slithered towards her in a blur, wrapped itself around her right wrist.

Crying out inarticulately, she stumbled backwards. She flung up her arm in an attempt to free herself but the thing - whatever it was - followed her silently, relentlessly; the grip on her wrist tightened until she thought her bones might break.

‘What do you want?” she said inanely. ‘What do you want?’ Her mind, numbed by fear, could think of nothing else to say. It was as if the night, through some magical incantation, had become a sentient being.

She felt the edge of the bed against the backs of her knees and, as if this solid barrier brought her back to reality, she launched herself forward. She did not believe in ghosts, not even in the fomi of her ancestors, as tangible objects able to grasp out at the living. Her mouth opened and she bared her teeth, ready to bite into whatever had hold of her.

She felt the solidness of pressure in front of her and bit down. But at that moment her head was jerked backwards and upwards and her teeth snapped together painfully.

‘Oh, my God!’ she heard herself say. It seemed to come from another world.

She stared into a face. The head, as, she supposed, was the body, swathed in matt black fabric. A tight hood and a mask that left only the eyes exposed. These were no more than six inches from her own. They were as dead as stones in a pond.

‘Oh, my God I’ She felt so vulnerable, bent back in a grip she had no hope of breaking, and this, more than anything else, terrified her.

When he moved he was upon her before she could even cry out. She felt his grip shift and it seemed that she was in the grasp of something elemental, like a whirlwind, a force of nature. For surely no man - nothing that was human - could have so much power.

Where his gloved fingers dug into her, they seemed to dissolve her flesh and pulverize the bone beneath. All air was abruptly gone from her lungs; it felt as if she had been thrust to the bottom of the sea. Her insides turned to water. Death rose up on all sides like a spectre on an enormous poster. Her gorge rose and she tried to vomit. She retched pathetically against the restraint to her mouth. She tried to swallow and could not. Her eyes were blurry with tears. She blinked wildly, began to choke on her own vomit.

His face was quite close to hers, but it was as if she had been attacked by an inanimate object suddenly given life. She could smell nothing, see nothing; ‘she had no clue as to what he was feeling, what he might want. She could not even turn her head from side to side, so intense was his grip upon her. Still she struggled merely to swallow and she did, given life once more. But now she saw before her the sloping mountainside in the south of Japan where she had stayed as a child during the last days of the war. She saw as clearly as if she were there again the tall stately pines swaying in the westerly winds, the straggle of so\aij’m toiling up the long slope, a thin battered line, an exhausted snake that seemed to have no end, no beginning, merely one vast body. She thought of the zosui, the vegetable stew, which had become their staple; the taste of it was strong in her mouth, the smell of the mountain turnips filled her nostrils. She had never thought that she would recall them with such full-bodied accuracy; it was in the nature of human beings to remember pleasure with more clarity than pain.