Yantsu

Chapter One

South Africa, January 2011

Danny Jordan rolled up onto his knees, still clutching his left shoulder. A low whimper escaped his half open mouth as he tried to rise to his feet. The weight of his arm, pulling against his throbbing clavicle, seemed to drag him back to the ground. The physical pain of getting up outweighed the fear of staying down. He sank forward, resting his forehead on his fists clenched on the floor in front of him.

Are you all right?

Danny glanced up at the paramedic kneeling beside him. Oh, yes. I'm fine, thank you, he said, and struggled to his feet. I don't need a doctor or anything.

Let me have a look, just to be sure, okay?

Danny shook his head. Really, I'm fine. It took me by surprise, that's all.

Sensei Tanya Marshall had been coaching Danny from the edge of the mat. She came to his side. He'll be okay. I'll keep an eye on him, thank you. She leaned in close to his ear. "Don't let Shihan hear you say that."

"Sorry, Sensei, I meant the pain, not the punch."

Sure you did. Tanya turned him back to his position and left the mat.

The referee awarded the ippon to Danny's opponent and ended the match.

Tanya led him back to the side of the arena. He sank gratefully onto the bench. Leanne Jarvis helped him out of the body armour and sat down alongside him. The pain had ebbed to a dull ache and he cradled his arm across his chest. He pushed his fingers up under his collarbone and inclined his head to the right, stretching the taut muscles in his neck and shoulder.

You okay? asked Leanne. Is it feeling better now?

I'll live, at least until my dad gets hold of me.

Leanne smiled at him. Well, Sensei will be proud of you. You were brilliant to get to the semis.

He managed a weak return smile as she slipped her hand into his. Thanks. He looked across the crowded hall and located Sensei Mark Christiansen. He was standing with his back to Danny talking to the coach of the guy who'd just ruined his dream. Sensei Mark turned and walked towards the bench. As he approached Danny pulled his hand from Leanne's and fixed his gaze on Mark's feet.

Well done, Danny, Mark said. How's the shoulder feeling now?

Thank you, Sensei, he replied, prodding at his collarbone, it's much better, thanks.

Mark sat on the bench next to him. You fought really well. The guy who put you out will probably win the tourney. He's from Durban. I've just been talking to his coach.

Danny nodded but didn't speak.

Mark turned to face him. "Cheer up. Getting beaten in the semi-finals of a national competition is nothing to be ashamed of. Especially since it was a shodan you were up against."

Told you, said Leanne.

I know. Danny considered adding a but. He changed his mind and looked up to the arena as a voice on the PA announced that the final was about to begin. He sat back and watched the two shodan on the mats. Both fighters were from Shihan Dean Stander's Greenview Bushido Kai Dojo in Durban.

At least there's no chance of a home win. The thought was of little comfort to him, as was the fact that his earlier opponent won the final with ease.

*

Danny felt Greg's hands close around his upper arms as Sensei Mark talked about his performance. His father was standing directly behind him so he couldn't see his face, but he knew it would be wreathed with feigned delight.

Danny's one of our most dedicated students, Mr Jordan, said Mark. You should be very proud of him.

Of course, said Greg, gripping a little harder. Daniel knows how I feel about his performance.

Danny stared at the ground, only looking up when Mark spoke directly to him.

You were great, Danny. Go home and enjoy the rest of the weekend. You've earned a rest. I'll see you in the dojo on Monday night.

Thank you, Sensei, he said, his smile belying the twist of dread in his gut. He turned and walked away, his father following behind.

Greg stepped alongside him and leaned in close. You were pathetic! he said. You should have taken that runt without even breaking a sweat.

He swallowed his fear and walked purposefully towards his father's Lexus. He didn't look at his stepsister as he climbed into the back seat. Fastening his safety belt, he fixed his gaze on the back of his stepmother's headrest.

Greg gunned the engine and skidded out of the loose-surfaced car park. Danny gripped the centre armrest and closed his eyes. He felt warm fingers enclose his hand as Sarah reached out to him. He opened his eyes and, checking the direction of his father's gaze in the rear-view mirror, stole a glance at his stepsister.

I'm sorry, Danny, she whispered. Her eyes brimming with tears, she gave his hand a squeeze then turned to stare out of the window as the suburbs of Cape Town rolled by.

*

Daniel, go to your room, said Greg, as they filed into the cool, marble-tiled entrance hall. Danny closed the heavy oak door quietly behind him.

Yes, Dad. He padded barefoot along the passage and shut himself into the relative sanctuary of his bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed for a full half hour before deciding his father wasn't going to come. His heartbeat slowed as he untied the knot at his waist and slipped the dark green belt from around his middle. He carefully folded it in half and hung it over a hanger. Wandering into the bathroom, he shrugged out of the jacket of his dogi and reached into the shower cubicle to turn on the water.

The warm shower soothed his aching muscles. He rinsed himself off and examined his shoulder. Deep blue and purple bruising was already beginning to show. He poked gingerly at his collarbone. It was still sore but it wasn't broken. He had been hit by a cricket ball and broken it once before and he knew this was just badly bruised.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked back to his bedroom. He dried himself off and pulled on his pyjamas.

He was hungry. He rooted through his school bag and found half an energy bar. He took it, and Mas Oyama's Essential Karate, out of the bag and climbed under the duvet. The alarm clock beside his bed said it was almost seven o'clock. It was going to be a long night.

*

Julia Jordan looked up from her plate of spaghetti bolognese. She cleared her throat, not sure she could trust her voice. Greg, I put some food on a plate for Danny. It was a hard day for him. Shouldn't I take him something to eat?

Greg placed his fork on his plate and looked long and hard at her. Julia swallowed, regretting her words. She should have waited and taken Danny something to eat while Greg was watching the late night news. Greg picked up his fork again and began to wind spaghetti onto it. Sarah, he said, his eyes on his fork, would you be an angel and go and tell Daniel to come to the table please?

Yes, okay, mumbled Sarah, wide eyed. She leapt to her feet and shot from the room. Her fork, balanced on the edge of her plate, wobbled then fell. A thick blob of tomato sauce seeped into the white tablecloth.

Julia got to her feet. I'll warm Danny's supper, she said, staring absently at the spreading stain. Greg made no response.

*

At first Danny thought he had imagined the knock on the door. When it came a second time, a little louder, he jumped up from the bed. He knew it wasn't his father, he never knocked. Danny opened the door a crack and saw Sarah's pale face looking up at him.

He grinned down at her. What are you doing here? he whispered, checking the passage and pulling her into the room. At nine years old, Sarah was five years his junior and Danny took his role as big brother very seriously. I don't want you getting into trouble.

I won't get into trouble. Your dad sent me. He wants you to come and eat.

Are you sure? Did he say that?

Sarah nodded. He told me to come and fetch you.

Right. Danny hastily swapped his pyjama top for a t-shirt and pulled a pair of jeans over his pyjama pants then followed Sarah down the passage to the dining room. Pausing in the doorway he looked at his father for confirmation that he should be there.

Your supper's getting cold, said Greg, you'd better sit down and eat it.

Thank you. Danny ate quickly, partly not to fall too far behind, and partly out of fear his father would change his mind.

Julia ladled fresh fruit salad into three bowls. She took a fourth and looked over at Greg. He nodded and she scooped in a large helping and handed it to Danny.

Danny had noticed Julia was becoming more outspoken in defending him against his father's high expectations. He showed his appreciation the best way he could. He was always polite and tried to be helpful though he still couldn't bring himself to show her any affection, nor respond appropriately to the affection she showed him.

Thanks, Julia, he said, rewarding her warm smile with a tense one of his own. The naturally down-turned mouth and full lower lip gave him a permanently moody look, but even the slightest of smiles transformed his face. He had inherited his father's dark hair and strong jaw but the gentle brown eyes were a legacy from his mother.

I was going to drill you on some basics tomorrow, said Greg, pointing his spoon at Danny, but you look tired. We'll see how that shoulder is and maybe do some pool work instead.

He gaped at his father unsure how to respond.

Daniel, Greg went on, do you know what you did wrong today?

Danny's cheeks coloured pink. He nodded, swallowing a slice of banana without chewing it. "I misjudged my opponent. The guy had a really good jodan mawashi geri. I had him tagged as a kicker. I didn't even think about his fists." His voice tailed off to a whisper and he poked at a grape waiting for the explosion. Greg just nodded and turned his attention back to his fruit salad.

"What's a jodan mawashi geri?" asked Sarah.

Relieved that Greg hadn't freaked out, Danny smiled at her. It's a type of kick, he said. A roundhouse kick at head height. He used two fingers on the table to demonstrate the turn.

Does it hurt? she asked, her blue eyes opening wider than ever.

It does if it hits you, but you're supposed to avoid it, or block it.

The same could be said about punches, said Greg.

Danny flushed again. Yes, I'm sorry, Dad.

Danny, Greg set his spoon in his empty bowl. The tension left the table and Danny breathed a sigh of relief. As soon as his father stopped calling him Daniel he knew it was over. There would be nothing more said about the incident. Greg stood and pushed his chair under the table. Your mother would have been proud of you today.

Danny blinked back the sudden sting of unexpected emotion and began to collect the dessert dishes. It was the closest his father had ever come to praising a losing performance.

Chapter Two

Danny climbed out of the swimming pool and laid on a bright orange towel on the hot concrete. He dangled one arm in the cool water and sighed with pleasure. The sun on his back and a day without training felt like heaven.

Greg and Julia had taken Sarah and her friend, Louise Delport, to the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront. They planned to see a movie, have lunch, then take a sailing trip around Table Bay and drop Sarah and Louise at the Delport's for supper. Danny had suffered terribly from seasickness the last time they went out on the bay, so Greg had given him permission to stay home. He relished the rare freedom of a day alone.

Psst, Dan, where's Drusie?

Startled, Danny sat up and looked round.

Up here, said the voice. It seemed to be coming from the neighbour's Olea Africana.

What are you doing in there? Danny shielded his eyes from the sun, squinting into the thick olive foliage.

Coming to see you. Is Drusilla there?

Danny scanned the back garden. I don't see her. I think she's round the front.

Drusilla, Greg's rottweiler; a fearsome looking creature with a head like an anvil and one lower canine which sat at 45 degrees to her jaw, resting on the outside of her lip. Her growl would strike fear into the heart of the devil himself, though she was more likely to lick a visitor to death than to bite. One who entered via conventional means, at least. She may well take issue with one crashing in from the branches of a neighbouring tree, however well she knew him.

A tall, lean young man dropped out of the tree and landed deftly at Danny's side. Grinning, he pulled a twig from his hair, loosening a long blond strand from the already untidy ponytail. It fell across his face and he pushed out his lower lip, blowing the hair to one side.

Hey, kid, how's it going? His eyes narrowed as they fell on Danny's bruised shoulder. He opened his mouth but Danny spoke first.

Why didn't you use the gate like a normal person?

Because, unlike the Vermaak's, yours was locked. He pointed a thumb at the wall. I didn't think Mr V. would mind, just this once.

Dad will. You know he'll kill you if he sees you here.

I know, but don't you worry about that.

Darren, I do worry. What are you doing here?

I heard you fell foul of one of Sensei Tris Steyn's protégés yesterday. Darren's gaze went to Danny's shoulder again. I wanted to make sure you were okay.

I'm fine, said Danny, unconsciously bringing his fingers to his collarbone. Now will you go please? Before Dad gets back.

Let me see that. Darren moved in to take a closer look.

That's what put me out of the fight.

Uh huh, Darren grunted, apparently satisfied he was telling the truth. And everything was cool when you got home?

Very cool for a while, but it's fine now.

Okay, good. Dad got any beers in the fridge?

You know he doesn't drink.

Yes, and I also know that he usually keeps some in for visitors. Darren started towards the kitchen door.

Danny snatched up his t-shirt and, pulling it over his head, trotted after him. Daz, please go, he said, following him into the house. Dad will kill us both if he finds you here.

What he doesn't know about won't push his blood pressure up. Darren took a bottle of Castle lager from the door of the fridge. He hopped up onto the cool marble breakfast bar and twisted the top off. Swinging his bare feet he took a long pull from the bottle.

Oh, so he's just supposed to think I drank his beer?

Darren stopped mid swig. He levelled his gaze at Danny then took the bottle from his mouth.

Good point, he said, tossing the cap across the kitchen and into the sink. I'd better stick around and explain.

Danny retrieved the bottle top. He put it in the bin, hiding it underneath a cereal box. I think it would be better if you didn't. I don't think he'll notice one missing beer.

Darren threw the empty bottle at Danny. He slid from his perch and opened the fridge again.

Darren, are you trying to get me into trouble? snapped Danny, shoving the bottle into the empty cornflakes box. He reached out and pushed the fridge door closed, but not before Darren had taken a second beer. Please, just stop it and go home.

Relax, kiddo. I'll handle Dad.

He'll break your neck. You know he will.

I'm a big boy now, Dan. I'm not afraid of him any more.

*

Darren felt awful. He knew he was ruining Danny's day but he had heard about yesterday's fight and he couldn't stay away. He had been compelled to check up on him, and now he couldn't leave without seeing his father. Even without the missing beers, Greg Jordan would only have to ask Danny how his day had been for the truth about his visit to come spilling out. He couldn't risk leaving him to face Greg alone.

Come on, why don't you show me your new trophies?

Danny hesitated and then led the way to the converted double garage. He crossed the floor and flicked on the lights, washing the room in a harsh glare, and causing Darren to blink.

It was more than three years since he'd last stepped into Greg's dojo but time had not eased the fear that tightened his gut as he walked through the door. The room smelled of fresh timber and foam rubber. It surprised him. It should smell of sweat, he thought. He alone had lost enough in that room to fill a swimming pool.

He shuddered as he stood on the blue mats and looked around the room. The red heavy bag still hung in one back corner, the other was dominated by a multi-gym and an array of free weights. The back wall housed a selection of martial arts weapons, tonfa, bokken, bo staff, shinai.

Folding his arms across his chest, he turned to the opposite wall and examined the shelves of trophies. The guilty pleasure he derived from noting Danny's karate trophies outnumbered their father's boxing ones was only slightly marred by the fact that none of his own were on display. Oh well, he thought. He only had a couple anyway, but he had never worked harder for anything in his life. He put the half empty beer bottle on the shelf. Maybe I should carve my name on the label, he thought. Darren Jordan - Champion Drinker! It's all he thinks I'm good for.

He felt a sudden surge of anger and snatched his father's largest trophy from the shelf. The loose silver lid danced on the rim of the cup before falling to the ground. It bounced twice on the mat then rolled under the bottom shelf.

Darren dropped to his knees and reached for it. He retrieved the cobweb and dust covered lid and examined it with disgust. He didn't bother to wipe it down before ramming it back on the trophy, bending the delicate silver with the force.

Don't! cried Danny, reaching out and taking it. He sank to the floor and carefully wiped the lid on his shirt. Darren watched him gently press the dent out with his thumb.

These are important to him. You should have more respect.

It's only a piece of silver, said Darren, feeling a little guilty all the same.

I meant for him, said Danny.

Darren kicked at the edge of the mat and turned his back to his brother. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets. Sorry, Dan, he said, staring up at a fly on the ceiling, but I find it hard to have respect for a guy who thinks nothing of using his gloves on his kids the way he did in the ring.

It's not like that for me. Danny got to his feet and replaced the trophy.

Darren spun to face him. No, Dan, it's not. But how many times have you lost a fight to a junior grade? You haven't! And how many times have you failed a grading? You haven't! Danny, wake up. You're almost fifteen years old. You're going for your brown belt in less than three months. It's only going to get tougher. From now on you're going to be fighting guys like Thabo Tshabalala every time you enter a tournament. Tough guys, hard fighters, and he's not going to let you lose, Dan. If you lose, you fail. And he can't stand failure. He will hammer you.

Danny's face was pale, his eyes wide. I lost yesterday and he didn't freak out.

"Maybe not, but you were frightened to death of him, weren't you? You thought he was going to freak out. Every time he sends you to your room, you're terrified. Every time he brings you out here and works you like a dog on that heavy bag, or drills your basics until you drop, you're scared witless! Right?"

Darren grabbed the beer and drained it in one gulp. He pushed his index finger into the neck of the bottle and waved it at his brother. You know why he didn't freak out, Dan? Because Thabo Tshabalala is three ranks higher and almost two years older than you, and because he went on to win that final. If...

Danny?

They both froze.

Stay here, said Danny. I'll distract him and you get out. Please, Darren.

The room darkened as Greg Jordan's frame filled the doorway. He folded his arms across his chest and inclined his head. Well, well, well, if it isn't the prodigal son. Or should that be daughter? For heaven's sake, boy, get a haircut. You look like a damn pansy. Greg turned to Danny. So, Daniel, this is how you entertain yourself when you're left alone, is it?

Darren caught Danny by the wrist and pulled him behind his back. Greg kicked off his shoes, bowed into the room and stepped onto the mat. Fists balled at his sides, he moved in.

In that moment Darren knew, with a gut-sliding horror, that he was still very much afraid of his father.

Chapter Three

Chris Sheldon dropped the receiver back onto the cradle. He looked up at the clock above the row of filing cabinets for the fifth time in as many minutes.

Damn it! he thought, sliding from his perch on the untidy desk. Where is that damned fool? Chris picked up the black diary from the desk and opened it to check he had the right Sunday. He did. He closed it with a snap and tossed it back on the doodle-filled blotter. After checking the clock one more time, he crossed the office and reached for the door handle. The door swung open, narrowly missing his outstretched hand. He jumped back in surprise.

Oh! The young woman in the doorway was apparently just as surprised to see him. Osu, Shihan! she said, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were in here or I would have knocked.

Osu, Sensei, no problem. said Chris. What are you doing in today?

Sensei Tanya Marshall held up a manilla folder. Sempai's paperwork. I'm over at the Clifton dojo tomorrow night and I thought you might want these before Tuesday.

Yes, thanks, said Chris, taking the folder. I don't suppose you know where Sempai is?

Tanya glanced up at the clock. No, she said, frowning, but I told him to be here by one.

Chris shook his head. Well, he'd better have a damn good excuse or he can kiss this goodbye! He sent the folder skidding across the desk. It ricocheted off a grubby copy of the Yellow Pages and dropped to the floor. It came to rest, the contents spewing out, under the sagging blue office chair.

Well, I'm not hanging around any longer. I'll just have to get him to call me. Chris lifted the telephone receiver and dialled again. After three rings an answering machine kicked in. Hi, I'm not in, not up or not interested. Leave your number and I'll call you back.

Chris rolled his eyes. Where the hell are you? You should have been here an hour ago. You'd better be lying in a ditch somewhere, or it's over! Call me. He dropped the receiver back on the cradle and snatched his car keys from the desk.

Ouch, said Tanya, screwing up her nose, a bit insensitive, don't you think?

Chris turned to face her. What? Oh, hell's teeth, he said, I never thought. Should I call back?

Tanya shook her head, "No, I wouldn't. But don't expect a return