Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

Karen sat back. “I thought he’d really hurt himself, with that big bang.”

“No, they’re trained to do it. You slap the floor really hard to dissipate the force of the fall and stop it from rattling your bones too much,” replied Hastings absently. He noticed that Karen’s eyes had flicked back to the burly instructor, whose white cotton gi had come partly open, revealing a rather well-developed torso.

Hastings cleared his throat and opened the car door. “Let’s see what Sensei Gibson has to say about Mr Spencer.” He noticed that Karen positively sprang out of the car.

After formally introducing themselves, the two officers quickly got down to business.

“Mr Gibson,” started Hastings, “we’re making some routine enquiries about a member of this club, a Mr Tom Spencer?”

“Oh, yeah, I know Tom. What do you want to know?” The karate teacher was busy filling a large canvas holdall with padded mitts and shin-pads. His cotton gi had opened even more and Hastings noticed that Karen seemed to be studiously ignoring anything below the man’s hairline.

“How long have you known him for?” asked Karen, her tone crisp and businesslike.

Gibson paused to stroke his chin, “I guess it must be about four years now. He came to us as a new postgraduate student. He already had a first-dan black-belt in karate from his previous university and was also close to gaining his black belt in jiu-jitsu.”

“How well would you say that you knew him, Mr Gibson?”

Gibson waggled his hand in a so-so gesture. “I spoke to him a bit, but I can’t say that I knew him terribly well. As you may know, although I run the university club, I’m no longer a student at the university. I did a degree in sport science followed by teacher training at UME. I took over running the club in my second year. When I finished uni I got a job in a local secondary school and so kept running the club. I merged it with a local non-university club that was struggling for numbers, which is why I’m now involved with the local school kids.

“The club has a big social event once a term, which I go to, but other than that I don’t tend to go out too much with the students.” He smiled ruefully. “I’m a little long in the tooth for pound-a-pint night down the Students’ Union. And I doubt either my wife or my head teacher would be too thrilled if I went out boozing to the early hours on a week night.”

Hastings found himself feeling strangely pleased that the man had mentioned his wife; he noticed that Hardwick’s smile was slightly less bright.

“What sort of a person would you say that Mr Spencer was, Mr Gibson?”

The teacher frowned slightly.

“He was a very good martial artist, that was for sure, and a pretty good instructor as well. The club has four black belts at the moment and I encourage all of them to teach parts of the lesson. Tom would also take extra, advanced sessions on a Saturday morning where he’d teach us new stuff. Shotokan-style karate is a great martial art, but its repertoire of techniques can be a little limited — it’s mostly punches, kicks and blocks. Tom used to teach us some different skills that he learnt from his jiu-jitsu, such as arm-locks, grappling techniques, basic throws, weapons work, that sort of thing. I learned a lot from him.”

The two young police officers shared a look.

“What sort of weapons work do you mean, Mr Gibson?” asked Hastings, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, nothing too exciting!” the instructor said hastily. “We didn’t use live blades and we’d never let the kids have a go.” He’d clearly misinterpreted the officer’s interest. “Tom had a collection of plastic training knives that he used to teach us with. He had proper blades of course, but he wasn’t comfortable using those outside his jiu-jitsu lessons. You know, health and safety and insurance and that.”

Hastings nodded understandingly. “Don’t worry, we’re not here about what practice toys you keep in your kit bag. On a different note, I can’t help but notice that this entire conversation has been in the past tense, Mr Gibson. Is Mr Spencer no longer a member of the club?”

Gibson hesitated, looking uncomfortable. “I haven’t seen him for about six months.”

“Why is that?” asked Hastings.

The teacher sighed. “He left after a couple of unpleasant incidents.”

Hastings raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Gibson had clearly decided that there was no point holding back any information and leaned back against the trolley of crash mats.

“He was becoming a bit too aggressive. I had to warn him about his control, or rather lack of it, several times and a few students complained that he was going in too hard during sparring sessions. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when he nearly put another black belt in hospital after losing his temper in a routine match.”

Hardwick spoke up. “I’m not sure what you mean by control. Do you mean like his temper?”

“Sort of. I had concerns about his temper, but when I said control I meant pulling his punches. Our style of karate is semi-contact — you aren’t supposed to hurt your opponent. Here, let me show you. Put your hand up.” He took Karen’s hand, placing it vertically so that the fingers pointed upwards, her thumb just in front of her nose. “Don’t move,” he instructed.

Suddenly, with no warning his right foot whipped upwards in a roundhouse kick. His leg moved so fast all that Karen saw was a blur of white cotton. Yet the touch of his foot on the palm of her hand was as soft as a caress. Barely had the echo of his cry reached her ears than his foot was back on the floor, but it wasn’t over yet; his foot snapped out again, this time his hips rotated in the opposite direction and it was the sole of his foot that tapped the back of her hand.

Karen’s breath caught in her throat.

“That’s what we mean by semi-contact and control. Clearly, if I had wanted to I could have hit your hand — or your head — hard enough to do some real damage. But instead I pulled the kick. In semi-contact, a point is awarded for the technique, not the damage you inflict on your opponent.”

“Thank you for the demonstration,” Karen managed. “So you wouldn’t normally hit each other when training?” she asked.

“I’m not saying that we don’t make contact with each other. After a good session, you usually have a few small bruises and tender spots, just like you would after a good aggressive game of football or rugby, but it’s nothing a hot shower wouldn’t normally put right. And of course accidents happen. But Tom was regularly leaving his sparring partners with bruised ribs and even the odd black eye.

“It was starting to piss people off. You see, it’s not just the fact that a punch in the ribs hurts, it’s the lack of respect. Martial arts are about etiquette and respect as much as fighting. It’s why we bow to each other before we start and when we finish. There are strict rules about how to enter a dojo and how to conduct yourself when you are in there.

“I teach kids PE all day and I find it really offensive when they spit on the floor because they’ve seen some dirty Premiership footballer do it. They think it’s normal or even necessary. Yet when I teach karate we’ll exercise for two hours flat out, the sweat will be pouring off us, but no one will ever even think about spitting on the floor. And if they did, I’d make them clean it up with a mop and bucket.”

Hastings nodded in understanding.

“Tell us about the incident with the black belt.”

“The kid he was fighting is a bit of a loud-mouth, to be fair to Tom. Going back to the etiquette thing, we are very polite in karate when we are fighting. In boxing and wrestling, opponents will often goad each other. That is frowned upon in martial arts. Well, anyhow, Hitesh is a bit of a cockney smart-arse, to be honest, and he just doesn’t know when to keep his gob shut. I don’t know exactly what happened, since I was sparring myself at the other end of the room, but Hitesh said something or other and before I knew it Tom was on him.