The Sword of Kuromori - Jason Rohan The Kuromori Series

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they know anything.’

      Kiyomi shrugged. ‘They mean well. They just don’t know what else to say.’ She took a slurp of peach shake. ‘They can’t imagine what it’s like to grow up without a mum.’

      ‘You know what the worst thing was for me?’ Kenny looked away, his cheeks pink. ‘It’s kind of silly . . .’

      ‘Come on,’ Kiyomi said. ‘Who am I going to tell?’

      Kenny stared down at his meal. ‘I miss the cuddles and the hugs. You know, with my mum, it didn’t really matter what I did. If I was upset, she would just give me a hug and it was all better. With my dad . . . let’s just say it’s different.’ He popped the last of his burger into his mouth and licked his fingers. ‘How about you? What was the hardest thing . . . growing up?’

      Kiyomi’s smile vanished. ‘It would have been nice to get tips on what to wear and make-up. Stuff like that. My dad isn’t –’

      ‘Hey, at least your dad is there for you, every day. He didn’t dump you like a bag of dog poo first chance he got.’

      Kiyomi reached for Kenny’s hand again. ‘Your father fell apart afterwards. Papa told me. He couldn’t cope. You know that. I think seeing you was too painful for him, reminded him too much of your mum.’

      ‘And that’s an excuse to shut me out, is it?’ Kenny drew his hand back. ‘Anyway, you seem to know a lot about me. How come?’

      Kiyomi dunked her last chicken nugget into a small pot of sour-plum sauce. ‘Our families go way back,’ she said. ‘You didn’t know that, did you? My grandfather and yours were friends. They worked together after the war.’

      ‘They did? Doing what?’

      ‘Sorry, can’t tell you that. You’re leaving, remember?’ Kiyomi wiped her fingers on a paper napkin. ‘We should go.’

      ‘Allow me,’ Kenny said, gathering the empty containers. He wrestled the rubbish into an overflowing bin and stowed the tray. He wasn’t ready to leave just yet. For one thing, he had nowhere to go; Kiyomi’s father was right about that. And he had so many questions. How could his grandfather have kept all this from him? He straightened up, as if adjusting the weight of a burden, and caught Kiyomi staring at him.

      ‘Neodymium alloy magnets,’ Kiyomi said, when he returned to the table.

      ‘Huh?’

      ‘My bike. It’s a prototype. Lithium-ion batteries and super-magnets drive the motor. That’s why it makes no sound. It’s electric. My father borrowed it.’

      ‘Stole it you mean?’ Kenny regretted the words as soon as they left his lips.

      ‘No. Borrowed it. From a business associate.’ Kiyomi stressed each word. ‘Do you really think I’d be riding around on a stolen bike?’

      ‘Well, your dad is, um, a gangster . . .’ The accusation was out of Kenny’s mouth before he could stop himself.

      ‘What?’

      ‘He’s a yakuza, right? Japanese mafia. I saw his missing little finger.’ Inside Kenny’s head, a small voice was screaming at him for messing up what was almost a pleasant meal.

      Kiyomi grabbed her handbag and stood up. ‘Maybe it’s better you’re leaving us, Kuromori. I mean, you obviously know everything already. You don’t need us and we certainly don’t need you.’ She strode towards the door, watched by the old woman in the raincoat.

      Kenny stood up. ‘No. I’m sorry. Look, that’s not what I meant. I, er . . .’

      ‘Get lost!’

      Kenny watched numbly through the window as Kiyomi marched to her bike and swung a leather-clad leg over the seat. As she leaned forward to pull on her helmet, four dark shadows emerged from the gloom of the car park and swarmed at her. One of them swung something at Kiyomi, catching her around the head, and she fell from the bike, her helmet bouncing away over the tarmac.

      

      Kenny was on his feet before he realised what he was doing.

      By the time he was out of the glass doors, his mind had finished arguing with itself. One side was saying to keep out of it, that this was nothing to do with him, that it was dangerous and that he was leaving anyway; the other side said simply that someone was in trouble and he had to do something.

      ‘Hey! What are you doing?’ Kenny shouted. ‘Leave her alone!’ He made his voice as loud and as deep as he could while he fumbled for the whistle.

      ‘Hnh? Nandayo ?’ The four shapes moved back from the fallen girl and Kenny saw a jumble of black jumpsuits and leather jackets with Chinese writing on them, biker boots, long red sashes tied in an X-shape across the chest, headbands – and a baseball bat, a wooden sword, a metal pipe and a length of chain.

      ‘Uh-oh’ Kenny muttered, looking around for anything he could use in defence. Suddenly, this wasn’t such a great idea.

      Two of the bikers moved behind him, cutting off his escape. He glanced into the restaurant, but the diners were oblivious. The lead biker slapped the metal pipe against his open palm and sized up the teenage boy standing before him.

      ‘Ki demo kurutta ka?’ he said, dragging the last word out into a sneer.

      Kenny fought the urge to run. Instead, he pointed at the pipe and broke into maniacal laughter, quick and high-pitched, like a hyena. The biker blinked and took a step back from this foreign lunatic. In that moment, Kenny moved. He threw the whistle hard, aiming at the man’s face, and closed in, grabbing for the pipe before he could swing it.

      ‘Aiee!’ the man shrieked as the whistle hit his eye. His grip loosened and Kenny wrenched the pipe free.

      ‘Duck!’ Kiyomi screamed and Kenny dropped, feeling the rush of air as the baseball bat swept over his head. It smacked into the man who was clutching at his eye and knocked him to the ground. Still crouched, Kenny swung the pipe hard to his left. There was a sharp crack as it connected with a kneecap, another scream, and the biker holding the bat crumpled to the floor. Kenny sprang up and saw the remaining two, one with the chain and the other with the kendo sword, rushing him. Kiyomi dragged herself across the ground towards her bike.

      Kenny twirled the pipe – like a baton – and edged away from the biker with the chain. Thinking quickly, he lowered the weapon, offering his opponent an opening. The man took it and swung the chain. Kenny brought the steel tube up to meet the flail. With a rattling clang, the chain wrapped itself round the pipe and Kenny pulled back sharply with all his strength. Caught off balance, the man stumbled and fell, releasing his grip on the metal links.

      Three down, one to go, Kenny thought, but he was too late. The man with the sword bore down on him, raising both arms high above his head and then bringing them down. Kenny raised an arm to protect himself. There was a snarl, a flash of fur and then more shrieking. The man fell backwards, his hands clawing to fend off Poyo whose sharp little teeth were clamped to his crotch.

      The last biker standing, the one who had been wielding the chain, looked at his companions – one on the ground with cracked ribs, one writhing with a broken kneecap and one with an angry tanuki attached to his privates – and decided it was time to go. He turned on his heel. And stopped.

      The old lady in the raincoat had emerged from McDonald’s and was directly in front of him. She swayed gently and stared at him hungrily. Her eyes were small and beady, glinting red in the street lights, and her long grey hair was waving even though there was little breeze.

      The biker looked from Kenny to the old woman and back. He shrugged and continued marching towards her, an arm raised to shove her aside.

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