He did. Two years ago. When she had just about come up to his shoulder. In the intervening months she’d made that leap from child to young woman. He wasn’t sure he liked it. A whole new set of parental worries assailed him. Like whether or not her mother was keeping tabs on where their baby girl went on Saturday nights. Like what the hell you bought a child-woman for her birthday without getting it painfully wrong. Like the way Charlie Wallace had looked at her the first time Tudor had taken her to use the gym at the Aurora. It had seemed like a fine idea. And to be fair, Emily had been impressed. The gym was as cool as the rest of the building and always half empty. They had been able to train there in comfort, Tudor gaining dad points for finding a solution to her schedule. Introducing her to Charlie made sense. It allowed him to check up on the kid without being heavy handed about it. What he hadn’t reckoned on was the way the two hadclicked. There had been an instant attraction and an easiness between the two. He knew he shouldn’t mind. After all, there were plenty of worse possible boyfriends out there. Still, the Wallace family were complicated. It was something he was going to have to keep a careful eye on.
As he had predicted, they made good time. The mini-bus area was at the far end of the car park against a wall. Out of habit Tudor assessed the security aspect of this, questioning the wisdom of having groups of kids gather in the most poorly lit corner furthest from the main entrance to the building. Bob seemed unconcerned, jumping out to open the rear doors and encourage the kids out of the van. Tudor gave Emily a light pat on the back.
‘Go get ‘em, Pumpkin,’ he said, aware of her loathing of PDA, particularly before a tournament. She hid her nerves well, but they were there. He watched her join her friends, noticing again how the boys took more interest in her now, seeing the subtle jostling for position in the crowd so as to walk close to her. Bob ushered the team into the smart leisure centre and towards the changing rooms. Tudor found a coffee machine before making his way to the supporters’ seats. There was the usual crowd of parents, siblings, grandparents and die hard enthusiasts. Enough to make a noise, to offerencouragement, and to ramp up the contestants’ nervousness. Emily was a senior black belt and would soon be taking her second dan. The pressure was on. She was beginning to be a serious match for Tudor when they fought against each other now. She had entered one Form Competition. It was a perfect way for a student of the martial art to practice as they advanced through new techniques, almost in a dance. She had, true to her habit, planned it meticulously. She had chosen six Chong-Gun - her favourite, with over thirty moves. Her true passion, however, were the sparring matches. Tudor sometimes wondered at that; the fact that she preferred combat. Did she get that from him? Was it possible to pass down soldiering in your kid’s DNA? This tournament gave her two chances to excel: the under 16 girls and the under 18 Black Belt.
The start of the matches was announced. Emily’s Form went well. She flowed through the moves with ease, ending with a flawless block, and a final snap kick and ki-up. An easy win. Tudor found himself breathing more easily. The win would help her settle. For her first fight Emily drew a girl Tudor new to be weaker than she was. Within the first few moves it was obvious to everyone that the other girl was outmatched. Emily soon scored the first point. It appeared to Tudor that she was, in fact, holding back, and wasn’t evenbreathing hard. In the second round she stepped things up a notch, starting with a fast snap kick to the girl’s mid section, sending her backwards. The ref held up his hand. Another point. The opponent was still winded and down on one knee, causing her own coach to throw in the towel. The pair bowed and Emily was declared the winner. The following fights all proved just as easy, with Emily finishing them all in the second round. In the interval, Tudor sought her out, taking her a drink.
‘Nice job, Pumpkin.’
‘That was the easy bit. This next group…’
‘…will wish they’d stayed at home. You’ve got this.’ He returned to his seat, hoping he was right, knowing what it would cost her to lose.
He needn’t have worried. Of course, he knew his girl was good; she’d impressed him in training every time. But to see her power through the fights, defeating one opponent after another with such ease, surprised even him. She reached the finals. Tudor knew she must be tiring and caught his breath when he saw her opponent. The lad was nearly eighteen and close to six foot. Emily glanced over at her father. He gave her a confident nod. To begin with, they seemed evenly matched, with both giving as good as they got, adeptly blocking each other’s attacks. Slowly the boy’s size and strength began to take its toll, Emily needing to pull deep forreserves of energy to stop the blows. He advanced, her defence was broken, and the lad went for the strike that would secure the winning point. Unexpectedly, Emily side stepped, avoiding the blow and sending her opponent stumbling into nothing. The crowd began to pick up on something special happening. Suddenly, it was as if she had found another level. She showed a new turn of speed that had the boy wrong footed, making him look slow and clumsy, even though he was anything but. In a tiny pause, she saw her moment, powerfully covering the space between them using a crescent kick, travelling in an arc, dodging his guard and striking his chest hard enough that he dropped to his knees. The referee held up his arm towards Emily. It was the winning hit. An appreciative cheer went up among the spectators and Emily beamed at Tudor, enjoying the applause and the obvious pride on her father’s face.
At the end of the tournament, there was a sense of all round success among the team, but Emily was still the girl of the hour.
‘Great job, guys,’ Bob told them. ‘All of you should be really pleased with what you’ve achieved here. And I think one person in particular…?’
Emily blushed as the team gave her a spontaneous round of applause. She raised her madly oversized trophy high, laughing as she did so.
Tudor smiled at her. ‘Trophies are fine, but what everyone really wants is pizza, right?’
There was a clamour of agreement, orders for favourites being fired off, Bob attempting to make some sort of list.
‘I’ll bring the mini-bus round to the door,’ Tudor told him.
‘I’ll come with you, Dad.’ Emily trotted along beside him, energy still high from the fights, happily cradling her prize.
‘You planning to sleep with that thing?’
‘You think Mum will be impressed?’ she asked him in a voice that gave away how hard earned her mother’s approval was.
‘Damn right.’ He held the door open for her and they walked across the tarmac. It was nearly nine, the street lights were on, a damp summer evening providing a little mist around the dull glow of the lamps. Most of the competitors had already left so that there were few cars remaining and no-one else in the car park. They were almost at the bus when Emily stopped.
‘What is it, Pumpkin?’
A movement up ahead gave him the answer to his question.
Three men stepped out of the shadows, coming to stand between them and their vehicle. They were dressed in dark clothes, and the low light rendered them featureless. Even so, Tudor took in the angle of their shoulders, their height, their strength, the collective threat they presented. He cursed himself for not having noticed them before Emily had. Instinctively he reached out to pull her close. As he did so, a sound made him turn, but too late. The first he knew of the man behind them was the short whooshing of the baseball bat as it swung through the heavy air. He felt it connect with the back of his head, heard the sound of its impact even as his knees folded under him. To the accompaniment of Emily’s scream, he fell forwards, his face meeting the unyielding tarmac unprotected. As he lay there, unable to speak or move, he could only watch what happened, helpless and powerless. The assailants, leaving him for at least unconscious and more probably dead, focussed their attention on Emily. He wanted to scream at her to run, but even if he had been able to, it was already too late. And Emily knew it. She wielded the trophy, holding it out in front of her as a lion tamer might, wheeling round, trying to keep all the men in sight while keeping them at bay. Tudor knewshe would be sizing them up, working out who was the leader, who was likely to present the greatest danger. He could only lie there and pray that she would keep her cool and draw on her training.
The first thing she did, showing good sense, was to yell for help.
‘Somebody call the police!’ she shouted. ‘Help me! Over here!’
But no help came. They were out of earshot of anyone who might have come to her aid. Emily saw this, and Tudor saw this realisation on her face, his heart breaking for her. The first man made his move, leaping forwards to grab hold of the trophy. For a moment Emily held on but he was too strong and snatched it from her, casting it aside. As he did so, the second man grabbed her from behind, his arm around her neck, beginning to rob her of air. She would have been quickly overpowered if she hadn’t remembered her dad’s training. Holding her nerve, she tucked her chin down and in, so that the assailant’s arm was prevented from exerting all its force on her throat. Summoning her strength and determination, she did exactly what Tudor and Bob would have trained her to do, lifting her right foot and stamping it down the attacker’s shin, the force of the strike finding its end on the bridge of his foot. This should have been painful enough to make him releaseher. With astonishment, Tudor heard a crack and the man’s scream, telling him that the move had been so forceful she had broken the bones in his foot. As he released his hold, crumpling forwards, Emily grabbed his arm, using the momentum to throw him forward over her shoulder, sending him crashing onto his back.
Two of the other men rushed at her, but she was expecting them. In a move full of grace and power, she used a back snap kick to the belly to stop one, turning through a crescent kick to the shoulder of the other. Again, the sound of cracking bone split the night. Even in his disabled state, Tudor gasped, not quite able to believe what he was seeing. This was not simply a talented young martial artist using her skills to save herself; this was something more.
The attackers tried again, the one with the baseball bat rushing her, all brute force and blunt male rage. Emily side stepped, turning to grab his arm as he tipped beyond her, off balance. With frightening speed and a cry of fury she used her other hand to break his arm with a single, perfect blow. The fourth man was taking no chances, pulling a knife and getting in close before she had a chance to regroup. Again, she was grabbed, this time a body lock, by the larger man who she had temporarily stopped with a kick to the guts. He made the most of his size advantage, pinning her arms. In frontof her, the remaining attacker moved towards her with the knife held in a deadly professional grip.
Tudor fought to regain his senses, silently screaming, summoning all his strength not to slip into the abyss of unconsciousness. Emily struggled, so that he feared she had lost the cool head that was keeping her alive. He had no idea what these men wanted, but if it was to kill them both, there was little to stop her assailant driving his knife home at that moment. Tudor groaned, finally able to make a sound, and then the smallest of movements. If he could reach down to the small back-up gun he kept strapped to his ankle, even with very little strength, wounded as he was, he could surely fire off a shot to buy Emily some time and maybe a crucial advantage. The thought flashed through his mind that his Glock was no use to him locked up in an evidence room back in London, but that even if he had been carrying it, he doubted he would have had the necessary strength to take it from his holster and fire it. The 380 auto on his ankle was more use to him now. With his vision blurring and pain shooting through his head, he forced his hand to move. But it was taking too long, his actions were leaden and hopelessly slow.
Emily let out a cry, but it was not, as he had feared, a cry of panic. It was a mustering of her energy, a true ki-up. With a whip fast movement she delivered aperfectly aimed backwards head butt to the face of the man who held her, breaking his nose and sending him reeling. In a heartbeat, she executed a forward snap kick, connecting with the remaining mans forearm. It was his choice of grip that resulted in the knife gashing his own torso.
The man with the damaged foot had found the baseball bat and now stood up, hobbling but dangerous, about to swing at Emily while she was still facing her earlier attacker. At last Tudor pulled the gun from its strapping. Using both hands he tried to aim it at the attacker, but his grip was weak and he could not hold it steady. He dare not risk taking a shot at any of the attackers for fear of hitting Emily. Instead, he aimed into the sky and let off two rounds. The man with the baseball bat turned, his hood down now, the light of the nearest street lamp illuminating his face. Tudor didn’t recognise him, but there was something else that was familiar. Something about the darkness beneath the eyes, the paleness of his skin, the blueness of the veins at his temples and throat, the wild, almost animalistic look on his face, that rang a distant, discordant bell.
‘Oi! What’s going on?! Leave them alone!’ Bob came running from the building, quickly followed by two men from the leisure centre, while another dialled on his phone. The attackers fell back. They helped eachother to their feet and fled, limping and cursing, disappearing through a small gap in the fence. Tudor heard a car engine start and the sound of people running towards him, voices raised in alarm. And suddenly, there was Emily, kneeling beside him, peering down at him, her expression desperate.
