Attack of the Cupids

by John Dickinson

  ‘I’ll deal with it,’ sighed Sally. She took a tissue from her pocket, dropped it over the dead thing and picked it up. Cassie and Imogen just glared at her. She felt their eyes on her back as she carried it away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Mr Singh, emerging from his office.

  ‘A dead mouse,’ said Sally.

  Mr Singh, who was Head of Year, frowned. He had a turban, a big black beard and big bushy eyebrows. If frowning had been a sport he could have competed at national level.

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  Sally knew a moment of inner struggle. It went like this.

  WINDLEBERRY: You must tell the truth.

  SALLY: I can’t dump on Billie.

  WINDLEBERRY: The sooner the teachers know, the sooner they’ll put a stop to it.

  SALLY: I can’t dump on Billie.

  MUDDLESPOT: I’m sure we should listen to Windleberry, Sally: He’s right. And he’s wise and clever and handsome and gracious and—

  WINDLEBERRY: Shut UP!

  MUDDLESPOT: Say you love me.

  WINDLEBERRY: No! Just keep watching for cupids!’

  ‘Lying on the floor in the corridor,’ said Sally.

  SALLY: Don’t look at me like that! He asked me where I found it!

  WINDLEBERRY: I’m disappointed, Sally.

  ‘We shouldn’t have those in the building,’ said Mr Singh. ‘Take it to the janitors and tell them where it was. They’ll know what to do.’

  He was right, Sally thought. There shouldn’t be any mice in the school. There weren’t any mice in the school. Janitors and cooks and cleaning staff and whole legions of exterminators leaped into action at the first sign of a whisker. The Food Tech Block was regularly closed for checks. The fastest way to make a deputy head faint was to utter the word ‘infestation’. The PTA was said to be funding ultrasonic vermin repellents at strategic points around the building.

  So how had Billie got hold of one?

  Fug was lurking in the cover of a loo-roll tube. ‘Boss?’ he said. ‘Hello, boss?’

  ‘Hey, Fu-u-ug!’ drawled the honey-thick voice from on high, via the golden trumpet that sat on top of Fug’s communication kit. ‘How a-a-are you, my lovely?’

  Fug winced. It sounded like the boss was having one of her moods again.

  ‘Mission accomplished. Results Positive. Awaiting Recall.’

  ‘You made the hit?’

  ‘Sure we did. The Jones Kid is down.’

  There was a short pause at the far end, during which Fug scowled warningly at his troops. I said ‘The Jones Kid’, his eyebrows semaphored. I didn’t say which Jones Kid. And if any of you want to go back and have Mr Windleberry reshape your faces with his fists, all you have to do is speak up now.

  None of the cupids spoke.

  The Angel of Love let out her breath. ‘That’s go-o-o-od,’ she said. ‘You’re such a sweetie, Fug. You did everything I meant for her?’

  ‘The full kazooie, like you said.’

  ‘Any effects yet?’

  ‘Boss – it’s war down here, I tell you.’

  ‘Good job!’ said the angel, suddenly brisk. ‘OK, Fug, no hanging around now. There’s work to do. Kick arse and get your boys back up here right away.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’

  ‘War – I like it! You’re a darling, Fug. You’re a sugar-pie.’

  The connection cut. Gingerly, Fug stood up. He rubbed his buttocks, one of which, courtesy of Windleberry’s toe, was mostly black and the other mostly blue. Both were about half again the size they should be.

  Kick arse?

  Been enough of that already, he thought.

  Sally spent the second half of lunch break in the library. She made sure she sat in the direct line of sight of Mrs Collins, so no one could interfere with her. The library was quiet, except for the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall as it counted the seconds until break ended and the hockey-pitch massacre could begin. She needed something to distract her, so she was working on her extra essay for Mr Kingsley. For that she had to be able to write about another Shakespeare. The one she had chosen was called Troilus and Cressida.

  It was, as Mr Kingsley himself had said, a difficult and nasty story, set thousands of years ago when the Greeks were Ancient Greeks and pretty well nobody else was around. The sixth-formers had done it as their school play last year, and they had recruited Sally to be assistant props manager, because when it came to keeping lots of different items in order and making sure the right person had them at the right time she was a lot more reliable than most sixth-formers (who all wanted to be onstage, anyway). So Sally sort of knew what it was about, without having to read it. Plus, it meant there were spare copies in the library. She had one open on the table in front of her.

  It wasn’t making the essay any easier.

  How thin is the line between laughter and tears?

  There had been a woman who had fallen in love. She had left her husband and gone with her lover to the city of Troy. Her husband had followed with an army to attack the city. By the time the play started the war had been going on for ten years. And it went on going on, for scene after scene, with everybody being nasty and jealous, making speeches and then killing one another. First they killed each other bravely, and then they did it treacherously and cruelly. And when the curtain went down, the war was still going on. But you knew how it was going to end. Pretty well everybody would die. And the whole city would be destroyed.

  Tick, tick, tick went the clock.

  How thin is the line between laughter and tears?

  Beneath that, her page was still blank. The first sentence was always the hardest. Once she’d got that down, then maybe she could get somewhere.

  There’s nothing to laugh about in Shakespeare’s tragedies. Would that do?

  Come to think about it, there wasn’t much to laugh at in his so-called comedies either. Girl and boy run away together. Jilted boy goes after them.

  Only, if it’s a tragedy he takes an army with him.

  Blank page. Somewhere down a corridor, someone shrieked. It might have been a happy noise. But it might not have been.

  What choice did these people have? Things never worked the way they wanted. If it was tragedy, they were dead. If it was comedy, they were dopes. They were puppets on strings.

  RRRRIIIIIINNGGGGG!

  The clock had ticked all the way to half past. It was the end of break. Now it was hockey, with Miss Tackle. And Viola and Cassie and Imogen. And their sticks. Hurriedly and angrily, Sally’s pen hit the page at last.

  There’s only one difference, she wrote. In tragedy, our strings get cut.

  Tara looked into the dressing room. She tossed a green bib.

  ‘Janey,’ she said. ‘You’re with us.’

  ‘Am I?’ said Janey, catching it. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘You too, Ameena.’

  ‘Hey!’ said Billie. ‘That’s not fair!’

  Janey and Ameena were the top sporty girls in Year Nine. They were both about six foot tall and competed at county level in tennis. Ameena also did long jump. Janey did showjumping to a level that Lolo could only dream of. And between them they represented the school in just about every sport, including a few unofficial ones. The King’s Boys School still hadn’t recovered from the day Janey had met up with them for some all-in arm wrestling.

  ‘You’ll have six team players on your side,’ said Holly. ‘And we haven’t any!’

  ‘Tough,’ said Tara. She left. Janey followed her.

  ‘Ameena – be a red. It’s not fair.’

  Ameena shrugged. She picked up the green bib.

  ‘Ameena,’ said Sally. ‘We need a hand here.’

  Ameena hesitated. She liked being paired with Janey. The two of them could criss-cross a ball through a defence like it was a needle through cloth.

  But she was also the sort of person who would go out of her way for you, if you asked her right and didn’t ask too much. She would for Sally, anyway.
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  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind, I guess.’

  ‘Right,’ said Billie. ‘Let’s do it.’ Her jaw jutted and she gripped her stick like a battle-axe. Whatever was coming, thought Sally, Billie was up for it. So was Holly. Tight-lipped, she strode out like a warrior. Ameena, head and shoulders above the rest of them, looked relaxed and confident. She wasn’t part of this whole thing, anyway. Eva was playing goalie and was pretty well smothered in gloves and helmet and pads. But the others . . .

  Sally touched Kaz on the arm. ‘We’re one too many now,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you be our linesman?’

  Kaz turned a pale face to her. ‘Don’t you want to be?’

  ‘I managed to borrow some shin pads. But they’re yours, if you want to play.’

  ‘Lucky you! Well – thanks, but I’ll go for the linesman option. Good luck!’

  Miss Tackle was waiting for them on the field.

  Miss Tackle!

  She wasn’t really wider than she was tall. She wasn’t built of rough-cut oak either. She just looked that way.

  Her hair was curly and cropped close. Her face was flat, her eyes were fierce. Out of doors she never spoke in anything less than a full bellow. She wore shorts in all weathers. She had probably never painted her fingernails in her entire life. She had, however, wrecked several rugby clubs.

  She had a doctorate in Politics, played chess at regional level and was a mainstay of the school choir (in which she sang tenor). She was the darling of the school quiz team because she knew all the answers to everything, especially History. But competitive games were her passion. Deep in her fiery heart there was one unshakeable conviction – that even the meekest, most bespectacled and ill-coordinated student had a little Miss Tackle inside them somewhere, and the way to get it to come out was to chase them up and down the grass screaming and hitting everything you could. An hour on the pitch with Miss Tackle was an experience no one ever forgot. It was like meeting a mad-eyed, roaring tree stump that could move at astonishing speed.

  ‘LINE UP, LADIES!’ said Miss Tackle. ‘LET’S GET STARTED!’

  They got into their positions. Sally ran her eye over the field and her heart sank. The red team had Ameena and, well, Holly. The greens had Janey, as well as Viola, Cassie, Imogen and Tara, standing cold-eyed with their sticks in their hands. One thing about Viola and her friends – they might spend their days doing their nails and yawning about men, but they actually could play hockey. Times like this, you remembered that.

  ‘HM, THIS ISN’T VERY EVEN, IS IT? VIOLA, WILL YOU SWAP WITH ELLIE PLEASE?’

  ‘A masterstroke,’ said Sally sourly, as an obviously reluctant Viola changed bibs with Ellie. ‘Put her on our team, do.’

  ‘Hey, Tony!’ called Billie.

  The sixth-formers were on a free period. There they went, lounging out of the school gates with their bags over their shoulders and their uniforms in studied disarray. Tony and Alec and Zac were trailing along in a threesome. They probably had no idea what was going on behind them.

  ‘Hey Tony!’ Billie called again, jumping up and down and waving her stick. She made enough noise for Tony to look her way. Worse, when he saw her he smiled and raised a hand. Everyone saw it. The faces of Viola and Cassie, Tara and Imogen, were as hard as stone. Their eyes glittered coldly.

  ‘That does it,’ muttered Sally. ‘We’re dead.’

  Pheeeeeeeeep! went the whistle. Clack, clack went the sticks of the forwards and—

  ‘Aargh!’ cried Holly, hopping.

  ‘Oh, sorry!’ called Tara as she chased off after the ball.

  ‘Sorry,’ muttered Holly furiously. ‘You will be!’

  ‘You all right?’ said Sally.

  Holly rubbed her shin. ‘She hit straight over it! Ow. I can walk. Let’s get on.’

  Down the field a cluster of red shirts was charging forward. Billie was there, stick clutched like a battle-axe and her fair hair bobbing as she ran. But Imogen was on the ball first. Coolly and cruelly she waited until the eager reds had almost reached her, then she swept it aside to Tara, whose pass found Janey lancing up the field.

  ‘TRACK BACK, REDS! WHO ARE YOU MARKING? LET’S SEE SOME DEFENCE NOW!’

  Defence? The only defence against Janey was another Janey, and she didn’t come in twos. Sally scampered after her, hoping for some kind of miracle that would let her get the ball. She might as well not have been there. Viola, sulking on the other wing, definitely wasn’t there. Janey’s pass found Tara in the centre with a free shot at goal, and only Eva, quivering behind her pads, in the way.

  WHACK! went the stick. SMACK! went the ball, ricocheting off Eva’s mask. ‘Eeep!’ said Eva, and sat down.

  Tara pounced on the loose ball and drifted it contemptuously into the back of the red’s net.

  ‘GOAL! WELL DONE, TARA! COME ON, REDS, GET YOURSELVES ORGANIZED!’

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Sally. She had a horrible feeling she was going to be saying this a lot that afternoon.

  ‘I – think – I – got a tooth or two left,’ gasped Eva. She got to her feet. ‘We’re mincemeat, aren’t we?’

  There wasn’t much Sally could say to that.

  Here came the greens again. Janey – Tara – Imogen – Tara . . .

  ‘COME ON, VIOLA, WHAT’S THE MATTER? ARE YOU ASLEEP?’

  Viola broke into a sulky trot, arriving somewhere near Imogen just in time to see the ball crossed to the far side of the field. Tara picked it up. Sally was in the way. Back went Tara’s stick . . .

  WINDLEBERRY: The rules of hockey are perfectly clear. A player must not intimidate another player. They must not play the ball dangerously or in a way which leads to dangerous play. They may not intentionally raise the ball from a hit except for a shot at goal. Raising the ball towards another player within five metres is considered dangerous.

  SALLY: You think any of that’s going to stop her?

  WINDLEBERRY: You should take the ball while her stick is back.

  SALLY: She isn’t playing the ball!

  Sally could think very quickly. Quickly enough to jump back about two metres at the first sign of danger.

  ‘Oh, Sally!’ cried someone in despair.

  Whisk! The ball had disappeared. Tara had disappeared. Where had she gone?

  There! Right past her and racing for the goal!

  WHACK!

  Pheeeeeeep! Two–nil.

  ‘Sorry, everybody,’ mumbled Sally.

  Five minutes later it was three.

  ‘COME ON, REDS! DON’T DANCE AROUND LIKE TRIPPING FAIRIES! MAKE A GAME OF IT! GET THE BALL UPFIELD! COME ON! AMEENA’S ON HER OWN UP THERE!’

  Another bully-off. This time Holly didn’t even try for the ball. She flinched as Tara’s stick came in, to howls from Miss Tackle and those one or two on her team who still thought there was any point in playing. Cassie was on it at once. She looked around. Janey was streaking up the middle, Tara and Imogen thundering down the right towards Sally.

  Pass it up the middle, thought Sally. Up the middle, please . . .

  Chock! It was coming almost straight for her. So were Tara and Imogen. The pass was just a little long . . .

  ‘GET ONTO IT, SALLY!’ roared Miss Tackle.

  ‘I’m going to have to,’ groaned Sally. She stuck her stick out. The ball hit it, bounced away. She scrambled after it. Tara and Imogen were charging down on her like chariots with scythed wheels.

  This is it! thought Sally. I’m going to get hurt!

  She saw the ball spinning gently as it rolled away from her. She saw the blades of grass – the way that each one stood singly and cast its own shadow. She saw Kaz on the touchline, open-mouthed. She saw Ameena racing away down the field, looking back at her and pointing towards an open space as she ran . . .

  Whack! went Sally’s stick.

  WHAM!

  went everything else. The world went red. She had a sense of flying through the air, and then the field stood up and hit her all along her body. She couldn’t see. She
couldn’t breathe.

  ‘ADVANTAGE!’ cried Miss Tackle happily. ‘GOOD PASS, SALLY! GO ON, AMEENA, MAKE SOMETHING OF IT! TACKLE HER, GREENS – DON’T JUST STAND THERE! GO ON, AMEENA! GO ON, AMEENA! YES, ALL THE WAY – GOAL!!! THREE–ONE! BACK TO THE MIDDLE, LADIES, LINE UP . . .!’

  ‘Are you all right?’ said a voice.

  Is that me talking? thought Sally.

  It wasn’t. It was Kaz.

  ‘Do you want to swap now?’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘I’m OK,’ groaned Sally, and climbed slowly to her feet. ‘How much longer?’

  ‘Just ten minutes, I think.’

  Ten minutes. How many times could you get your legs broken in ten minutes?

  The players lined up. There was an air of fierce triumph among the reds – the kind of dangerous, angry joy that sweeps over the oppressed when they finally put one back on their oppressors. Over the greens – well, whatever it was, it was pretty fierce too. Janey had said something to Tara and Imogen and they were not pleased about it. White-faced, mouths pursed, they squared up to their opponents. Their sticks were held ominously close to waist level.

  Billie walked past Sally, with Eva and Holly at her shoulder. ‘We’re going to get them!’ she whispered fiercely.

  What you’re going to get, thought Sally, is Us All Killed.

  Bully-off. Whack! ‘Ow!’ cried Holly. ‘Charge!’ cried Billie, and did. Off she went, haring down the field after the disappearing ball, with Eva and a pack of other reds at her shoulder. And they weren’t taking prisoners either.

  ‘Sticks!’ shouted someone.

  ‘PLAY ON!’ cried Miss Tackle (who believed in the flow of the game). ‘WELL DONE, IMOGEN, NOW GET IT UPFIELD! TRACK BACK, REDS, GET MARKING, LET’S SEE SOME DEFENCE . . .’

  Here came the greens again – exactly as before. Imogen to Cassie, Cassie looking around, Janey speeding upfield, Tara bearing down on Sally at right back . . .