by T. S. Easton
‘It’s certainly very stiff when I wake up first thing in the morning.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ I said, sitting down. ‘Don’t you two ever talk about anything else?’
‘What? I’m talking about my knee,’ Dad said.
‘Oh. OK. But you can see why I might have jumped to the wrong conclusion,’ I said. ‘The way you two have been mooning about like lovesick teenagers.’
‘Look, we’re just making up for lost time,’ Dad said. ‘I told you, we didn’t have much of a honeymoon.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Which reminds me. Who’s this person you were talking about that ruined your first honeymoon?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Mum said, giving Dad a furious look.
I wasn’t going to let it lie though. I had to know.
‘Is this to do with Diablo?’ I persisted. ‘Mum, did you have an affair with Diablo?’
They both looked at me, wide-eyed. Then they both laughed out loud.
‘No!’ Mum cried. ‘Of course not.’
‘So who was this other person?’ I asked, feeling myself blushing.
‘It was you, you idiot,’ Dad said.
‘Eh?’
‘I was pregnant with you,’ Mum said. ‘I was three months gone and still vomiting buckets.’
‘I thought she was going to sick you up,’ Dad said.
I was outraged. ‘I was conceived … out of wedlock?’
‘Let’s just say we’d taken one or two long-haul flights by then,’ Mum said.
‘We’d built up a few air miles,’ Dad added.
‘Oh, stop it,’ I said as Gex arrived. I have never been more pleased to see him.
They offered to buy us a drink in the hotel bar when we got back from the restaurant, but I really didn’t feel like it. I was worried about the DeathMatch tomorrow and I still had a bit of a headache. I left my parents with Gex, playing Semi-Rude Scrabble in a banquette.
As I got back to the room the BlackBerry buzzed. It was Brandi.
Just wanted to say sorry I yelled at you before. And thanks for everything you did to bring me and Gavin back together. See you tomorrow! Bx
Gavin? G is Gavin? I wasn’t expecting that. Well, that was something resolved, I suppose. I had a long bath and tossed and turned in bed before dropping off. I must have slept deeply because Gex didn’t wake me when he came in, for once.
Sunday 19th May
9.56am
I felt OK when I got to the KnitFair. My headache was gone for a start and I was glad of the early night. Whatever else had been going on, the meetings had gone well yesterday and if I got a few more today, I might get up into the thousands that Mr D’Angelo wanted. I was positive, I was hopeful, I was New York.
All that soon came crashing to a halt when I saw Mr D’Angelo.
He was wearing a cerise suit.
‘Morning, Ben,’ he said brightly.
‘Morning, Mr D’Angelo,’ I said. ‘That’s an interesting suit.’
‘I know! Great colour, huh?’
‘Very … vibrant,’ I replied, the first stab of pain jabbing me in the temple.
‘So, you gonna get those orders today?’ he asked.
‘I hope so,’ I said but that clearly wasn’t the answer he wanted. ‘I sure am!’ I said.
‘That’s my boy,’ he said, then walked off.
So I had to spend the morning trying not to look at him. The meetings went OK, though I was distracted by the headache building gradually, and the growing anxiety about the DeathMatch. I’m not sure how many orders I wrote in the book. I didn’t want to see. Either I had enough to make Mr D’Angelo want to invest in the Hoopie, or I hadn’t. Either way, it all depended on how the DeathMatch itself went.
Brandi turned up at lunchtime and took me for a bite in the Fair Isle lounge bar. She ordered a 3-ply burger for me and a couple of bottles of mineral water for herself. I’d told Mum and Dad to come along just before 4pm. I wanted some time alone to prepare myself, mentally.
‘Are you OK?’ Brandi asked. ‘You look terrible?’
‘Thanks. I have a headache.’
Brandi reached into her bag and rummaged for a bit. ‘I’m all out of pills, she said.
‘OK, well, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s time I went cold turkey.’
‘It’s just paracetamol,’ she reminded me.
‘Canadian paracetamol,’ I reminded her. ‘That’s how Lance Armstrong got started.’
‘Well, I got to stop by the office anyway,’ she said. ‘I have some more there. I’ll bring them back before the event. We can’t have you competing with a headache.’
‘So,’ I said. ‘You and Gavin, back on.’
She grinned sheepishly.
‘How does that work?’ I asked. ‘It’s just that you seemed so certain you never wanted to see him again.’
She shrugged. ‘A girl can change her mind.’
‘I suppose so,’ I said.
‘I was upset. I was angry with you. I rushed off and suddenly, there he was. All concerned and handsome and I kind of just found myself in his arms.’
‘Are you doing this for the right reasons? I asked. ‘I’d hate to think my stupidity has pushed you back into an unhappy relationship.’
‘Definitely not,’ she said firmly. ‘This is right. I should be thanking you.’
‘All part of the service,’ I said. How is it that I’m so good at solving other people’s problems, even without trying, when I have so many unresolved problems of my own?
After lunch Brandi went to the loo. You can’t drink two pints of mineral water without consequences. I took the opportunity to skype Ms Gunter.
‘Christ, Ben,’ she said. ‘You look awful.’
I’d run out of excuses. It wasn’t the screen, or jet lag, or GM food. I was putting on weight, I wasn’t sleeping well, I was suffering from headaches. I’d been drinking alcohol, popping pills and hanging out with organised crime figures. Most of all, I was tired.
‘I’m looking forward to coming home,’ I said. ‘I miss Hampton.’
‘Are you OK? Are you going to cry.’
‘No,’ I retorted. ‘I’m not going to cry.’
‘Ben, she said. ‘Did I make a mistake, letting you go to New York?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m fine.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘You need to hold it together, OK? I can’t have you going off the rails over there.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I can do this.’
I stumbled and stammered my way through a few more meetings, keeping an eye out for Brandi. But the fair was running down. Stands had started to empty, or else people were breaking out the Buck’s Fizz and talking loudly about great deals. Someone set down a plastic cup of orange juice in front of me.
I looked up and was immensely relieved to see Mum.
‘No Buck’s Fizz for you,’ she said. ‘You need to be in peak physical condition.’
‘I’m never touching alcohol again,’ I said, sipping the OJ.
‘Your father says that every Saturday morning,’ she replied. ‘You excited?’
‘I’m dreading it.’
‘Oh, Ben,’ she said. ‘It’s just a bit of fun.’
‘It’s not, Mum,’ I said. ‘Nothing’s just a bit of fun. The meeting with Priapia wasn’t just a casual chat. The media interviews weren’t just a bit of a laugh, this last week wasn’t just a holiday in New York, my evening with Melanee wasn’t just a quick drink and those pills aren’t just paracetamol.’
‘Actually, they are just paracetamol,’ Mum said, reading the ingredients on the packet.
‘You know what I mean,’ I said.
‘So don’t do the DeathMatch,’ she said.
‘It’s too late now,’ I said. ‘Everyone’s counting on me. I can’t let them down.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You don’t like letting people down, do you?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Just remember, Ben,’ she said, ‘you can only do what y
ou can do. You can’t take the world on your shoulders.’
‘I seem to remember you telling me this once before,’ I said.
‘And I’ll keep on telling you until you start listening to me,’ she said. ‘Now I’m going to go and find your father. He saw a bike shop just outside the venue and said he’d catch me up in five minutes. That was an hour ago.’
Brandi came bustling up. ‘Hi, Mrs Fletcher,’ she said, smiling brightly. As she sat, the BlackBerry alarm went off. I looked at the phone rattling on the table.
It was time. The KnitMaster 3000 was waiting. My nemesis. I stood.
Of course I was going to lose. The only thing I could do was try and minimise the damage. Try not to lose by so much. If I got pulverised then it would be all over. The media people would either laugh at me or, more probably, just ignore me altogether. That wouldn’t be so bad but without any publicity, Mr D’Angelo from Priapia would drop me like a stone. Mr Hollis from Virilia would probably do the same. Mrs Tyler would tell me I’d let the school down. Brandi would get fired because of the negative publicity, Tony the Mob boss would cap me for giving his mistress a Hoopie with three dropped stitches. There’d be earthquakes, fire would rain from the skies and New York would be plagued with locusts.
Maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, but I’d certainly be going back to Hampton with my tail between my legs.
If, on the other hand, I could get an honourable defeat then things might be salvageable. What I didn’t want was for the machine to finish in fifteen minutes while I was still on row three. Even for hardened knitting enthusiasts that wouldn’t be much of a spectacle. That would be an embarrassment for everyone concerned. I had to maximise my own performance while trying to slow the machine down as much as I could. I knew how to do the latter, but was there a way of improving my own speed? I looked down at the Bloomingdale’s bag and reached to pick it up. I pushed my hand down, through all the wool and needles right to the bottom, where my fingertips felt a cardboard box. I pulled it out and laid it on the table. The stolen needles. I watched the box. It watched me back. Then I looked at the other box. The paracetamol.
‘You gonna take a couple?’ Brandi asked, looking at her watch. ‘The contest is going to start soon.’
‘No,’ I said, after a moment. ‘I’m good. They mess with my head.’
Brandi picked up the stolen needles. ‘Don’t forget these.’
‘They’re not mine,’ I said. ‘Could you hang on to them? We need to return them to Bloomingdale’s.’
‘OK,’ she said, slipping the long box into her handbag.
I didn’t want drugs. I didn’t want stolen needles. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it English-style.
I was going to lose fair and square.
And I marched off to do battle with a machine, armed with my cheap 10.5 acrylic needles. My head was throbbing, but I felt calm and relaxed for the first time in I don’t know how long.
I could hear the buzz as I approached the KnitDome. The organisers had been busy and had cleared out the demonstration ring at the centre of the hall. The ring was draped in a dome-shaped canopy made of thick strands of rope, woven to look like an oversize woolly hat. They’d erected temporary seating which was already full. People stood in the aisles between the stands jostling for a glimpse. I stopped and stood for a moment, taking deep breaths, preparing myself.
‘This is brilliant,’ Brandi said, hopping up and down next to me. Mum walked up and put a hand on my shoulder.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
I smiled at her. ‘I’m fine, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
And then I stepped forward, slipped through the crowd and out into the dimmed KnitDome. As I walked out into plain view, a bank of overhead floodlights suddenly flicked on and a huge cheer rose up from the crowd. One of the spotlights shone right on a chair with a small table beside it. There was a box of wools of all different varieties. A sign over the box read, Wool provided by the Idaho Yarn Company.
My nemesis lurked at the far end. It was large and white, all smooth, straight lines and hidden joints. A team of white-coated technicians bobbed and weaved around it, adjusting this lever, polishing that knob. I saw Dr Kovac waiting to one side. He was watching me, a half-sneer on his face. As I approached he walked forward to meet me directly in the middle of the Dome.
‘Ben,’ he said.
‘Dr Kevorkian,’ I replied, unable to stop myself. He gave me a long look.
‘Do you know, Ben,’ he said eventually. ‘At first I felt sorry for you. Some dumb kid from a backward country, no idea what he was up against. Standing in the way of advancement. A futile, misguided effort to stop the tide of progress.’
As he spoke he carried on smiling. A fake smile. He was such a phoney.
‘But not any more,’ he said, still smiling. ‘We’re going to humiliate you today. Smash you. And it’s important we do, because people need to understand something about the clothes they wear and the fashions they follow. None of that is possible without one of those machines.’ He stuck a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the 3000.
‘Well, that’s a nice speech,’ I said. ‘But I happen to think there are a lot of people out there who don’t agree with you. People who understand the importance of individuality and creativity. People who aren’t looking for quick and cheap, but are looking for quality garments, crafted with heart and … ’ I tapped my chest, ‘ … love.’
‘Well, let’s just see how your English heart goes against the very latest US technology,’ he said.
‘Ladies and gentleman,’ a familiar voice said over the PA. I turned to see Craig something from the radio. My heart sank.
‘Welcome to … the KnitDome,’ Craig went on. There was a huge round of applause and cheering. I squinted against the spotlights to see Mum and Dad, Gex, Trey and Keith in a row. They were standing and whooping. Behind them were the Knitwits! girls, then Tony and the man with the bulge. Tony waved. The man with the bulge looked bored. Standing in the aisle, with Gavin by her side, was Brandi, giving me the thumbs up. I even thought I saw Melanee in the shadows, standing well away from Brandi and clapping her hands over her head. It felt good to know I had so much support.
‘This afternoon. For one time only,’ Craig cried. ‘It’s the ultimate yarn-based smackdown.’
More cheers. New Yorkers tend to make for very appreciative audiences.
‘In the blue corner. We have the KnitMaster 3000. Designed and built by Dr Gregory Kovac of KnitCorp. It is the fastest, the newest, the smoothest knitting machine ever made. And it was designed and built right here in the United. States. Of. America!
The cheers turned to howls and hit the roof. That was a cheap trick, I thought. Playing the US-made card.
‘And in the red corner,’ Craig went on. He paused briefly. ‘ … we have Ben from England’
Was that it? The crowd seemed to be wondering the same thing and seemed unsure as to whether they should cheer at this point. I heard Mum whooping and a smattering of applause but that was about it. Damn him! This whole thing was his fault.
‘Ben,’ Craig called. ‘As the challenger, you have the right to choose what wool to use. Our wool tonight is kindly provided by the Idaho Yarn Company. Finest wools and yarns for home, shop and industry. So, Ben, take a look through the wools in the box there and tell us what’s your choice?’
‘I don’t need to look,’ I called back. ‘I’d like a nice, chunky wool. A 4-ply alpaca. Untreated.’
Now this caused no small amount of consternation among the KnitCorp technicians and they began adjusting the machine’s settings. Kevorkian glared at me.
I walked to my seat, pulling out my trusty old freebie needles. An assistant brought me over a bagful of 4-ply and I thanked her.
‘Good luck,’ she whispered. ‘I hope you win.’
‘Ben will be knitting his own design. The … Hoopie. The KnitMaster 3000 will be knitting the latest design from Fa
brice Gentile. The knitting will proceed for half an hour,’ Craig said. ‘Then there will be a short comfort break for Ben. The KnitMaster 3000 needs no rest of course and can operate non-stop 24/7 with minimal maintenance.’
I frowned at him. Did he have shares in the company or something? Things were set against me, that was for sure, but I felt OK. I had my support team behind me and I was ready. The assistants and technicians cleared the area. I looked across at the KnitMaster 3000, a blinking green light telling us it was ready. I took a deep breath. Despite the situation, despite the weight of expectation hanging over me, at that moment, I felt calm. I felt content. I felt ready. I realised my headache was gone. I hadn’t needed the drugs. The free needles felt good in my hands. I hadn’t needed the stolen Sprys.
‘KnitMaster 3000. Ben Fletcher,’ Craig said solemnly. ‘You may begin knitting.’
The KnitMaster hummed into life and began vibrating gently. Before I’d even moved, the first row of its jumper began feeding out of the slot at its front.
I closed my eyes and visualised my Hoopie. I knew it so well this stage wasn’t really necessary any more. But I wanted to be in the zone. Sherlock’s Mind Palace. The semi-conscious state I needed to achieve in order to perform my superhuman needle speed.
It took a few seconds but then I was there. I began to knit.
I was fast. I was very fast. The wool was good quality. It flowed like liquid gold through my fingers. The needles felt comfortable, I kept the stitches loose, allowing me to complete rows quickly. I knew the KnitMaster’s jumper was a far tighter weave, not really suited to such thick wool.
The background hum of the crowd and KnitFair USA faded away to white noise. I lost myself.
After fifteen minutes or so I allowed myself a quick glance up at the machine and was shocked to see how much of the jumper it had completed. I was already well behind. The crowd sat still, apparently engrossed. Watching me lose.
But at around twenty minutes the KnitMaster suddenly beeped harshly and a red light appeared on the console. The cluster of technicians sprang into action like a Formula 1 pit crew. I tried to ignore them and redoubled my efforts. This was my chance to catch up. I couldn’t help but take a sideways glance at Kevorkian though. He looked furious. My wool choice had made his machine seem unreliable. I winked at him and carried on.