A Royal Mess (10 page)

I was feeling the adrenaline begin to course through my veins as the calls for Simon Tyler to come to registration became increasingly threatening.

‘No, I think we should hug,’ Portia insisted. And so we did.

Of course, my mother and Sister Regina had also heard our names called and were waiting for me at piste 7 with a banner they’d cobbled together out of a stolen tablecloth. They were clutching it with the pride of two women who’ve just knitted a quilt.

It read – and this causes me some agony to relay – ‘Go Boojie! Go!’ The words were written in jam.

And then out of the blue I wished Bob were there. He’d know just what to say – even if it was one of his stupid gridiron football chants from his college years. Also, Bob actually did know quite a bit about fencing, whereas Sarah’s support was purely emotional.

The other girls assembled at my piste began to giggle as I approached and Sarah and Sister Regina began to chant, ‘Go Boojie! Go!’ Unfortunately I don’t think anyone was in any doubt as to who Boojie was.

Bell End strode over to our piste in a very authoritative manner with a referee’s clipboard. As he was to preside over our bouts, he didn’t make eye contact with me.

He had an officious air about him as he said, ‘Right, first up, Kelly and Rogers-Staughten-Bowhip. And ladies,’ he
added, looking over at Sister and Sarah sternly, ‘I think we can dispense with the banner for the pools.’

‘Boooooh!’ Sister and Sarah called out. ‘Spoilsport!’

It was conflicting on so many levels. Part of me was relieved and the other part felt sorry for the sweet effort Sister and Sarah had put into their banner, even if it was a banner of shame. Also, I just knew that if Bob were here he would have stuck up for their right to express themselves.

Rogers-Staughten-bloody-Bowhip wasn’t conflicted, though. She was in spasms of laughter as she shook my hand. But then another random girl hooked me up from the back, which made me feel like maybe I wasn’t the total object of ridicule I imagined.

Rogers-Staughten-Bowhip was practically choking on her own mirth during the salute, and I caught a look in Bell End’s eye. It was just a glance, but he seemed to be reminding me of what I was there for. If Rogers-Staughten-Bowhip thought she could intimidate me over a banner crafted of jam by a four foot nun and a regressing runaway mother, she was about to discover that she was very much mistaken.

From the moment ‘play’ was called, I could already taste victory. ‘You are Jerzy Pawlowski,’ I told myself. Rogers-Staughten-Bowhip’s ridicule was to cost her dearly, because all my emotions fell away. As I advanced down the piste, I was thinking with my head, moving with my body and, within seconds, slamming her with my blade. I took all five points and the game was mine.

It had been a ridiculously easy victory, but I wasn’t kidding myself that the day was mine. We hadn’t even started the direct elimination, which was where things would get ugly.

But Sarah and Sister were thrilled and tried to pick me up and carry me on their shoulders, a manoeuvre that all went horribly wrong as I became entangled in my own body wire.

‘Git off the bloody piste, yer idiots!’ Bell End yelled, and they dropped me on their banner, leaving me smeared in jam.

Over at the tea table, I bumped into Billy.

‘Bit of a bloody one, I see?’ he teased, pointing at the jam on my
lame.

‘Oh yaah, killer of a match.’ I shrugged, in faux boast.

‘But you triumphed?’

‘You should see my opponent.’

‘You pulped her?’

‘And then some.’

Billy laughed, but our lovely banter was halted by Rogers-Staughten-Bowhip, who clearly hadn’t been humbled enough en piste because she sidled up and said, ‘Good game,
Boojie.’
The derisive emphasis she put on the word ‘Boojie’ made me want to kick her.

‘Boojie?’ Billy repeated, looking understandably confused.

‘Don’t ask,’ I replied. ‘All you need to know is that it involves a nun, a regressing mother and my opponent here,
a wannabe that isn’t.’ Then I stormed off because I could see Sarah and Sister Regina coming towards me.

Back in the changing rooms, I checked my mobile, still vainly hoping that Freddie might ultimately forgive me for chucking him two dates running. I didn’t really think he would, but I needed a sign from God at this point that all was not lost. And there it was.

Soz about being a dick. Thinking of you, missing you. Call me when you’re done rinsing them all, Freds xxx

EIGHT
She Who Would Valiant Be

It turned out that Bell End wasn’t exaggerating about the intimidation and cheap-trick tactics of tournaments. I had made it through four gruelling rounds of direct elimination, and now I was at the finals.

Yes, the finals. Now it was just down to me and Jenny Frogmorten. Freddie’s txt had given me all the confidence I needed to play my best. Also, Bell End’s pep talk
had
actually helped me keep my focus as my opponent’s fan club did everything they could to humiliate and undermine me. As I was being wired up they were already calling me an ‘F – g sad case.’ It was lucky Bob wasn’t here. He’d go ballistic if he heard that sort of language yelled at his daughter.

‘Jenny’s going to kill you, Kelly!’ my opponent’s boyfriend yelled while the rest of her fan club hissed.

‘Whatever!’ I yelled back as if I were bored rather than terrified.

I wasn’t fazed. All their taunts couldn’t demoralise me, because apart from getting used to the abuse, I now knew that Freds loved me. Well, he’d sent me a txt that was loving. Also, four years of being Honey’s torture toy had immunised me to ugly taunts and filthy abuse.

In each bout, I was down my end with Sarah and Sister Regina. And while they may have embarrassed me in the pools with their jam-smeared banner, now I saw no difference in their madness and that of the hordes of filthy-mouthed barbarians up the other end of the piste, cheering on my opponents and abusing me.

In fact I had become rather proud of my posse. Portia had been knocked out in semi-finals, which still meant she’d placed highly. But while she had been fencing, Sister and Sarah had valiantly run from piste to piste to support each of us through our matches. Now their attention was firmly fixed on moi, as was Bell End’s, whose presidential duties were done for the day. Portia was over at another end of the hall cheering on Billy as she should, given she was his girlfriend. But still, I missed her, because as this was the last game for the girls that day, my opponent now had practically every other person in the hall backing her. My backup was very thin, but then they say it’s quality not quantity that counts.

‘GFTB, Kelly,’ Bell End whispered in my ear as he wired me up. ‘I’m right here behind you, and I have to warn you, I plan on making a lot of noise.’

‘Okay,’ I replied, figuring he meant cheering.

‘Some of what I may yell admittedly isn’t fit for poor Sister Regina’s ears, but this is war. I intend to throw back the abuse those ratbags are hurling at you, only ten times over and then some. Git it?’

Okay, now I was nervous. ‘I’m not sure I understand, Mr Wellend?’

‘You don’t need to understand, girl. Close your ears to what I yell at them. Your job is to slice that little piece of meat up the other end of the piste to ribbons. So ignore me, it’s not for your benefit but for those scum suckers up there,’ he said, indicating the opposing fan club, some of whom were giving me the finger and others who were pep-talking Jenny.

‘Okay,’ I told him. ‘So you’re going to give as good as we get in terms of abuse?’

‘I’m going to give a damn sight better. They’re baying for your blood, Kelly, and there are near to a hundred of them. I’m going to bay for Jenny’s blood.’ Then he pushed me onto the piste.

As I shook my opponent’s hand, she leaned in and said, ‘Like the banner, Kelly,’ only not in a totally unfriendly way.

I probably should explain that said banner
had
deteriorated somewhat during its arduous day. The words now read ‘Oo Booo Oo.’ But Sarah and Sister weren’t giving up on it. They clutched both ends of it, jumping up and down with endless energy.

Thanks,’ I said to my opponent. ‘So do I; they made it with jam.’

‘Jam?’ she asked, looking at me as if I were demented.

‘It looked better earlier in the day,’ I told her, more than happy for her to underestimate me.

The niceties ended there, though. From the moment ‘Play’ was called, I heard Bell End yelling the abuse he had hinted at earlier. But all the warnings in the world could never have prepared me for, ‘Gut the little slag! Gut her like a fish!’

It was hard to ignore, especially with Sarah and Sister singing along to Bell End’s chants, converting them all to the tune of ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’: ‘Gut Her! Gut Her! Gut Her Like a Fish!’ one of my favourite hymns as it happens – well, at least it was.

But I couldn’t focus on Bell End or Sister and Sarah’s ‘hymn.’ Jenny was my target. I’d watched her win one of her earlier bouts and I knew she had a penchant for cuts to the wrist and a weakness when it came to defending her mask. It’s not unusual for someone with a strength for making cuts to the hand to have a weakness at defending their mask, because their sword arm hangs slightly lower, ready to make their favourite cut.

I therefore resolved to begin my attack in
quinte.
A successful manoeuvre – I won the point – but I knew I couldn’t repeat my advantage too frequently or she’d be on to me.

All the while, Bell End was yelling behind me, ‘Slice
off her ugly head, Kelly, and feed it to the dogs behind her!’

Even the sad cases standing behind my opponent looked shocked by the vitriol of Bell End’s verbal abuse, or maybe it was just shock at hearing a sacred hymn profaned by a nun and a reverting mother.

My opponent’s fan club’s cries of ‘Go for her, Jenny!’ and ‘Go for the kill!’ seemed outclassed somehow by Bell End yelling, ‘Rip the rodent’s throat open and spit down the little weasel’s mouth, Kelly.’

After my second point, Jenny’s fans upped their ante, adding a few lame profanities of their own, which sadly lacked any of the originality or imaginative forensic detail of Bell End’s.

The first three hits had been mine, but I knew I’d have to diversify my approach if I was to maintain my lead, because Jenny now knew what I knew. Sure enough, she scored the next hit on my mask after perfectly riposting my attack to
quinte.

She was fast and she was smart. That’s why she’d made it to the finals.

Somewhere in the background I could hear Bell End up his ante in a vitriolic personal attack on the remainder of Jenny’s fan club. Detailing what he was going to do to them after the competition and mentioning he had ways of finding out where they lived and finding their loved ones, whom he planned to mete out similar vengeful bloody justice to.

‘And mete out vengeful justice,’ sang Sister and Sarah sweetly to the tune of a hymn I would never be able to sing with the same sense of piety again.

The stream of abuse carried me through to match point fourteen, which meant everything hinged on the final point. Bell End fell silent, although Sister and Sarah valiantly kept up their Pilgrim’s Progress of Filth, undeterred by the yellow card the president had threatened them with earlier.

And then suddenly, out of the silence – because Jenny’s fan club was now for the most part engaged in studying their shoes – Bell End yelled, ‘Jerzy Pawlowski! Eight ways of moving forward! How many have you got, Kelly? You big girl’s blouse! Daisy-chain fairy! Girlie wimp!’ he taunted me.

It was as if with that taunt, time stopped just for a millionth of a second, time enough for the talent of Jerzy Pawlowski to well up within me and carry me forward into a flawless advance which was
almost
too late into Jenny’s counterattack. It was in that
almost,
though, that everything happened.

Suspended in that moment, my mind stopped. The world off the piste ceased to exist. I pivoted my body and blade a fraction of a centimetre from Jenny’s counter attack with the elegance of a dancer. Her blade missed me so narrowly, I could hear it
whoosh
past my ear.