The Terracotta Horse (eBook)

CHAPTER 6

It happened during her sparring with Theo. She’d had injuries before: a torn ligament, a broken finger. These things happened all the time. You just had to deal with it: Taekwondo was a contact sport. But the annoying thing was, Theo’s Spear Hand Strike was one of his favourites, so it shouldn’t have surprised her. But it had. Totally her own fault; she’d been distracted. Theo had lunged forward, arm outstretched and—wallop!—the Pyong Sohn Keut Chigi had caught her on the cheek bone just below the eye and knocked her flat.

Theo, who was taller and older than her, immediately began apologising, asking over and over if she was alright. It was the first time she had seen Theo look so serious, and it almost made her laugh. “I’m fine,” she said, but her eye was throbbing. Theo slipped the head protector off. Others were gathering around. With Theo’s hand supporting her neck, she raised her head, but a wave of pain forced her to put it back down again. She touched her nose. No blood. At least it’s not broken. Her eye was watering. She wiped it with the back of her hand and heard Lee Arnott tell someone to get the Coolbox. A moment later, she heard the box being opened and Lee’s face appeared above her. Silently, he handed her an ice pack. Grimacing, Salma slowly sat up and put the ice on her eye. It felt like her eyeball was on fire!

“Are you okay to stand up?” Lee asked. Salma took a deep breath and slowly got to her feet. Both Theo and Lee were watching her carefully. Around her, the crowd had thinned. She guessed they thought her injury wasn’t that interesting.

“Do you feel sick?” Lee asked.

Salma didn’t.

“How about dizzy?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Theo raised his hand. “How many fingers?” he asked.

“Twelve.” Salma replied and grinned.

“Seriously,” Lee said.

“Four,” Salma said. “I’m fine, honestly.”

“Come on. Let’s go and have a seat,” Lee said.

Even though her head was much clearer and the ice was numbing her face, Salma didn’t argue. The fact was the class was almost over. She may as well sit down and think about what she was going to say to her mother. She sighed. Her mother had never been very keen on Taekwondo. Not that she ever said Salma shouldn’t do it, but Salma could tell. The last injury—the torn ligament—had prompted her mother to ask whether there wasn’t another activity she could try instead. But Salma wasn’t interested in stamp collecting or pony trekking. She loved Taekwondo, even if it meant getting injured once in a while.

Lee and Theo guided Salma to the only chair in the dojang and told her to sit. “Can’t believe I didn’t block you,” she said to Theo.

“I’m lightning fast, man! No way you can block me!”

“Don’t make me laugh!” Salma grimaced, and Theo chuckled. He knew it was quite a fluke he’d managed to make contact with Salma’s body at all! She was normally so fast and light on her feet.

“Let me see,” Lee said.

Salma took the ice away and showed him the eye, which felt hot and swollen. Lee drew in a breath. “It’s going to look worse before it looks better.”

“You’ve got a Theo souvenir!” cried Theo.

Salma snorted. It made her head throb. She winced and replaced the ice pack.

“Shouldn’t we get the girl to the hospital?” Theo asked. “A Theo Spear Hand Strike is leeeethal!”

Salma punched Theo’s arm lightly.

“Okay, Okay. The girl still got strength. She is fine,” Theo said, rubbing his arm.

“Are you going to be OK getting home?” asked Lee.

“I’m actually supposed to meet my mum for lunch. I’ll be fine, honestly.”

Lee glanced at the clock. “Stay till the end of class, please. I need to make sure you’re going to be OK.”

“Sure,” Salma replied and for the next twenty minutes, she sat in the chair as the class finished and the students gathered around her, forming a tight huddle. Salma batted away their worries. She was fine, she told them and when the last one had filed out of the dojang, Theo left too, winking and smiling at her. When he was gone, Lee asked Salma to stand on one leg—to see how her balance was. He also checked her pupils and whether she was experiencing any blurred vision. When all of that was done, Lee’s pinched face relaxed and he said, “Doesn’t seem like you have any concussion, but you have to promise me that you’ll see a doctor the moment you feel dizzy or—”

“—I will,” Salma said. “I promise.”

“Where are you meeting your mum?” Lee asked.

“The British Museum. She’s at work today.”

*

The sun blazed down as she walked along Aldersgate Street, the sky cloudless except for some high, wispy-white cirrus clouds. According to her mother, “cirro” meant “curl of hair”. It made sense. Way above everything else, these clouds looked just like strands from an old man’s beard. Salma knew they were made of ice crystals which meant the weather would change soon. But for now, it was fine, in fact, better than fine.

The nearest tube station to the dojang was Farringdon or Barbican, but she walked towards St Paul’s and the Central line, which would take her to Holborn. From there, it was a short walk to the museum. Salma had decided to go to St Paul’s—she needed some air. She was at the end of Aldersgate Street in a few minutes and entered St Martin’s-le-Grand. In front of her, the sleek, pale dome of St Paul’s rose above the boring, modern buildings around it. Huge and outlandish amongst these rectangular boxes, it hovered like an alien space-ship—not a saucer, but a giant, upside-down cup. I have come from the Planet Wren to give you great architecture! Salma smiled.

On the concourse, there was the usual scrum: at the back of the platform, people flowed towards the exit; at the front, they stood lumped together, eyes forward, waiting.

In the thick of the crowd, Salma had her backpack on but clutched the plastic bag with her zori sandals so they wouldn’t get bent and squished in with everything else. She glanced at the announcements to see when the next train was due—still a 6-minute wait…

As she stood, plastic bag dangling at her side, shoulder-to-shoulder with the others who were waiting with bored expressions on their faces, she idly wondered which cake she’d have at the London Review of Books’ Cake Shop. Lemon drizzle? Victoria sponge? Banana and walnut? She chuckled to herself. Who was she kidding? Every time she went there, she ended up choosing the same thing. Chocolate gateaux, all the way! And she was picturing her fork slowly pressing its way into the gateaux’s dark, rich moistness when someone behind her barked: “Mind where you’re going!”

She twisted around to see a tall man staring down his nose at a woman who was trying to manoeuvre a huge suitcase nearer the front of the platform and out of the way of the people trying to get past her. “Ridiculous!” the man spluttered.

The woman, looking flustered and hot, began apologising—Why? Salma thought. If anyone should be sorry, it should be him for being so rude. The woman squeezed the suitcase as close to her body as she could, but still, the man wasn’t happy. Shaking his head, he pushed away from her but there was really nowhere to go and like dominos being toppled, the person he bumped shoulders with bumped the next person and the next…

Her whole body shunted forward, Salma bent at the waist and threw her arms back to counteract the force driving her forward. She wobbled…and regained her centre of gravity just centimetres from disaster. But not before the bag slipped from her fingers and disappeared from view onto the track below.

“Idiot!” someone cried, meaning the tall man, Salma presumed. She couldn’t have agreed more! Feet planted, she leaned over and looked down. Between the two shiny rails, lying on a filthy wooden sleeper, the plastic bag was open, the pale toe of one of her beautiful zori sandals peeking out. She turned and stared daggers at him, her emotions in turmoil, rising anger along with a deep sadness. Nose in the air, he was pretending that nothing had happened. She lifted her eyes to the announcements.

NEXT TRAIN: 3 minutes.

She could jump down and get them. No, that would be really stupid. But look at her beautiful sandals! Three minutes. There was time. It would take her seconds to drop, grab the bag and be up on the platform.

“There is time,” a whispered voice said. “Get them.”

Salma look to her left and right. Disinterested expressions and slack faces met her startled gaze.

“Slip onto the tracks. Won’t take a minute. Get them,” the voice, now louder, repeated.

Salma reeled. The voice was in her head! As she struggled to absorb this fact, the feeling that a weight was pressing down on her, squeezing her brain, making her thoughts fuzzy, her eyes unfocused, grew and grew. She shook her head. Through the haze, the announcements changed.

NEXT TRAIN: 2 minutes.

“You will never find zori...