The Double Tap

‘A bit. I didn’t sleep much last night.’

Allan looked at his watch, a rugged Russian model that looked as if it had come straight off a Soviet tank commander’s wrist. ‘We could take an hour off. We’ve been pushing it hard today.’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Cramer gratefully. He hated having to show weakness, but this wasn’t a question of fatigue, he was really sick and if he didn’t rest up he knew he’d collapse. He wasn’t sure how much Allan and Martin knew about his medical condition, but one thing he was sure of, he didn’t want their sympathy and he didn’t want them to treat him like an invalid. That was the main reason he’d rejected the offers of treatment made by the doctors in Madrid. Radiation therapy, chemotherapy, operations; they had a host of suggested remedies none of which had more than an outside chance of extending his life by more than a few months. The doctors had admitted as much, and they had made no attempt to dissuade him when he refused treatment. There was no way that Cramer was prepared to die in a hospital bed, no way that he was prepared to see the pity in the eyes of the doctors and nurses as they waited for the cancer to run its course. He wanted to die on his feet with the blood coursing through his veins, and if everything went according to plan he’d be getting his wish within the next few days.

Allan patted him on the back. ‘Let’s take a break, then. Grab some scran, if you like.’

‘Cheers,’ said Cramer, though food was the last thing on his mind.

Martin headed towards the kitchen and Allan followed him. Cramer took off his overcoat and draped it over his arm. ‘I’ll be in my room,’ Cramer called after Allan. He walked slowly up the stairs, taking deep breaths, willing the pain to dissipate.

He took the stairs one at a time, shuffling like an old man, one hand on the banister for balance, the other clutching the coat. When he reached the top, he leant against the wall and closed his eyes. Gradually the waves of pain subsided, though a dull ache remained, like a small block of ice lodged among his intestines. The Spanish doctors had warned him that the pain would get worse as the disease progressed, and that eventually it would become more than he could bear. Cramer opened his eyes. His jaw was aching and he realised he must have been grinding his teeth.

On the way to his room, he walked past the bedroom which had been allocated to Su-ming. Her door was open and as he went by he saw her sitting on her bed. He stopped and knocked quietly. ‘Hello, Mike Cramer,’ she said, without looking up. Cramer wondered if she was trying to impress him, to demonstrate that she could recognise his footfall.

‘Hi. You busy?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Ah. Right.’ He turned to go but she looked up and smiled at him.

‘Come in,’ she said.

Cramer walked into her room and dropped his overcoat over the back of a leather armchair. The room was similar in size and layout to his own, with a small bathroom leading off to the left. He looked out of the window and watched as Martin drove the Mercedes away from the front of the building, presumably to park it around the corner with the rest of the vehicles.

‘More rehearsals?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. Allan sets high standards.’

‘He cares about you. He doesn’t want you to get hurt.’

Cramer turned to look at her. She was sitting cross-legged on the single bed with a leather-bound book and a notepad in front of her. She was holding something. ‘He’s just doing his job,’ said Cramer, trying to see what she had in her hand.

Su-ming shook her head without looking up. ‘You’re mistaken. There’s more to it than that.’ She unclenched her fist and tossed three coins up into the air. They spun slowly and then fell onto the bedcover. She looked at them and then wrote in her notepad.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

Su-ming picked up the three coins and held them tightly in her left hand. ‘Seeking guidance,’ she said. She tossed the coins and made another note.

Cramer sat down in the armchair and leaned forward to watch her, intrigued. She threw the coins in again. Cramer peered at the notepad. She had drawn a series of lines, one above the other, several of them broken in the centre. ‘May I?’ he asked, pointing at the leather-bound volume.

‘Help yourself,’ she said, tossing the coins again.

Cramer picked up the book. The leather was old and the pages yellowing, but it had obviously been well cared for. He opened it. It was Chinese. He flicked through the well-thumbed pages. There were several illustrations, black and white drawings of Chinese figures, birds, animals and landscapes. The book appeared to be divided into chapters, each one headed by a diagram similar to the one Su-ming had drawn on her notepad. Six lines, one above the other, some broken in the middle, others unbroken. Cramer put the book down and looked at the diagram on Su-ming’s notepad. She saw him frowning. ‘It’s a hexagram,’ she said.

‘A hexagram?’

‘It tells you where to look in the I Ching.’

Cramer smiled. ‘Are you being deliberately inscrutable?’ he asked.

Su-ming handed him the three coins. They were covered with Chinese characters and had small holes in the middle. Like the book, they were clearly very old, the impressions almost worn away. ‘The I Ching is the Book of Life Changing. Or the Book of Changes. The Chinese title can be translated several ways. The idea behind it is more than five thousand years old. The copy I have is more than three hundred years old.’

Cramer raised his eyebrows. ‘Three hundred years?’ he repeated.

‘The coins are even older.’

‘How old?’

‘At least eight hundred years.’

Cramer stared at the coins in the palm of his hand. He wondered how many thousands of hands the coins had passed through over the years. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how the world had changed as the coins had passed down through the generations, the metal growing smoother and darker as the humans who made them turned to dust. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever touched anything so old,’ he said.

‘It puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?’ said Su-ming.

‘This I Ching, it works?’

‘It’s not a television set, Mike Cramer. It’s not something you plug in and watch. The I Ching helps you to interpret what’s happening to you. It’s an oracle, and the skill is in the interpretation of the book.’

‘Like Tarot cards?’

‘It’s more detailed than the Tarot. But a similar idea, yes.’

‘Fortune-telling?’

‘No, Mike Cramer, it is not fortune-telling.’ She held out her hands for the coins and he gave them to her.

‘Do you do readings for your boss?’

Su-ming rubbed the coins between her hands as if trying to warm them. ‘Every day,’ she said.

‘He must believe in it, then?’

Su-ming sighed as if deeply disappointed. ‘It’s not a question of belief. You don’t have to believe in an aeroplane for it to carry you through the skies. Yes, Mr Vander Mayer believes in the integrity of the I Ching and in my interpretation of it, but that is irrelevant so far as its veracity is concerned.’

‘So it does work?’

Su-ming’s eyes flashed, then she smiled as she realised he was teasing her. ‘Yes, Mike Cramer, it works. Are you happy now?’

‘Will you do me?’ He held her gaze for several seconds.

She stopped smiling. ‘Is this a test, is that it? You want to test me?’

Cramer shrugged. ‘I thought it might be interesting, that’s all. If you don’t want to. .’

‘It’s not that I don’t want to, but I’m not some sort of guinea pig. I don’t need to have my abilities tested. I consult the I Ching for myself and for Mr Vander Mayer. I don’t do party tricks.’ She held