The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (27 page)

 Arran gore was dining at his club one
evening when a voice boomed from the far end of the long centre table: ‘Gore!’
To shout from one end of the table to the other was considered bad form,
especially offensive when the member was obviously the worse for drink. Arran
did not respond. George Drummond, or Bulldog as he was known, was a habitual
trouble-maker, stubborn and irascible. Being ignored only made Bulldog more
aggressive. ‘I’m talking to you, Gore!’

What concentrated the
attention of everyone in the room, and charged the atmosphere with nervous
expectation, was the well-known grudge Bulldog bore Arran: a close friend and
business associate of his had recently been refused membership of the Club, and
Drummond had somehow convinced himself that Arran, a member of the committee,
had played a leading role in that decision. The dining room was suddenly eerily
hushed, the sound of traffic outside on Piccadilly filtered through the
windows, a police siren wailed in the distance.

Bulldog began to growl
belligerently, resisting the vain attempts of his friends to shut him up; the
more they tried to restrain him, the more angry and spiteful he became.
‘Woshwrong with my friend, then? Woshwrong with him, Gore?’ What was wrong with
Bulldog’s friend, as everyone in the club knew, was that he had dipped his hand
into his company’s pension fund, causing widespread hardship to his employees
and their families. For that offence he had served a term in jail, a detail he
had omitted to mention on his application form. The committee was constrained
by Club Rules, and the vote to refuse the man membership had been unanimous.

‘How’s that lovely wife of
yours?’ Bulldog bounced on his chair, cackling. It was well known that Arran
Gore’s wife, Morgan, was no beauty. There was a sudden intake of breath in the
room. An embarrassing situation had swiftly developed into a potentially explosive
confrontation. Members at the far end of the table redoubled their efforts to
silence the drunk, again without success. ‘Taught anyone to fly lately, has
she?’ This second jibe was followed by another cackle of laughter.

Arran, who could stand
Bulldog’s jeering insults no longer, had to be held back. Bulldog, a powerful
and thick-set individual, was dragged from the room by several friends. Outside
in the hall Arran went up to him. ‘You are drunk, George. When you are sober, I
shall expect an apology.’

‘Fat chance, Gore.’ As Arran
turned to walk away, Bulldog called after him, ‘How is the crazy bitch, then?’
Arran whirled round and let fly an accurate punch, drawing blood from Bulldog’s
nose.

The following day the two men
met in the club bar, each flanked by friends ready to step between them should
it become necessary. Arran repeated his demand for an apology. George Drummond,
now sober, replied in characteristic fashion. ‘Who’s going to make me
apologise?’

Arran sighed in frustration.
‘If it’s a fight you want, we can go a couple of rounds.’ In the basement was a
well equipped gymnasium where both men regularly worked out. Bulldog touched
his nose. ‘I don’t think so.’

Arran was smaller but quick on
his feet, and for a man of his age still in excellent shape. ‘Let’s finish this
business, George,’ he said quietly. ‘I simply want an acknowledgement that you
were drunk and didn’t mean what you said. That will be apology enough for me.’

‘You want me to admit I was
drunk? Fine. I was drunk. Now I’m sober.’ Bulldog moved his face so close to
Arran’s that their noses were almost touching. ‘And I still say your wife’s a
crazy bitch.’

Arran wanted to punch Drummond
in the face but managed to restrain himself. ‘If you refuse to apologise, I
shall place the matter in the committee’s hands and let them decide what to
do.’

‘Going to have me thrown out,
are you?’ jeered Drummond. ‘Afraid to stand up for yourself? That makes you a
coward, Gore.’

Arran Gore sighed. ‘How do we
settle this, then?’ A wicked grin. ‘We fight a duel.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I am perfectly serious,’ said
George Drummond. ‘Matter of fact I’ve read the Club rules on the subject.
There’s been an insult, so there has to be an apology. If there’s no apology,
then according to the rules there’s a challenge, followed by a duel.’

The Out and About club had its
origins in the seventeenth century when quarrels between members were commonly
settled by duels. Over the years the Club Rules had been added to and amended
but never rewritten. It was likely that for historical and traditional reasons
no one had wanted to do anything quite so drastic. Arran was appalled: ‘But
that’s absurd. Duelling has been illegal for centuries.’

‘You can’t have your cake and
eat it, Gore. If the club rules apply to my friend, they apply to you as well.’

Arran was on the defensive
now. ‘I shall be happy to accept an apology.’

Drummond shook his head. ‘You
won’t get one. So you have a choice: challenge me or resign from the club.’

‘For God’s sake, man,’
protested Arran, ‘this is the twenty- first century, not the seventeenth!’

‘So what? I say a duel is the
only way to settle this argument.’ George Drummond folded his arms, signalling
that, as far as he was concerned, that was the end of the discussion.

Arran was cornered. He glanced
about him at his friends who looked as baffled as he felt. ‘What kind of duel?’

‘Something harmless.’

Sensing a light-hearted
resolution of an unpleasant situation, Arran’s friends nodded approvingly.

‘Very well,’ said Arran
reluctantly. ‘You have to challenge me.’

‘Alright, I challenge you,’ said Arran.

A triumphant smile. ‘I accept
your challenge.’ ‘What happens now?’

‘We choose weapons. You are
the challenger, so it’s my choice.’ Clearly Bulldog had done his homework.

‘What do you choose?’

Drummond smirked. ‘Bows and arrows.’

It was a relief to Arran, as
to all the other members of the Out and About, to hear that the bows and arrows
Drummond had in mind were obtainable at a toy store in Regent Street. Once this
was established, Gore was ready to enter into the spirit of things. ‘Very well.
My, um, my seconds will attend you. That the form?’

‘That’s it.’

Seconds were despatched to
make the necessary purchases, and the time and location of the duel agreed.

That evening Morgan phoned Arthur as she did
from time- to-time. She trusted her half-brother, and he and Arran were good
friends. Never one for small talk, she came straight to the point. ‘He’s going
to fight a duel.’

‘Who is?’

‘Arran.’

Arthur knew Morgan was
eccentric and claimed to have special powers. ‘How do you know?’

‘It came to me in a dream,’ she explained.

‘I see,’ said Arthur, though
he did not. It sounded as though Morgan had lost the plot. ‘When is this duel
taking place?’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Morgan.
‘Something terrible is going to happen. I know it is.’

The poor woman sounded terrified. For her sake
he decided it would be best to go along with her story. If he did not she would
be mortally offended. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘You must stop it.’ ‘Right.’

‘Swear?’

A slight hesitation. ‘I swear.’

‘Bless you, Arthur. You can
fly.’ With that Morgan rang off.

It was just another one of
Morgan’s fantasies, of course, but even so he could not get that phone call out
of his mind. He was as fond of his half-sister as she was of him, and admired
her for being different and gutsy. People said she was mad, and perhaps she
was, but she had a bigger heart than almost anyone he knew. He found himself
tapping Arran’s number.

‘Arran, it’s Arthur.’ ‘What’s
up?’

‘Forgive me for asking,’ said Arthur self-consciously,
‘but . .

. this is probably going to sound ridiculous .
. . ’

‘Go on.’ Arran guessed that
this had something to do with Morgan.

Arthur ploughed on. ‘You are
not fighting a duel tomorrow, are you?’

A long silence. ‘How on earth
did you know?’ ‘Morgan phoned me.’

‘Strange. I never told her.’
Arran was embarrassed, not liking to admit that his wife had special powers.

‘Morgan knows things,’ said Arthur.

Arran chuckled. ‘She claims
she’s a witch, bless her. Absolute nonsense, of course.’

Maybe, maybe not, thought
Arthur. The fact was, she was right. ‘So you are going to fight a duel?’

Arran explained.

‘Isn’t there a better way?
Duelling went out aeons ago.’ ‘Bit of nonsense, that’s all,’ said Arran
lightly.

‘You’re not duelling with weapons, then.’

‘Good Lord, no,’ said Arran.
‘What do you take me for? We’re using toys, bows and arrows actually. You’re
welcome to come along. It should be fun.’

An hour before dawn the following morning Arran
Gore and George Drummond accompanied by their seconds met on Highgate Hill. It
was still dark, but in the east the sky was faintly luminous. The two men and
their seconds took up their positions a hundred yards from each other.

Arthur watched the
preparations from a distance. He had promised Morgan he would stop the duel but
he saw little point in getting heavy-handed with Arran; the whole thing was a
charade, a child’s game played by adults to ensure that honour was satisfied.
The offence was real enough but the duel was not. Indeed he had the strange
sense that these shadowy figures moving silently on the crest of the hill were
not real people at all; or if they were, that they were actors performing some
ancient rite. This was theatre, an imaginative solution to what might well have
been a very nasty problem. Obviously there was nothing to be concerned about.
It made no sense, then, to feel as troubled as he did. Doubtless his uneasiness
was caused by the early hour and the morning chill.

With the most solemn and
scrupulous care the toy kits were unpacked, the bows and arrows tested and
handed to each protagonist. Both kits came complete with a target which was
left in the box.

‘What’s the range of these
things?’ Arran enquired of one of his seconds who knew something about archery.

‘They are small, but metal-tipped
and well flighted, so they can travel quite a distance. With a level shot, I
reckon the arrow can fly about fifty yards. If you shoot it up in the air, it
might go a little further.’

‘So we are well out of range.’

‘We made sure of that.’ The second winked.
‘Mind you, if anyone deserves an arrow in the rump, it’s Bulldog.’

The two duellists and their
seconds clapped their hands and stamped their feet to keep their circulation
moving, their breath steaming in the cold air. Every now and then one of the
seconds would look at the eastern sky and glance at his watch.

Arran Gore and George Drummond
squared off. In the darkness they could barely make each other out but as the
sky slowly lightened, the outline of each man became more distinct, especially
that of Arran who faced the rising sun. As the rim of the sun nudged the
horizon, Drummond’s second spoke: ‘Two shots each, remember. First shot to you,
Bulldog. When you have fired, face your opponent full on and remain still’

Bulldog took the bow and arrow
in his hand. ‘Piece of junk. Give me the real thing and I’d make the bastard
jump.’ From the way he inserted the arrow, and weighed the bow in his hand, it
was evident he was no stranger to archery.

Arran’s second gave him the
same instructions. As his opponent took aim, Arran stood unflinching. The arrow
sped through the air with a distinctive hissing sound, falling to earth thirty
yards or so from where he was standing. As his second had forecast, it lacked
the momentum to carry the full hundred yards, though it had travelled further
than its supposed range of fifty.

With some difficulty, Arran
inserted the arrow, drew back the bowstring, aimed in the general direction of
his opponent and fired. The arrow flew high into the air, hung poised for a
second or two, and fell to earth barely ten yards from where Arran was
standing. ‘Oh,’ he said.

A hundred yards away Bulldog
wheezed with mirth. ‘Try again!’ he shouted mockingly.

‘It’s your turn,’ Arran
shouted back. ‘Have one on me!’

‘Right. I will.’ Arran’s lips compressed
in a determined line. Taking the utmost care, he inserted a second arrow in the
bow, pulled the bowstring back with all his strength until it seemed it must
surely snap, took aim and released the arrow. This time it sped directly
towards its target, and with such force that it landed only a few yards from
Bulldog’s feet. So accurate was the shot, that given another few yards
momentum, it might well have struck him. ‘Bastard!’ yelled Bulldog. Narrowing
his eyes, he flicked the arrow expertly into the bow, pulled back the bowstring
with the full power of his massive arm, aimed high and released the arrow.

The ball of the sun sat on the
horizon, setting ablaze the river Thames and the windows and rooftops of the
City of London. In the distance Arran could just make out the shining dome of
St. Paul’s. It was the last thing he ever saw. As he shielded his eyes from the
glare of the sun, the arrow tore through his hand and into his brain. His life
was over before he hit the ground.

It was several moments before
anyone could take in what had happened. Arthur was the first to move, rushing
over to kneel by Arran. The steel tip of the toy arrow had penetrated his skull
so far that only the flight and a few inches of shaft were visible. Arthur felt
Arran’s wrist and neck where his pulse should have been. There was nothing.

Bulldog stumbled across the
grass and fell on his knees by the body. ‘I don’t believe it, I don’t believe
it,’ he kept saying. He began to cry. ‘It was a game, a silly game. This isn’t
happening. An ambulance! For God’s sake get an ambulance someone!’