7: Parry
"Hey!" Jemima shouted, emerging from her shadowy hiding-place and catching the man's attention as he climbed the stairs. He looked over the street at her, confused, and she looked both ways before jogging over towards him.
"I'm sorry," she said in Japanese, "My boyfriend abandoned me and I haven't got money for a taxi. Can you help me?"
He stared at her silently, and close up Jemima could see he was a thick-set man. She kept a wary distance.
"Can't you phone someone?" he asked sharply.
Jemima shook her head. "My phone is dead."
He shook his head gently. "I haven't got time to help brats. Go away."
"Come on, please," Jemima begged. "Just let me use your phone for two minutes."
"I told you to buzz off," the man said, losing his patience.
Jemima reckoned she'd given George enough time to get out safely so she held up her hands apologetically. "Alright, sorry, I'm going," she said, turning and walking back across the road. When she looked back, the man was still looking at her, but now he was speaking to someone on the phone. It could have been a coincidence, but Jemima was worried he suspected that she was a diversion and was calling for backup. Taking him out might have worked, but it would have been even more suspicious and he was a big man so she might not have come off best from the exchange. Feeling defeated, she ducked into an alleyway out of sight and radioed George.
"Couldn't keep him away, he's on his way in," she said.
"I'm on the fire escape," George replied, crouching and shivering slightly on the cold metal steps, "But once I get down the only way out is back past the entrance. I need to be sure he's inside so he won't see me."
"He's already suspicious, I don't want to keep staring at him," Jemima said, but she appreciated the problem. "Give me a minute and I'll have another look."
George had hoped the man would put the lights on inside the office, which would ruin his night vision and give George a better chance of getting away, but he could see a torch beam sweeping around inside instead. As quietly as he possibly could, George crept down the metal staircase, the rail freezing cold and making his hand ache. Pausing when he reached the bottom, George swapped his latex gloves for his outdoor gloves again, his fingers painful and stiff.
"He's got friends coming," Jemima said suddenly. "A car just pulled up, two guys. One's heading for the stairs, the other one is covering your exit."
"Okay," George said, staying calm. "Give me a signal when the first one has gone inside the office and I'll have to make a break for it."
"Good luck," Jemima whispered, and George tried not to feel nervous as he looked around the dark yard behind the building for something to use as a weapon. Everything he could see was mostly lightweight rubbish, but he smiled when he spotted a length of rusted metal rod which looked as if it might have once been part of the fire escape's handrail.
"Okay go," Jemima said suddenly, and George got to his feet, pushing his trainers into the ground hard to pick up speed with the metal rod held tightly in his right hand. The man blocking his way out had long hair tied in a ponytail and looked shocked for a moment as George closed him down, waiting until the last second before thrusting the rod out, aiming for the man's upper chest where he would find it hardest to get his arms into position to parry it. But in the half second he still had, the man adopted a fighting stance and swivelled on the balls of his feet, dodging the rod and then trying to wrench it out of George's grip. George just about managed to hang on to it but he was off balance, so when the man followed up with a roundhouse kick it crashed into his side hard and made him stumble into the wall, gasping for breath.
"Gotcha," the man muttered, assuming that George's initial charge was all he had in him. But George jammed the sole of his trainer into the wall and pushed off hard, springing back at the man, this time bringing the rod down hard, aiming for his knee. The man was quick enough to react and the rod slammed into the side of his calf instead. George followed up with a fast palm thrust aimed at the man's chin, but it was parried, and George had to twist to avoid another kick. He used the rod to parry a hard punch and then stepped back, forced to retreat as the man unleashed a flurry of attacks. This guy was obviously an experienced martial artist and even with the rod, George was having a hard time getting the upper hand. He waited for an opening, watching for the man's next kick then dodging and going for his other leg, trying to knock him down. He was slightly too slow, though, and they exchanged jabs and parries for a few seconds, George's arms aching from the impact of the blows.
"You some kind of karate kid?" the man hissed, using colloquial Japanese that George mostly understood as he backed off a few feet, still blocking the exit. George knew he didn't have forever: the sound of their fighting would attract attention from the others inside the office and George stood no chance if backup arrived. He thought desperately for a way to surprise the man, but his opponent was prepared and was watching his every movement. CHERUB combat training was very clear: when faced with an overwhelming opponent, sometimes the only course of action is to try and escape. George could try going back up the fire escape and surprising the men inside, but then he'd only find himself trapped by the other set of stairs.
"Your mum's a dog," George spat back, making the man grin nastily.
"Who do you work for? Triads?" the man asked, keeping his cool.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," George said, still watching for an opening, but time was running out. He looked up at the top of the fire escape suddenly as if he'd seen someone up there, and the man instinctively looked too, giving George a split second to rush at him. He swung the rod as hard as he possibly could in an upward arc, forcing the man to parry low. The metal smashed into his forearm and George heard him give out a low moan of pain, pressing his advantage and kicking out hard at the man's leg. He made contact and George could feel a momentary opportunity to push past and go for freedom, but the man swivelled again and his powerful punch hit the outside of George's shoulder. It didn't hurt, but it did unbalance him again, and even another full-power swing of the rod wasn't enough to regain his speed to get past. George was pinned close to the wall of the alley and as the man started another volley of kicks, he knew he was tiring and wouldn't be able to parry forever.
There was a sickening crunch of bone and flesh and George felt the man keeling over sideways, grasping at George for support as his knee collapsed and he crashed downwards. Jemima followed up her knee kick with a hard punch which was aimed at his head but caught him in the back instead, whipping him around, and his ponytail hit the ground hard.
"Thanks," George gasped, abandoning the metal pole and following Jemima at a sprint back out of the alley and onto the street. The car was still parked on the other side of the road and George could hear shouts coming from the men in the office, who'd heard the fighting and were coming out to help. For a fleeting moment George wanted to take their car, but he had no idea where the keys were, and instead he followed Jemima down the street the way she'd come, which was the opposite direction to where he'd approached from. He had no idea where they were going and had to rely on Jemima, and with a rush he realised that one of the men had decided to run after them.
"One's behind us," he shouted to Jemima.
"Down here," Jemima replied, ducking sideways into an alley which was lined with tiny shops and bars. Most of them were closed by this time, but there were a handful still with lights on and canopies out. George nearly clattered a man coming out for a smoke and had to shout an apology over his shoulder. Jemima was a fast runner and George was going flat out just to keep up with her, but the fight had taken a lot out of him and he was flagging.
"How much further?" he asked, panting hard when Jemima paused on the corner to look behind them.
"Not far," Jemima assured him before setting off again. After one more alley they emerged onto another shopping street with a big shopping centre area on their right. Jemima went left, though, dodging a man pushing a cart full of fruit towards a greengrocer's and a hundred yards further up, she paused again to let George catch up before ducking into a doorway and pressing the call button for the lift.
"What's in here?" George asked, clutching his ribs, a stitch stabbing him in the side.
"Internet café," Jemima told him, pressing the call button again and looking nervously over her shoulder. The lift slid open and they stepped in, George leaning against the wall gratefully. Jemima relaxed as soon as the doors slid shut.
"They won't come after us in here," she explained, as the lift counted the floors off until they emerged on the fifth floor into a darkened environment with a bored-looking man sitting behind the front desk.
"How long?" he asked Jemima in Japanese, and after some discussion she handed over coins and the man handed them two electronic key cards. George looked bewildered as Jemima led him along a darkened corridor, counting off cubicles until they arrived at two next to each other which matched the numbers on the cards.
"Here," Jemima said, handing George a card and keeping her voice low. "There's cameras, so don't do anything stupid. I've paid until 9am so we should be able to lie low until there's enough people around for them to forget us."
Curious, George unlocked the cubicle and poked his head inside. There was a computer set up on the desk with a basic-looking keyboard, mouse and headphones; an office-style swivel chair; some power outlets and nothing else except a number of brightly-coloured posters on the walls advertising various things like instant noodles and an upcoming electronic music gig.
When the door shut behind him, he glanced up at the old-fashioned CCTV camera which pointed over the tops of the cubicles, then settled himself down in the chair. He wondered how he could kill several hours with just a bog-standard computer and his phone, but as the adrenaline wore off and his battered arms throbbed with pain, he realised that more than anything, he just wanted to sleep. Part of him wanted to stay alert in case the thugs reappeared, but the cubicle was locked and it would be insane to cause trouble in a place like this with cameras everywhere. He took off his jacket and, setting the office chair to recline as far back as possible, he settled into it and covered himself up with the jacket. Apart from the air conditioning whirring and the occasional cough or snuffle from the other occupants of the café, it was quiet enough, and when George had managed to put the pain in his arms out of his mind, he managed to drift off, waking occasionally when someone made a noise outside the cubicle.