Scan McMullen - Pacing the Nightmare

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Pacing the Nightmare

by Sean McMullen

other rights are reserved. Thank you for honoring the copyright.

Published by Seattle Book Company, www.seattlebook.com.

* * *

Training has become a nightmare, yet I must face it again tonight. I am Melissa's sensei, so I must

remain good enough to keep her loyalty. I must spar with her again.

I have never liked training. This may sound odd, coming from a black belt in Shotokan karate, but I

have only persisted with it because it is good for me. I had been lazy: karate taught me self-discipline. I

had been a bit on the heavy side, and inclined to be short of breath: karate melted the fat away and

increased my aerobic capacity. I had been afraid to go out after dark: karate gave me the confidence not

to fear London at night-- and the sense to avoid fights.

We train in a large gym in the University of London's new sports centre, but wherever we train defines

the dojo. Melissa is already there as I enter, along with some of the beginners who are starting tonight.

The beginners mill about nervously, glancing at the spectre that is Melissa and trying to work out how to

tie their white belts. At the sight of my black belt they come over, even before I have bowed my re at the

dojo threshold. They have the usual questions.

"Excuse me sensei-- "

I smile, but cut him short. "I'm not the club sensei, I'm only a black belt."

"Er, can you recommend a book on karate?"

"Akira Suzuki, Shotokan Karate Explained. The club can rent you the CD or hard copy for 50p."

"Where can I buy a uniform?" asks a girl.

"Give me your name and size, I'm putting in a bulk order for the club next week. We get a 30%

discount."

"But I want one for the next lesson. Do they sell them in Harrods?"

Melissa sees me, smiles, and gives an almost imperceptible nod. I return the gesture, and she continues

doing chin-ups on the bars. It is obvious why the new students are unsettled by her: face all sunken

hollows and shadows, skeletal hands and feet. Her gi is a size too large, helping to hide her thin arms and

legs, and she is generally self-effacing about her appearance. All the classic signs of anorexia nervosa, yet

that is not Melissa's problem. I am still senior to her, and she is obliged to obey me within the dojo, but I

cannot slow her progress. I can only try to stay ahead, yet I am not too proud to use delaying tactics.

"Melissa, could you show these beginners how to tie their belts, please?" I call. She stops her chin-ups

and comes over. Her brown belt is tied with a perfect knot around a disturbingly thin waist. The two ends

reach almost to her knees.

Other karatekas arrive. There is a sprinkling of black belts and the club sensei himself.

"All right, good lines please," calls our Japanese sensei in his Yorkshire accent, and six dozen

karatekas line up in rows by belt colour. The black belts are at the front, facing the rest of the class.

We start with warm-up and stretching exercises: jumping on the spot, head-rolls, arm stretches, leg

stretches, twisting, and bending. I am still stiff from my afternoon training, in fact I am constantly in pain

from pushing myself too hard. There can be no rest for me, however, not while Melissa is my student.

I did not pay her much attention at first, but then there was nothing remarkable about her three years

ago. It was the start of the academic year, and she was one of twenty beginners, just like these here

tonight. Our beginners are usually first year students from the University, some anxious about keeping fit

while studying, others anxious about being mugged at night.

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