Gladiatrix (2 page)

When Ledbetter finally flunked out of high school, he'd moved up to Sydney to work for a shifty cousin who flogged cheap roofing to the building trade. There he'd joined a full-contact karate club called The Rattlers, a US franchise specialising in street fighting. Fast and dirty.

So now Ledbetter was bound by the same legal liability as me.

I kept my expression neutral. ‘I'm not risking my government contract for you, or anyone else, so go home.' I turned my back on him, dismissing him. ‘Go home, cadet, I'm busy.'

I could hear him snarl with frustration. Now he had no choice but to make the first move.

There was a sweet-faced cadet standing directly in front of me, her expression awash with concern. She nodded behind me at Ledbetter, as though trying to force me to turn and look too.

Perfect.

Ledbetter had learnt karate, which favours the hands, and he'd built up his upper body, so I knew he was going to use his best shot first — a strike or punch. I also knew he was itching to make it personal. Leave visible scars, break my face. So he'd give it all he had.

The cadet's eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to warn me. Using her eye line as an indicator, I ducked, just as Ledbetter's clenched fist swiped over my head.

A gasp squeezed out of the circle around us.

He'd attacked me, now I could legally defend myself. Finally.

I spun round. He was close, but busy regaining his balance from the missed swing. I said, ‘You can't hit me with my back turned? And from only three feet away? Impressive.'

He snarled again, trying a two-finger eye strike, but I ducked to the side before he'd finished.

I backed away, saying, ‘Still no sense of humour, Ledbetter? You should get one; it makes life sooo much easier. Trust me.'

There were some scattered laughs, but most of the cadets were uneasy, surprised.

I pointed at Ledbetter, now glowering in the centre of the room. He couldn't believe I wasn't taking him seriously, and didn't know what to do about it. ‘Here we have a prime example of your regular street thug. Stupid, violent. With bad technique.'

I walked over to the only brick wall in the room, and waved the cadets away from it. They were puzzled, but moved anyway.

Watching Ledbetter I said, ‘In the following weeks, class, you're going to learn some Aikido, the ultimate martial art.'

He screamed, ‘Shut up!' and charged. As he reached me he jabbed his right hand, heel of the palm first, up towards the centre of my face.

He'd really lost it. He was trying to shove my nose backwards into my brain.

I slid sideways — to the outside of his arm — so he hit dead air and fell forward in the direction of his strike. I grabbed his wrist and swung it down, using his own momentum to flick him into the brick wall, upside down.

Ledbetter hit it hard. Hard enough to knock the breath out. His own momentum held him pinned against the bricks for a fraction of a second, then he slid directly down, headfirst.

Crunch.

He fell over to his side, dazed, still breathing, but finished for tonight.

I turned back to the shocked faces. ‘Aikido is the world's most lethal dance. It was created by one of the last samurai. He knew that if you completely blend with your opponent's attack, then you can take control of their force and redirect it. The harder someone attacks, the harder they fall.'

I looked down at Ledbetter. ‘I call it instant karma.'

It was dark by the time all the students had gone. The last to leave was the sweet-faced cadet who'd warned me of Ledbetter's punch. She'd stayed on, just talking and talking. She was an idealist. Going into the force because she believed it was a vocation, not a job. She kept apologising for Ledbetter's behaviour. Said she was going to report him to the first-year coordinator. Said he'd tried to bully the other students as well, and this had to stop.

I'd agreed. That certainly sounded like him. God knows he was the last person I'd like to see wearing a police badge.

Ledbetter's two mates had put him in his car and driven him away. I'd called an ambulance from the dojo office, but his bruised ego had got him moving before they could get here. He was a little groggy, but I'd checked his eyes while he was still on the floor. He had a thick skull, so he'd have a headache, but probably no concussion. It's hard to seriously hurt your brain when it's the size of a pea.

He'd left swearing I'd lose my contract and my dojo.
That he'd sue. That he'd get me. That he'd … The threats had only stopped when they'd driven off.

Either way, my next meeting with the first-year coordinator at the College was sure to be more interesting than I could deal with at the moment.

I pulled at the neck of my gi; the heavy cotton was damp and sticking to my skin.

It was a hot night, too hot. I was used to wearing the full gi and hakama, freezing cold or boiling hot, but I could sure use a shower now, and I had to eat something soon, or I'd have to bite the next person I met. I'd had classes all day and no time to squeeze in lunch.

I climbed the stairs. Time to go home.

I live on the second floor of the dojo, just above the training rooms. Just me and my black pup, Spud. She's nearly eighteen months old, and you can guess what her favourite food is. Mashed, fried, any way she can get her paws on it. Over the years the dojo has been built, and rebuilt. Now, it sits on the slopes of the escarpment, surrounded by Illawarra flame trees, turpentines and cabbage palms, and looks out over the local village to the ocean.

Yuki started the centre not long after she found me, twenty years ago. Before that she'd travelled, studying combat in places like China, India and South America. When she applied to adopt me, the Australian authorities forced her to settle here; they said that until the case was closed I had to stay within reach. Her Japanese mother, Miko, had died when Yuki was born, and her father, Caleb Jarratt, died when she was a teenager, so there were no other ties to consider. Yuki made the commitment to stay, adopted me and began to teach what she'd learnt.

As I hit the top of the stairs, the phone started ringing. I made it on the third ring. Spud had heard me
arrive, and skittered across the wooden floor to circle my legs like a wagon train in hostile territory.

‘Hello, Makepeace Dojo, can I help you?' I patted Spud, trying to calm her down. You'd think I'd just returned from six months away.

There was a pause, then, ‘Sorry, wrong number. I was trying to find a Ms Jarratt. I thought this was her number?'

The voice was definitely familiar. ‘It is. This is Kannon Jarratt, can I help you?'

‘Ah. Yes. Kannon.' He coughed nervously. ‘It's Martin Cockburn here.'

‘Of course, Professor Cockburn.' Head of the Archaeology department at the University of New South Wales. Lanky body. Long, basset hound face. Keen eyes, and brown socks and sandals on his feet year round. ‘Sorry, I didn't recognise your voice. I've had a pretty full day.'

I hadn't done a subject with him yet, but we'd spoken enough times to be familiar. Archaeology wasn't a very big department at UNSW; it didn't have the prestige of the older faculty at Sydney Uni, and these days there weren't any jobs waiting at the end of the degree. Most of us would be lucky to get a place in a museum, let alone a field appointment.

‘Er, well, Kannon. That's all right.' He paused again.

I tried to work out why on earth he'd be calling. Nothing came up.

I'd been enrolled, on and off, in a part-time archaeology degree since I left high school. The family business came first, of course, but I did what I could, when I could. I was due to start one of Cockburn's subjects next semester.

He still hadn't spoken yet, so I prompted, ‘Did you want to talk to me about next semester?'

‘Ah yes. In a way.' He coughed again. ‘Kannon. Let me say first I think you're an exceptional student …'

Oh no. He'd left the statement half finished, hanging there, which meant there was a big BUT coming next.

‘Is there something wrong?' Of course there was.

‘Eh, yes. The problem is some of our staff have raised major objections to your enrolment.'

I knew what was coming. ‘Are you talking about me not finishing the last two fieldwork assignments?'

‘Yes, Kannon, I am.' He took a breath. ‘We all understand your problem with enclosed spaces.' He took another breath. ‘And we sympathise, but …' He paused for dramatic emphasis.
Here it comes.
‘You haven't finished any of your fieldwork subjects.' I could almost see him shaking his head. ‘Not one.'

‘I know. Look, maybe I could …'

He cut over the top of me. ‘So far you couldn't get on a plane to go to Crete … Or to the Greek digs either. And you couldn't use the scuba gear to complete your marine archaeology assignment off Sydney Heads.'

‘But …'

‘Yes, I know, Kannon. But if you can't physically complete the fieldwork side of things, you can't pass the subjects.'

‘Look, I know all this, Professor Cockburn,' I emphasised. ‘And it's the fieldwork part I love the most. What about the research I did up in Cape York? At the Rifle Valley excavation.'

‘Yes, yes, Kannon, that was excellent. I've read your report and the tools you found were invaluable. When the site is not enclosed, you're fine. But if you can't go into a cave, then Australian indigenous sites will also be beyond you.'

He paused to say, far too kindly, ‘But you want to become a marine archaeologist, don't you?'

‘Yes.' That was my ultimate goal. ‘But over time I'll be able to move from using the snorkel to scuba gear. I'm fine in the water. I surf. I can dive, using the snorkel, to shipwrecks in twenty, or even thirty feet of water. It's not the water. It's the breathing apparatus, and the lack of light at depth. But I'm working on it.'

Using the meditation techniques Yuki had taught me, I'd overcome most of the post-traumatic stress symptoms from my childhood. Nothing much scared me any more. Heights, snakes, speed, nothing but certain kinds of enclosed spaces.

You could shoot me out of a cannon, but I couldn't get on a plane, or enter a cave, or dive through shipwrecks at depth.

‘I'm getting there, Professor Cockburn. I'll overcome those last fears, like all the rest,' I insisted. ‘This degree's giving me the incentive to do it.'

‘Yes I know, Kannon. And I hope you know that I was very reluctant to make this phone call. I think you'd be a fine archaeologist. But this has gone on for far too long.' He was uncompromising. ‘You've done all the theoretical subjects you can at this stage, and completed none of the ones with fieldwork in them. You start them, but you don't finish them.' He stressed, ‘I'm sorry, but the Department has decided to terminate your enrolment.'

‘What?' A fierce pain jabbed through my chest.

‘Until such time as you can complete the fieldwork requirements. I'm sorry, but that's the bottom line.'

I stared at the receiver. Why was everything happening today? I didn't know whether I was going to become an archaeologist, or follow in Yuki's footsteps, or whatever else lay ahead, but I sure as hell wanted to make the choice myself!

Steam was practically rising off me now, but I kept my tone as polite as possible. ‘Well then, Professor Cockburn … re-enrol me! Which fieldwork assignment do you want me to do first?'

‘I thought you might react this way,' he said dryly. ‘Either the digs on Crete, or the dive off the Heads would do. As a start …'

I growled, ‘I'll do both.'

‘Be sensible, Kannon.' He ostentatiously waited for my sensible reply.

I took a deep breath. Okay, think again … Both terrified me. A round trip on a plane? Or a series of dives? Both had their worse points.

‘I'll do the dive.' At least I could get that over and done with quickly. The lead-up was almost as hard as actually doing it.

‘All right, Kannon. Come and see me when the semester starts and we'll set it up.'

I wanted to howl ‘NO!' down the phone, but instead said crisply, ‘I'll see you then, Professor Cockburn.' And hung up.

I stared at the phone with venom.

Then I realised the message light was blinking. I shook my head at it. I wasn't picking that phone up again tonight, under any circumstances.

I couldn't think about this now. I had to relax, unwind. First, Ledbetter the cretin, re-enacting his high school fantasies, and now this?

Spud had picked up on my bad mood and was watching me with doggy concern, her big honey-coloured eyes melting my crankiness. I leant down and stroked her velvety head. ‘Don't worry, baby. I've been through worse than this.'

Shower. I needed a mindless, relaxing shower. Cold water pouring down my sweaty body.

I peeled off my clothes as I headed for the bathroom. The heavy black hakama, the sweaty white gi, sticky underwear.

Spud followed, dodging the falling clothes.

I turned on the cold-water tap, and stepped under the shower spray.

Mmmm, good. The rest of tonight was off-limits to stress of any kind. I'd eat some dinner, sleep soundly, dream about the man who'd just started work as next door's gardener, and his nicely rounded … No, maybe I should skip that tonight, too. Just rest, nothing but perfect peace and quiet. And in the morning I'd know what to do. I kept chanting that thought. ‘Tomorrow. I'll fix everything tomorrow.'

I dried off, slipped into a singlet top and sarong, and padded into the kitchen. It was too hot to cook and I was sick of salad, so I went straight for dessert. Fresh mangoes and the last of the vanilla ice cream they made in the village. Yum.

It was too steamy to stay inside, so I took my bowl out and sat at the table on the deck. With the deck lights off, so I could watch the moonlight paint the shifting waves below without having to deal with a hovering cloud of mozzies.

Spud lay in a contented sprawl over my bare feet, snoring loudly while I ate. She looked exactly like her grandmother, Biscuit, who'd turned up on our doorstep one day and refused to leave. She'd known a pair of suckers when she smelt them.

Yuki had tried to find Biscuit's owner, but in the end she'd stayed.

I'd loved Biscuit from the first moment I saw her, and she'd padded behind me like a furry shadow till she died. She'd slept on my bed. Even swam past the breakers with me, when I was learning to surf. We didn't know what
breed, or mix, she was, but she was big and sleek, with a shapely head and gentle eyes. Except when she got protective and then her eyes switched to high beam and a tall spine of fur, tapering from her neck to her tail, would stand up like a warning flag.

Spud wasn't taking Yuki's death very well. Even in this heat the pup wouldn't let me out of touching range. Most nights I woke to find her lying across my chest, head on the pillow next to mine. I missed Yuki too. Running the dojo forced me to keep moving, but it just didn't feel right without her. It felt like I was up a dead end, nose-close to a brick wall.

Dessert had melted into a fruity mess so I abandoned it to look down at the cool water below. When I was younger, I'd never thought about Yuki dying, and even now it was a shock to remember she was gone. She'd been indestructible. Had seemed indestructible. But she wasn't.

Headlights on the road below caught my eye.

A rusty old Ford ute shuddered to a stop under the streetlight and an older man, carrying a briefcase, got out and shakily walked towards my front gate.

Bloody hell! It was Des. He had only come out of hospital five days ago. He wasn't supposed to be driving, and he certainly wasn't supposed to be climbing my steep stairs. It had been scary watching him struggle to survive in intensive care.

Yuki and Des were my family, and now there was only Des.

Stubborn old man. He hated feeling less than in total control.

The automatic lights flicked on as he climbed the external wooden stairs to the top storey. Des stood for a moment, panting outside the open side door, then stepped heavily through the lounge room to the deck.
He flicked the deck lights on as he came and immediately mozzies swarmed up around us, jostling for an opening.

‘What are you doing, Des?' I asked, beyond exasperation. ‘You were told to rest. At home. Not jog up stairs in the middle of the night. And you know I was coming round to see you again tomorrow. I know you hate being sick, but this is ridiculous.'

He cut straight through my concern. ‘Yeah, yeah, Kannon. Something's come up. I had to talk to you.'

In the hot yellow light he looked strange, drawn from the effort of the climb but overexcited at the same time.

I pulled out the chair next to me. ‘At least sit down while you have your next heart attack.'

Yesterday he'd barely had the energy to watch the cricket on TV.

Des sat heavily, dumping his ratty old leather briefcase right next to my feet. It must have landed on one of Spud's paws, because she yelped and sat up, then collapsed back down again with a snort of disgust.

He peered under the table and mumbled, ‘Sorry baby,' patting her head while he readjusted the bag.

‘Are you okay?' I asked.

His hair wasn't combed and he was wearing his own version of pyjamas: a faded to almost-white, blue T-shirt, threadbare khaki shorts and worn rubber thongs.