Turner. Jonathan De Montfort

      The door opened. ‘Boys?’ Dad peered around the corner as if he’d just caught them with a couple of girls or having a party. He seemed disappointed when he realised they were just talking. ‘What are you doing out of bed?’

      ‘Sorry, Dad, couldn’t sleep,’ James replied. ‘It’s been a difficult couple of days. A difficult couple of months, actually.’

      Dad’s expression changed. He looked down at the floor. ‘Oh, boys. Come here.’ He opened his arms, and the boys came into his embrace. ‘You mustn’t blame your mum. She’d be here if she could.’

      Would she? Then, where was she? And why wasn’t she here now?

      Hero hung on a little longer than James, trying to choke back the snooker ball of sadness in his throat. But it was no good. He couldn’t bottle up his tears for Mum any longer. As he let the floodgates open, he felt James reach over his head and put a hand on Dad’s shoulder in the way that male family members do when one of the pride is hurt.

      And they all pulled together.

      ‘Hey, bruv. Are you ready?’

      Hero nodded nervously. ‘I think so.’

      ‘Excited?’

      He nodded again.

      James set a brisk pace to the gym. They’d been walking about ten minutes when James stopped cold. ‘Hold up, bruv.’

      Hero frowned.

      ‘Don’t panic, but we’re being followed.’

      Those guys are never going to leave us alone. Hero’s stomach tightened into the knot, spraying acid into his throat.

      ‘Don’t worry, bruv, it’s just your girlfriend, Fi.’ He slapped Hero’s shoulder. ‘Very slowly, look out of the corner of your eye. Don’t make it obvious.’

      Hero did as he was commanded and carefully studied the scenery behind them without moving his head. James pretended to straighten Hero’s clothes to make their situation appear more natural.

      ‘You see? Over there, right by the hedge on that corner.’ James nodded imperceptibly.

      There she was, doing a good job of hiding but not good enough. He could clearly see her peering out every so often.

      ‘Good to know that someone loves you, eh, bruv?’

      Hero grinned, trying desperately not to burst into nervous laughter.

      ‘We’re gonna have to do something about this. Here, hold my hand.’ James hurried around the next corner into an alleyway, Hero in tow. ‘Follow me.’

      They finished the fifteen-minute journey to the gym in eerie silence. It seemed as if everything had died yet somehow was still alive. Must be more nervous than I thought.

      James let go of Hero’s hand outside the door to the gym and looked up and down the street. ‘Good. We lost her.’ He ducked inside.

      Hero followed him into a large martial arts hall with mats surrounded by a wooden walkway. In the centre of the mat stood a tall African American man with white hair and a greying beard. Nobody else was in the gym.

      James slipped off his shoes. Hero followed suit.

      ‘This is the master,’ James said, tugging Hero onto the mat.

      Hero was finding it hard to breathe, his whole body yearning to bounce in time to his heartbeat. Everything around him glowed with perfect clarity like polished crystal. His grin was insuppressible.

      ‘Hello, James,’ the master replied.

      Hero grinned. ‘The master—what, like on Doctor Who? Isn’t he, you know, really evil?’

      James gave him a little shove. ‘Don’t be cheeky, bruv.’

      The master waved James away. ‘It’s okay.’ He turned to Hero with a smile as slow and warm as the tones of his accent from the American Deep South. ‘That’s very quick, son, and I’m glad you asked. You should always ask about someone’s intentions, especially if they’re going to be your teacher. There definitely are masters out there who are like the guy in Doctor Who, but I’m not one of them. You can think of me as the Light Master.’

      ‘The Light Master?’

      ‘Well, I used to be called a Master of the Light, but it’s too . . .’

      ‘Poncey?’ Hero sniggered.

      ‘Oi, bruv, cut it out,’ James snapped.

      ‘James, it’s all right. It’s understandable that your brother’s a little nervous. I was going to say too flamboyant or grandiose, but poncey will do.’ He squinted at Hero. ‘I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.’

      ‘Sorry,’ said James. ‘This is Hero, my brother I told you about.’

      ‘Ah, Hero.’

      The stupid nickname was a punch in the stomach. He’d been excited all day, only to be greeted like this. ‘I’m not a hero.’

      ‘I’ve been waiting a while to meet you,’ said the master. ‘James tells me you stood up to four big kids beating on you. Sounds heroic to me—although looking at you, perhaps “stupid” might be a better word?’

      Hero startled. ‘Eh?’

      ‘Don’t worry, son. We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again, okay?’

      ‘Er, okay.’ He looked the master up and down: scruffy black T-shirt, faded blue sweatpants. He was just . . . some guy. ‘So what makes you a master?’

      ‘I’m old.’

      Was this guy for real? He glanced at James.

      ‘Some people think I’m also quite good. But it’s mostly that I’m old.’

      ‘He’s the best martial artist I’ve ever seen,’ James added.

      Hero shrugged and looked around the empty room. ‘So where is everybody?’

      ‘Interesting,’ the master responded. ‘Very few people notice that. Actually, the others are meditating.’ He pointed towards the closed door on the left. ‘I imagine all of this is quite scary.’

      Hero smiled sheepishly. ‘A bit.’

      ‘I understand, son. I remember my first day in a training school like this. Didn’t know what to expect, worried I might get hurt, didn’t know what I was doing. Sound familiar?’

      He nodded.

      ‘Well, let’s start off with something that you are good at. Tell me, do you and James play any games with each other? Anything physical and fun? Do you boys wrestle around in front of the sofa?’

      Hero and James exchanged a smile.

      Hero took a step back. ‘No, no, it’s embarrassing.’

      ‘There’re no silly games here,’ the master said reassuringly.

      He took a deep breath. ‘Well, James and I play a game called Touch My Chin that—oh, it’s too embarrassing.’

      James pointed theatrically at Hero and laughed. ‘It’s a great game. You’re just embarrassed ’cos you never win.’

      The Light Master smiled. ‘And what does Touch My Chin involve?’

      ‘Simple, really,’ Hero said. ‘You just have to touch the other player’s chin to score a point. Naturally, you also need to defend yourself against being touched.’

      ‘And don’t forget the fly-by,’ James said.

      ‘The fly-by?’ the master asked.

      ‘You can deliberately not touch the other player’s chin when you have a clear shot and instead do a fly-by. Then you score