Sanctuary Read Online Free PDF Page B

ease.
    I’d said, ‘Jesus, that is one fucking great pill.’
    He’d smiled, said, ‘Read John Straley, see how long it lasts.’
    Who? I didn’t care.
    Then Stewart did an odd thing. OK, everything the guy did was odd, but he came to where I was stretched out on the sofa and presented me with a long leather case.
    I asked, not caring, ‘And this is?’
    He gestured for me to open it.
    Inside were seven beautiful knives, exquisitely made, like the Gurkhas use.
    I gazed at them in total admiration, whistled, ‘Wow.’
    He gave that enigmatic smile, like
wow
was asmuch as he could expect from me, explained, ‘Kabuki knives. You’ll notice there are seven, for each stage of my life.’
    The Xanax had kicked in big time and I could listen to whatever Zen bullshit he wanted to pedal. I muttered, ‘And which number are you on now?’
    He lifted one out gently, with more care than if it was a baby. ‘The sixth, I term it . . . I’ll explain when you are a little further along the road to enlightenment.’
    I was cool, or indeed
chill
enough to ask, ‘So, these knives, they tell you what?’
    He leaned right into my face, said in a stone tone, ‘What do they tell you, Jack?’
    Even with the pill, I was ready to rumble,
You know, they tell me fuck all. And mainly they tell me, you need to get out more
.
    I said, ‘They’re impressive. What are they meant to be – the Seven Samurai?’
    He stared at them. ‘They are for the seven levels of evil. Each one removes another layer of the ills that bedevil our world.’
    I should have paid more attention to what he was telling me, and later I’d learn exactly what the levels of evil were, but then they were just knives – impressive but, you know, just fucking blades. I’d seen enough of them and was tempted to say,
A Stanley knife is just as useful
. But the Xanax whispered,
Who cares?
    He stood back, considered me, then said, ‘Stand up.’
    Was he kidding? I’d eat him for breakfast. But what the hell, he wanted to take a shot at me. I was up for it. He moved right into me, his arms hanging by his sides, palms outwards in the classic show of non aggression, said, ‘Hit me.’
    I laughed. Long time since I’d had cause and I don’t suppose the medication hindered my mood either. I scoffed, ‘You’re fucking kidding.’
    He didn’t move, his face set in a serious mode. ‘I mean it, Jack. Hit me with all you’ve got.’
    I shook my head. ‘Stewart, I like you. You piss me off with all the Zen bollocks. But hit you? I don’t think so.’
    He never moved, said, ‘You’ve got a limp, a hearing aid, and a dead child to your credit.’
    I swung with all my might and . . . where’d he go? I hit air.
    He was standing to my right, smiled, asked, ‘That your best, Jack? Losing your sight too?’
    I lashed out with me foot and missed again. Where was he getting this speed from? For five more minutes, I tried in vain. Zip, nada, couldn’t touch him.
    He said, ‘With Zen and a few other Eastern disciplines, I’ve learned how to be at one.’
    I was breathing hard and seriously pissed. ‘Yeah, did you learn how to hit, though?’
    And I was flat on my back, a throbbing in my throat where he’d taken me with the side of his left hand.
    Guess that answered that.
    When I got my wind back, I said, ‘You’re good. What’s your point?’
    He did a flexing routine, said, ‘As well as Zen, I can teach you some moves that will make you less vulnerable.’
    I said I’d think about it. When I was leaving, he was standing at the door. I said, ‘Oh shit, forgot me jacket.’ He turned and I rabbit-punched him. As he went down hard I said, ‘It ain’t Zen but it sure is effective.’
    I’d swear, though he had to be hurting, he was