Bentwhistle the Dragon Box

by Paul Cude

  "Quite lazy really. Didn't do too much. Missed playing hockey like crazy though."

  "Good to hear," replied Andy, producing a notebook and pen. "Are you available for Saturday?"

  "Sure am. In fact, barring injury, I'm available every weekend throughout the season."

  "Good man," maintained Andy, slapping Peter playfully on the back. "Well, I've got some friendly games lined up over the next few weeks and then the league starts. Hopefully we can kick on from last year's mid table position and aim to finish in the top two and gain promotion. A few new faces out there tonight that might bolster the squad from last year, especially since Ben and Matt will be missing, having both gone off to university. Anyhow Pete, I've got to catch up with some of the others before they slope off, so I'll see you on Saturday, two o'clock for a two thirty start. Okay?"

  "Sure thing Andy, see you Saturday," answered Peter, raising his pint glass as Andy disappeared into a mass of hockey players.

  'Fantastic, I'm in the side,' he thought, as he spotted Tank making his way towards him through a dwindling number of rugby players.

  "Good training?" asked Tank, leaning over the bar, trying to attract some service.

  "Yeah, it was great to be back playing again. Why are you training twice a week now?"

  "Well," said Tank, "we do light work and tactics on a Tuesday, and the more physical work on a Wednesday."

  "How was it?" enquired Peter.

  "It was okay, but as you probably know we had our first game on Saturday and got our arses handed to us on a plate," observed Tank, shaking his head.

  Peter had seen the result and match report online only that morning and was surprised that Tank hadn't mentioned it. Not that Peter would have been too much help. He didn't fully understand the rules of rugby, so anything more complicated such as tactics and formations would go straight over his head.

  "Any reason why you lost?"

  "Hmmm... lots. Let's just say the coach and I have differing opinions on that."

  "That explains the rather frantic debate I could see you having a while ago, you know... with all the arm waving. I thought you were going to take off at one point," mocked Peter, trying to lighten the tone.

  "Very good," sneered Tank sarcastically. "I don't think it was quite that bad. Anyway, how would you feel if your hockey team was going to hell and you knew how to put some of the bad things right, but the so-called important people refused to listen to what you had to say? Wouldn't be so funny then, would it?"

  For the first time in what felt like forever, Peter could see his friend in real distress.

  'It means so much to him, just like the hockey does to me,' he thought, slurping what was left of his drink.

  "I'm sorry Tank. I understand how important it is to you, I really do. Perhaps you need to change the way you approach the problem. You've completed all the coaching courses, and teach the youngsters on a Sunday. Is there nothing there that can help you?"

  Deep furrows appeared across Tank's forehead as he considered what Peter had said.

  "Well, maybe I could... yeah, that just might work."

  Peter stared at him blankly.

  "I could simplify some of the tactics and get the kids to use them on a Sunday. The result should be about the same, maybe not quite as dynamic and full on, but just maybe those narrow minded idiots might get the idea if they see the kids using it to great effect. Thanks Pete. That might just be a great help."

  "You are, of course, very welcome. On an entirely different subject though... your message mentioned something about watching the game even though you couldn't get tickets. What's that all about?"

  That got Tank's full attention.

  "You see, I've been working on something in my spare time. Something that should allow us..." Tank looked around to make sure no one was listening in, and then leant in close to Peter, "should allow us to watch the match through a television."

  Peter was gobsmacked. He'd never heard anything that ridiculous.

  "Through a television? Are you mad? How the hell do you think you can do that?"

  Tank put one of his gigantic arms around his friend to calm him down and try to limit the amount of attention he seemed to be attracting with his little outburst.

  "It's not as hard as you think... Pete. Would you like me to explain the details to you?"

  Peter thought for a moment, slightly unsure, because Tank had that 'be careful what you wish for' look in his eyes. After a few moments had passed, still unsure, Peter decided he did want to know a little more about it.

  "Go on then."

  "Well, you know how you access the ... papers?"

  "Yes," replied Peter carefully, fully understanding Tank's meaning.

  "It's kind of like that. You see, what happens is that the match is transmitted out to the papers so that they can do match reports and snatch pictures for publication from it. The whole game remains in a giant buffer for a few more days until it is no longer required, when it's just deleted to free up space for the next one. The reason they don't transmit the whole game to every dragon out there, is that most dragons wouldn't be able to process that level of information. Also there aren't enough broadcasting nodes to transmit something of that magnitude to everyone. It's broadcast to the papers and that's it. I've developed a crystal node that can access the information at the papers’ headquarters via the local node and then display it in digital form, hopefully on a television.

  "Hopefully?"

  "Well... it's not fully functional yet, but it will be by the day of the game. I just need to buy a new television to test it on, that's all."

  "What happened to that nice big fifty inch flat screen that you had?"

  "I... um... hooked up the crystal to it and... umm... didn't regulate the power properly and it... um... kind of... exploded... umm... a bit anyway."

  "IT EXPLODED!!!!!!" exclaimed Peter. "How can it explode a bit?"

  "It exploded a bit," insisted Tank, "because some of the screen was still left intact, alright."

  "Right," said Peter, nodding his head.

  "I don't suppose..." Tank started.

  "NO!" countered Peter. "Not going to happen."

  "It's just that it would speed things up while I wait for a new television to be delivered."

  "I like my television just how it is... thanks."

  From out of nowhere, a very loud 'BOO' echoed out from behind them. Peter's glass tumbled into the air as it jumped out of his hand. Time slowed as the spinning glass headed swiftly towards the floor, and a shattering conclusion... before being expertly caught once again by... Richie.

  "Crikey, you guys are jumpy," joked Richie, offering the glass back to Peter.

  For his part, Peter gave Richie one of his best 'I'm more mature than you' looks, taking the glass from her before returning it to the bar.

  "What's going on guys?" she demanded.

  "I was just explaining to Peter how we might all watch the Indigo Warriors in the Global Cup together," whispered Tank.

  "You've got tickets... fantastic!"

  "Not exactly," uttered Tank, bursting Richie's rather premature bubble.

  "Oh, how are we going to watch it then?"

  "On a television," chipped in Peter, rolling his eyes. "It's something Tank's been working on."

  "For a second there, I thought we might actually get to see the game," Richie said to Peter, knowing all about Tank's little projects.

  "Hey, that's not fair. I know I've had a bit of bad luck in the past, but this stands a real chance of working. I just need Peter to let me use his television to test the thing on. Please Peter, I know I can get this to work... honest. And once I do, we can all sit down and watch the match together, doesn't that sound great?"

  It did sound great, both Richie and Peter had to admit that, but it also sounded a mite farfetched. Also, Tank's track record on succeeding in these little projects was practically zero. Still, he did find it hard to turn down his friend, particularly when he thought about all
that Tank had done for him in the past.

  "Okaayyyy... what do you need?" asked Peter reluctantly.

  Tank lurched forward and gave his friend a huge hug.

  "You won't regret it, I promise."

  Peter looked over Tank's shoulder at a grinning Richie and rolled his eyes again.

  "I just need to come round and use your television a couple of times between now and the match, " said Tank innocently. "That's all. Nothing will go wrong... honest."

  "Sure Tank. Come round whenever you like."

  And that was that. The friends chatted for a few more minutes, catching up on their respective sports and training routines. Just as Peter thought it was time for him to think about leaving, the main doors to the bar opened, and the men's first team hockey players started to file in.

  'Oh crap,' was Peter's first thought. He'd hoped to leave before Manson had finished training, to avoid bumping into him. Richie caught Peter looking nervously towards the entrance.

  "It's alright Pete, he's just here playing hockey. Just ignore him," remarked Richie confidently.

  "The slimy rat I've been hearing about is here, is he?" I was just about to leave anyway Pete. Why don't we all go out together?" Tank gestured at Richie.

  "Good Idea," added Richie, starting to lead the way.

  They made their way through the very quiet bar area, returning their empty glasses en route. There couldn't have been more than twenty people left in the whole place, a dozen or so of whom were the men's first hockey team, who had just come in as a group from the Astroturf. Peter strode down the length of the bar, flanked on either side by Tank and Richie. He stared at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact with Manson, hoping he could leave without being noticed. No such luck. About eight feet from the end of the massive bar, just as Peter had thought he'd made it out without being spotted, a body moved out in front of the three of them.

  "Ahhhh... if it isn't my little underling. I didn't realise you had any friends. How unlikely."

  He looked up into Manson's smug, round face and noticed for the first time a bottomless blackness at the centre of his eyes. He fought back his bubbling temper, knowing that whatever happened, his friends would have his back, but he realised that if something happened here, Manson would no doubt exact some sort of retribution back at Cropptech. So in a split second, he decided he would take a leaf out of Richie's book and be diplomatic and polite.

  "Good evening Mr Manson. Did you have a good training session?" he said with just the slightest hint of sarcasm.

  "Yes... I certainly did. It was very physical and tactically demanding. I would explain it but someone from the lower echelons of hockey like yourself would of course be hard pushed to understand it," boasted Manson, trying to provoke Peter.

  Every atom in Peter's body wanted to jump up and spank Manson. Peter used all his self control and just smiled.

  "See you back at work," he said, sidestepping Manson and heading towards the door. With his friends at his side, Peter had got no further than a few paces before he heard Manson's twisted voice.

  "Good work checking out the security cameras. Find anything useful?"

  He turned around to see Manson, hands on hips, smug as ever. As he looked deep into Manson's eyes from six feet away, everything suddenly became crystal clear. Manson knew that he'd tried unsuccessfully to track him with the security cameras. In that moment, the entire situation had changed. Manson wasn't just your run of the mill criminal trying to make some material gain. He was far more than that. Far more than a human being, Peter suspected, even though there were no obvious signs, not even to a dragon.

  Breaking eye contact, the young hockey playing dragon turned slowly, and strode purposefully out the main entrance, Tank and Richie hot on his heels. The slightly chilly night air washed over him, cooling down his overly warm body and bringing his temper back into line, both at the same time. His friends walked next to him in silence as he made his way across the near deserted car park to his car, even though theirs were in a totally different place to his.

  As they all reached his car, Peter turned and faced his friends.

  "Well?" he all but demanded, expecting them to have had the same kind of epiphany about Manson that he'd had.

  "Well what?" replied Richie.

  "Well, did you not see what just happened?" snapped Peter sharply.

  "Yes, the nasty man tried to get a rise out of you," Richie sneered sarcastically.

  Peter's temperature rocketed, so much so that boiling steam rolled off him in waves in the chilly evening air.

  "The whole thing, Rich, not just him provoking me."

  "Yes, I can see now that he's a bit of a git, something I hadn't noticed before, for which I'm sorry, but that's all. Get over it," stormed Richie, marching off towards her car.

  Peter took a step forward to follow her and continue the argument, but a huge arm came out to block his way.

  "I don't think that's very wise, do you?" asked Tank quietly.

  Peter took a deep breath and ran his hands through his slick hair.

  "Did you notice anything?" he asked Tank hopefully, not really wanting to hear the response. Tank considered his friend's question carefully.

  "As Richie said, he certainly is a first class git."

  Peter's head dropped, knowing his friend was once again going to side with Richie. Tank continued.

  "I tried using all my dragon senses on him as he stood there, but sensed... nothing. Just a plain old human being, albeit a git, but a human git."

  'There it is,' thought Peter. 'Again he's sided with Richie. Why can't they see what's happening?'

  "Despite sensing nothing other than human, there was something else," Tank said, screwing up his face in concentration. "A feeling of... it's so difficult to explain. Like the whitest cold it's possible to have. Pure, calculated malevolence. It didn't really come from him, it was just out there. On top of that, the human felt... too good to be true. Almost too human. That's the only way I can describe it."

  Peter knew exactly what Tank was talking about, but was surprised to hear that he hadn't felt it radiating off Manson, as he had. It was, however, Peter thought, a start.

  The two friends said their goodbyes, with Tank adding that he would be in touch about coming round to use the television. Whilst they were chatting, Richie's car sped out of the car park, something akin to a Formula One driver.

  12 A Member of the Magic Circle?

  September seemed to positively fly by from Peter's perspective. Having returned to the hockey, he was happier than ever, despite the obvious ongoing tensions at work with Manson and the fact that Richie hadn't spoken to him since their argument after the first night's hockey training. She had been avoiding him ever since.

  Hockey though, was great. He'd been to two more training sessions, comfortably getting his eye in, and had played in two matches. With the league starting in two weeks time, the games at the moment were all friendlies, all of which had been won by his second team, the last one by eight goals to nil. Finding their form early on, and gelling as a team, the side were playing much better than last season, with the new additions only strengthening things further. As standards go, they weren't that far off the first team.

  During his evenings, Peter had spent the vast majority of time trying to develop the spyware program that he hoped to upload at Cropptech with a view to finding out just what Manson was up to. He knew, of course, that even if he managed to perfect his program and get it past the company's mainframe, there was still no guarantee that anything would come of it.

  Tonight was going to be another night in front of the computer, trying to put the finishing touches to his rather pieced together program, before testing it with the aim of uploading it sometime next week. Having just finished his rather bland tea, he headed for the living room, plopping down in his big black swivel chair that was parked in front of his computer. As he did so, the doorbell rang.

  'Let me guess,' he thought, 'someone wanting me to
change my energy supplier, no doubt. Only been three of those already this month.'

  Strolling down the hallway, he could just make out the silhouette of someone tall through the semicircle of triangular windows at the top of the wooden door. He psyched himself up to be brutally rude to whatever sort of salesman it was, knowing full well that he was normally a soft touch when it came to this sort of thing. Putting on a steely face, he opened the door sharply to find... Tank, grinning inanely at him.

  "Wotcha guv'nor, I've come to fix your telly," Tank said in a comedy voice, as he squeezed by into the narrow hallway, carrying a huge tool case.

  "Come in, why don't you," Peter put in, to Tank's wide back, which was quickly vanishing up the hallway.

  Turning into the living room, Tank opened his toolbox on the floor, and proceeded to pull Peter's television out from the wall, so that he could get to the back of it, all the time ignoring his friend hovering over him.

  "So... heard from Richie?" Tank enquired, as he unscrewed the back cover from the TV.

  "Nope... you?"

  "Well, I tried ringing her mobile, but there was no answer and it didn't even go to answer phone so that I could leave a message. I guess she just wants a little space. Nothing unusual there I suppose," said Tank, sliding a long, thin flat-bladed screwdriver behind the back panel, trying to lever it out.

  Peter stood wincing, waiting for the television to shatter into a million pieces. He could see in all their detail, Tank's huge arm muscles straining with the effort he was putting in to trying to lever out the panel, and with the television looking so delicate, he just knew a busted set was only moments away.

  Suddenly there was a tiny little 'pop' and the panel came away from one side in Tank's enormous hands. The strapping rugby playing dragon repeated the feat on the other side of the panel and, much to Peter's amazement, the whole thing came away in one piece, exposing the inner workings of the television. As Tank propped the panel against the wall, out of the way, he turned to Peter.

  "Surprised?"

  "Not at all," Peter lied. "Just curious, that's all."

  "You're such a terrible liar Pete. I could see your reflection in the blade of my screwdriver. You looked like a little toddler needing to use the potty. You were just waiting for something awful to happen.”