*
“Touché!” exclaimed the white clad fencer, as he made his final hit with a quick jab. His opponent, caught off guard stepped backwards leaving his own epee to hit nothing but air. As both competitors lowered their weapons, the loser began to laugh.
“Touché? Pat, nobody says that anymore.”
“Sorry, I guess I just got too into the match,” replied Pierce beginning to chuckle himself. “I was probably too busy beating you that I couldn’t think of something cleverer. How about next time I don’t say anything and just raise my hands up in the air in triumph, walking back and forth in front of you?”
“Funny. So what have you got planned for the rest of the day? Some of us were going to go over to Sam’s. He picked up a new game, supposed to be really gory.”
“New game eh? Sounds like a riot.”
“Well, do you have something better to do?”
Unlike most days, Pierce actually did have something better to do today. Not that the absence of the letter would have changed his mind. He enjoyed fencing with this group, but spending more than the usual two hours every Saturday morning with them seemed unnecessary. Armed with an epee or saber in the confines of the gym, they were poised and confident. Without them in the outside world they were nervous and juvenile.
“I’ll let you know, but I’ve got an appointment around noon.” With that attack parried, Pierce went to the locker room to shower and change.
Patrick Pierce had started fencing at a young age. Shy as a boy, he had always avoided team sports. The idea of making a mistake in front of groups, or letting down teammates always made him uncomfortable. His parents, who encouraged him to keep a low profile, found new sports for him to participate in. He immediately took to fencing. Fencing came naturally to him, as it does most young boys. Travel down any street in any city in the world, and you will find young men armed with a myriad of sword like objects. Pierce enjoyed being his own team and he enjoyed the uniform, mostly the mask. With the mask on he was indistinguishable from everyone else. Thus he continued to devote Saturday mornings to fencing, becoming very proficient to say the least. Some at the club believed he could have even made it to the Olympics, if he had had any ambition.
Leaving the recreation complex, he walked quickly to his car in the parking lot. The rain clouds from the day before seemed to be stuck in place and the cold droplets continued to stream downwards. Reaching his car, a non-descript neutral-toned sedan, he dropped his gym bag in the trunk and climbed in behind the steering wheel. He pulled out of the lot and headed towards the parkway, enjoying a nice leisurely drive along the canal back to Lower Town.
After parking behind his apartment building, Pierce walked into the foyer and shook the water off him like a waterlogged dog. Through a security door, down a hall, up two sets of stairs, along another hall, he finally arrived at his door. Putting the key slowly into the doorknob, the events of the night before came streaming back into his mind. He entered cautiously, looking round his apartment and dropping his gym bag on the floor. Everything seemed to be in its original place.
“You’ve got yourself into something deep Paddy me boy,” he uttered to himself, echoing a line his long dead Irish Grandfather loved to say.
A Malevolent Manner (Patrick Pierce #1) Page 3