Deathwatch (4 page)

It was Angus who made a noise first, a sort of small yelp of surprise as he pointed at her, at something on her shoulder, or her neck. He was grinning. Her scream came a split second later. She yelled, and flung the flowers away, screaming again. They flew in a high arc and landed, scattered, on the floor.

A huge spider fell from her shoulder to the floor by her feet and she sprang away, her heart thumping and her skin cringing. She had felt it tumble down her arm. Its legs were scrunched up beneath its bulbous body. It was dead. But Cat was not sure if it had been dead when it fell from the bouquet, or if the act of her brushing it away from her had killed it.

She screamed again, shudders tingling all along her spine, as though spiders were still scuttling over her skin. Her whole body felt cold, shaking, and she wanted to run from the room, even though the creature was obviously dead. Her face was screwed up as she kept brushing imaginary things from her.

Polly came running back into the kitchen. “Get the spider, Polly,” said Angus. And Polly did. Labradors eat anything.

At that moment, their mother came home, saw the mess of flowers, and peanut butter sandwiches in the kitchen and took control.

“What lovely flowers!” she said, picking them up and gathering them expertly into an arrangement. “Who’re they from?”

“She doesn’t know,” said Angus, who was grinning in disbelief at the amount of fuss one girl could make about a small dead thing. Cat was still standing far away from the flowers, pressed against the kitchen units, trying to recover some kind of dignity. It was, after all, only a dead spider. Yes, a very large one – unusually large, one might say – but still only a dead spider. Harmless. Unless you were stupid enough to live in Australia, where such things were normal. Snakes, too. And leeches and giant wasps and other pointless things that would be better off extinct.

“Interesting. Have you got an admirer, Catty?”

“I’ve no idea!” she snapped. “Just make sure there are no more spiders in it!”

“Come again?”

Angus explained. “You see, Mum, there was a totally enormous man-eating spider that just leapt out and attacked her before she valiantly destroyed it with the force of her superhuman fear.”

Her mother shook the flowers in exaggerated fashion. “Well, there’s nothing there now. You’re quite safe from dangerous creatures.” She put them neatly in a vase and handed it to Cat.

Cat shook her head. “Just put them there; I’ll take them in a minute.”

“You want me to phone the shop and find out who sent them?” Cat nodded. Her mum picked up the phone and dialled the number on the card.

“Yes, hello. Can you help me? My daughter received some flowers this afternoon and there was no card saying who they were from… What about the name on the credit card … so you mean you have no record of the sender at all? … Well, can you remember if it was a man or a woman or how old or anything? … Well, could you ask her … yes, it’s Diana McPherson.” And she gave her phone number and hung up.

“Not much help there. The woman who took the order isn’t in, and the flowers were paid for in cash. So no one knows. And they didn’t sound at all interested. The man said he’d ask the woman who took the order but to be honest he didn’t seem as though he was that bothered. I wouldn’t hold your breath for them to phone me. I expect you’ll find out, though – someone will ask if you received them. Meanwhile, they’re lovely, aren’t they? You should put them in your room.”

Looking at them with crinkle-eyed suspicion, Cat took the flowers gingerly and put them on her tray. Up in her room, she cleared space for them on her dressing table. As she ate her snack, went quickly on Phiz and dragged on her clothes for circuit training, she looked at them every now and then, wondering who they could be from. The label had probably been accidentally dropped but she had some ideas who could have sent them: some likely, others less so. They could be from her club, or her trainer. Possibly. School even. Stranger things have happened.

Once she’d recovered from the shock, she didn’t wonder for two seconds about the spider.

After all, it must have got there by mistake.

MAYBE
Cat would get used to the mask, but at the moment she hated the warm black mesh round her face. It smelled of metal, and sweat from the padded cloth protecting her throat. She wished she could have her own fencing mask, rather than borrowing a school one, used over far too many years to protect far too many sweaty faces. She found herself breathing a little more shallowly than she should, her lips tightly closed.

Through it she could make out the other fencers, trussed up in the same stiff padded jackets, like the straitjackets she imagined her mum’s patients wearing. Though her mum had often told her that none of her patients needed straitjackets. “Don’t be a victim of stereotypes,” she’d said. “I haven’t seen a straitjacket used in years.”

There was Ailsa, recognizable from the thick, dark brown hair hanging down her back. And Priya, model-tall and slim, complaining that the jacket made her look fat.

And there was Danny, just about to put his mask on.
Looking
at her. And then looking away.

She wished he hadn’t decided to sign up for fencing. Surely he knew she had started too? Well, yes, and maybe that was why he’d joined. Or maybe it was a coincidence. After all, with a teacher like Mr Boyd, a lot of people were signing up. Mind you, that was mostly the girls. For obvious reasons: Mr Boyd was seriously good-looking. For a teacher.

As for the boys, some of them slagged him off behind his back – jealousy – but they still wanted to be in his class. Because Mr Boyd was a kind of sporting-hero type. Did extreme sports at weekends; had broken his nose playing rugby; had quadriceps that bulged like tree trunks; could climb up a rope with his arms alone. Had shown every new year group that particular trick.

Anyway, Cat had taken up fencing for a different reason. Her athletics coach had recommended it because it was part of the modern pentathlon – running, swimming, fencing, riding and shooting – and he said she should give it a go. Not many people could do pentathlon, he’d said, but
she
was special. And as soon as he’d mentioned it to her parents, she’d found herself persuaded to sign up for fencing. It was the word “special” that did it: their daughter, the star.

She wondered when riding and shooting would come into it. Absolutely no way! When she was younger she’d wanted to ride, but not now – too time-consuming. Even more time away from her friends. As for shooting, well, it would be quite interesting. Different. But what sort of people would do it? Aggressive people. Weird types. She didn’t think she liked the sound of modern pentathlon. Sounded like a load more training, as well.

She was going along with the fencing idea only because you had to take a Wednesday after-school activity and this term’s options were fencing, cookery or drama. Cookery and drama didn’t appeal. Cookery would be all health and hygiene, which she had enough of at home. She didn’t like drama – that was Bethan’s scene, ever the performer. Drama queen, in the best possible sense.

So she would do fencing, but forget pentathlon. They couldn’t make her do it. It was her life, not theirs. She was the one who had to do the training.

Cat didn’t like to think of their reaction if she confessed that she wasn’t sure about a career as an athlete at all. Trouble is, she wasn’t good at anything else. What else could she
be
? And if she threw away something that had been her dream ever since she remembered, what would be left? Who would she be if she wasn’t “Cat, the athlete”?

And now Danny had started fencing too, three weeks in to term. She wondered what he was playing at. He wasn’t your average sporty type.

Cat took the mask off for a moment and breathed deeply, though in the school gym the air wasn’t exactly fresh. It was fetid, with feet and fustiness. Sweaty plastic mats. She retied her hair, tucking stray strands behind her ears. She pulled the huge suede glove onto her right hand and flexed her fingers stiffly inside it. Mr Boyd was handing out foils to a few pupils. “Here, Catriona, I’ll put you against Danny. Go easy on him.” He passed the foil into her gloved hand and she put the loop round her wrist.

Her heart sank, but there was no getting out of it. She had to pretend she didn’t care.

“Salute each other, please. Remember?”

Masks under their arms, they did the ritual movement with the sword. Yes, well, it might be a sign of respect but it didn’t change how she felt about him.

Now she placed the mask over her face, pressing the flexible back tightly onto her head. With her left hand she checked that it fitted properly, so that it could not fall off. All things she had been taught to do during the first two lessons. Not something you’d easily forget, not with a long metal sword – or “foil” – flashing in your direction. Even if it did have a hard plastic button on the end of it. She wondered if it ever happened that the button fell off.

She and Danny faced each other. This was Danny’s second lesson and her third. His first actual fight. They nodded to each other as if in respect, as the rules stated they must.

At Mr Boyd’s signal, Cat readied herself in the on-guard position, still feeling somewhat silly in the odd white breeches and long socks. But she soon forgot this as she concentrated on the details of the position: weight evenly on both feet, body upright, right foot pivoted round to face ahead, heels in line, left arm held at an angle behind her and wrist relaxed, whole body twisted sideways to present the narrowest possible target. And her sword-arm held softly bent in front, the foil steady, or as steady as she could make it. The tip pointing upwards, in line with her chest. Balance was everything.

She’d been practising this position in her bedroom, using a ruler as a foil, the mirror as a target. After the first lesson her thigh muscles had screamed for days. As Danny’s probably were now. But now Cat’s muscles, strong already, found the stance easy, natural. She smiled, hidden behind her mask.

Something rushed through her, unwanted, unexpected: the heady drug of competition. The need to win. She couldn’t help it. It was deep within her. It was her.

“Best of three hits,” called Mr Boyd and he gave them the signal to start.

She advanced, easily and fast. Danny moved forward too. Mr Boyd shouted something from the sidelines. Something to Danny, something about keeping his left arm up. Cat watched the point of Danny’s foil, saw it wobbling. She smiled again. There was an advantage to these masks – no one could see what you were thinking.

She lunged. But Danny was too quick. He parried her foil and it did not make contact with his body. He lunged in return, only just missing her.

“Good riposte, Danny!” shouted Boyd, clapping. She narrowed her eyes, aware of people watching; aware that many of them would know that this was Cat and Danny: Cat and Danny who until recently had been an item. Who had a history. Not that Boyd would know that, probably.

She was back on guard. And now Danny lunged. She hadn’t expected it, not so fast. But she parried him, aggressively clanging his foil away. He lunged again, and the point of his foil touched her below the collarbone.

“Hit!” shouted Boyd. “Well done, Danny!” How could she have let that happen? Now she moved forward fast, two steps in quick succession. Danny stepped back, just quickly enough. Her arm was rock-steady; his was wavering. He was on the defensive. Her body fizzed, that drug rush again. Like anger and hunger rolled together.

But he had recovered, quickly steadying his feet, sending his body moving forward again. He lunged. She had to leap back and sideways and only at the last split second did she parry his blade. It brushed her arm, but hitting the arm did not count.

She had to win! Winning was what she did. And against Danny? All the more reason. With huge force, and fury, she lunged forward, under his foil, a dangerous move. He had not expected it, and shifted backwards, frantically stepping out of the way as her foil came towards his chest, towards his heart.

“Hit!” said Boyd.

She felt like shouting it herself as she sensed her blade press hard into his chest. One all. Back to the on-guard position.

She lunged, quickly, without giving him the chance to think. She would not let this go.

He managed somehow to avoid her blade, but she pressed forward her advantage, lunging again, her face hot with rushing blood. Her foil just touched his chest. She’d won!

What happened next, she was not quite sure. Did he trip as the tip of her foil touched his body? Did the sole of his trainer catch on the floor? The next thing she knew was that Danny was flat on his back, looking like a stranded beetle, legs waving, his black mask still on his face.

And everyone was laughing.

Cat did not know why she did what she did next. It was a moment of madness, driven by the adrenalin that rushed round her body; the need to win; the pleasure of it. She stood over Danny and touched the point of her foil to his throat, looking down on him like some medieval knight with a victim at his mercy.

Mr Boyd came over. “Catriona, don’t be silly.”

Ashamed, she stood aside. Danny clambered to his feet. He was clutching his left hand. He must have fallen on it. Either that or he was pretending, as an excuse for having lost that bout.

“Remove your masks,” ordered Mr Boyd. Her hair was stuck to her forehead. Danny’s face was red, the cheeks moist with sweat. His eyes were furious.

“OK, we’ll stop the bout there,” said Mr Boyd.

What did he mean, stop the bout there? It was finished anyway. She’d won, hadn’t she? She glared at him.

“That wasn’t a valid hit, Catriona,” he said, looking straight at her.

“It was! I felt it touch!”

“You know the rules – the foil has to bend. And it didn’t.”

“It did so! Come on, Sir!”

“No, Catriona. I’m the referee. And I didn’t see it. And you know what they say about the ref’s decision.”

“But…”

“No buts. Where’s your sense of sportsmanship?”