by Paul Cude
Both friends had started in the security department at exactly the same time, with the young hockey playing dragon grasping the tailor-made opportunities for promotion that came his way more than anyone else's, due to the now deceased, former head of security (and of course dragon) Mark Hiscock. For his part, Owen had never seemed to mind or showed any sort of resentment towards Peter, even though others in the same position might have. So the two had become firm friends, a friendship that in Peter's eyes had increased tenfold when, at the height of the Manson fiasco last year, Owen had stood up to the two goons that had escorted him off the site at gunpoint in front of almost the entire staff. At the time, he'd been at the lowest point in his life; having been caught out by the evil Manson, who'd unexpectedly turned out to be some sort of new fangled dark dragon in his own right, plus he'd felt as though he'd failed his friends, and as though he had no one to turn to. Owen's brief bout of defiance had buoyed his spirits no end that dark day, and on his return, in his very first meeting with Al Garrett, the first thing Peter had done was arrange for Owen to get a promotion of his own. So the basketball shaped head, shaven of all but the tiniest amount of fuzz, now poking into the car's interior, belonged to the Assistant Security Co-ordinator, Peter's deputy.
"I'm glad you checked all the toilets. I'll be sure to mention your thoroughness in your next review. Are you going to let me through now?" enquired Peter, the traffic building up behind his car.
"Sure thing... boss!" replied Owen, standing to attention, giving Peter a mock salute, in the style of Benny Hill.
Smiling as the gate lifted up in front of him, Peter zipped off to find a space in the car park nearest to his office.
Once at his desk, tackling those pesky emails, he'd already figured there would be little or no chance of it happening, but to his surprise, his email offer of lunch in the staff canteen was duly accepted. What started out as a good day, had just got better.
On the cusp of lunchtime, he stood twiddling his thumbs outside the double doors of the staff canteen. Glancing up at the oval shaped clock on the wooden wall opposite, it read 11.51. Richie was late... as always. They'd agreed to meet at ten to twelve, and although only a minute past, he felt the same pent up anger he always did when people weren't on time. Richie was nearly always the usual suspect on that count. Interestingly, Janice was the only person he could think of who understood his obsession with punctuality. In the short while that he'd known her, never had she been late for anything... not once. That thought burst into a billion pieces as Richie ambled around the far corner of the corridor and flashed her trademark grin. Instantly he forgot all about her tardiness. Greeting each other with kisses, which seemed to be the norm these days, he commented that she looked absolutely radiant.
With that, the two joined the queue (which was meagre at this relatively early time of day) bought their food and adjourned to a table at the back of the hall. Much of the conversation was left to Richie, with Peter diving straight into his food. Going on to explain at length about her work, the courses she'd been both on and running, as well as some of the gossip from her part of the building, Peter nodded in all the right places, while paying genuine attention to all the things going on in his friend's life. It hit him while he was chewing on a mouthful of turkey laced with stuffing, just how proud he was of her. So much so, that it almost brought a tear to his eye.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
Thumping his chest, he coughed a little, pretending some of his food had gone down the wrong way.
"That'll teach you to shovel your food down so quickly," laughed Richie.
Nodding in agreement, just as a thought occurred to him, he went on to tell Richie about the chairman of the sports club's odd behaviour, and even reminded her of the little incident he'd seen so long ago with the chairman and Manson. Not able to make head nor tail of it either, she promised to let him know if she heard anything along the same lines from any of the lacrosse girls.
"So how is the lovely Janice?" cross-examined Richie, cutting to the chase.
Peter's coughing fit wasn't exaggerated this time; it was so bad, Richie thought she might have to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre on him. Waving her away, he washed down his mouthful of food with a large slurp of water.
"Well...?" remarked Richie, still not willing to give up.
"She's very well, thank you," he replied, blushing profusely.
"Owwww... sweet," teased his friend. "But you know that's not what I want to know."
This was starting to get really uncomfortable for Peter, and worst of all, he couldn't see any way in which it was going to improve.
"I don't know what you mean."
"I think you do," she replied, loving every minute.
"I don't know what you want me to say, Rich."
Leaning across the table, just to make sure they weren't overheard in the now crowded restaurant, she whispered softly in his ear.
"Is she worth it Pete? Worth the law breaking, and the resulting punishment that'll come your way if you're caught? Would you lay down your life to save her?"
Pulling away, leaning smugly back in her chair as Peter carefully considered her words, Richie was almost certain she had him. As tables and chairs filled up all around them, the food line got steadily longer and the noise levels increased, she sat there expectantly. Knowing that there was no way to get out of it, he treated her question with the respect it deserved and thought carefully before replying.
Just the thought of the stunningly attractive blonde bar worker made him smile, creating a warm, fuzzy feeling throughout the length of his entire falsehood of a form. Try as he might, he just couldn't imagine his life without Janice, his bar tending beauty. Was it worth all the potential trouble? Oh yes! Would he lay down his life for her? In an instant! Glancing across at his friend, sitting there smugly, she'd obviously known the answers to the questions before she'd even asked them, even if he hadn't.
"Amazing isn't it?" Richie announced from her position of experience.
"What is?" he replied, slightly afraid of the answer.
"Amazing how quickly it creeps up on you and bites you in the ischium." (That's a dragon's bottom to you and I.)
He still looked a little perplexed.
"Humans, Pete," she mouthed, so that only he could hear.
Reluctantly, he nodded in agreement. Once again, his friend leaned across the table.
"Make the most of it. You deserve it. And... she's lovely."
Of all the things she'd said to him, this brought a lump that felt like the size of a small planet to his throat, but before he had a chance to respond, Richie was out of her seat and up onto her feet.
"Anyhow Pete, gotta dash. Work to do and all that."
Both friends gathered up their dirty plates and cutlery, stacking them neatly in some shelves towards the front of the restaurant. As they did so, Peter whispered in Richie's ear.
"How are things with Tim?"
She froze... for a fraction of a second anyway. Turning slowly, so as to make a point, she gazed purposefully into his eyes.
"You know full well that it's over... I had absolutely no choice. I wish there had been another way, I truly do. So, my friend... make the most of what you have. Who knows when and where it will end?"
And with that she clapped him on the shoulder and vowed to catch up with him on Saturday, when she would be playing lacrosse and he would be playing hockey.
35 Alarm Bells Ringing
Pulling on the number three shirt he wore so proudly, he gazed in the full length mirror to check out how he looked. Shorts with lycra underneath and double socks on each foot to hold his shin pads in place, set off his white and lime green Asic Astroturf trainers. Trailing down to his shoulders, part of him wondered if it was time to have his dark hair cut into a different style of some sort. He did love it, but very few males carried their hair that way now, and given that he was growing up and held more responsibility at Cropptech, perhaps it was time to bite the bullet. As
well, he never really knew what to do with it on the hockey pitch. Quite often it got in his way, and he'd thought on numerous occasions about tying it up, but that seemed far too... girly. Another option he'd considered was a bandana, but whenever he played against anyone wearing one, that particular player always seemed to be a fully fledged, prize muppet, and he certainly didn't want to be cast in that mould. Anyhow, he was ready for battle... well, on his chosen battle ground anyway, that of the hockey pitch. Satisfied that he at least looked the part, he continued packing his dark green kit bag, making sure to include his towel, shower gel and a full change of clothes. You could almost guarantee one or other of his teammates would forget either their towel and/or part of their clothing, normally one of the younger ones, and for that they would either get fined, or win the dreaded award... the one that involved wearing the pink cowboy hat and matching pink skirt. So far, he'd always done just enough to avoid that dubious honour, and desperately wanted to keep it that way, doing everything he could, on and off the pitch, not to become complacent.
* * *
Across the other side of town at the exact same moment, a very different kind of packing was going on. Inspecting each stud on the bottom of his immaculately clean boots, Tank concluded that they were all fine and proceeded to wrap them in a plastic bag, before placing them gently in the bottom of his wardrobe sized kit bag. Next, his team strip... shirt, shorts, socks... all ironed to within an inch of their lives. Checking that he had all the usual strapping for his head and hands, a full water bottle and his very own first aid kit, last of all, he placed a neatly folded towel, some shampoo, shower gel, deodorant and a small bottle of aftershave into the top zipped pocket.
'Rugby players do things right,' he thought, whizzing the zip around the kit bag to seal it up. 'Not like those ungainly hockey and lacrosse jocks who just turn up all scruffy, some already in their kit, some not.' Twisting his dark blue club tie into place, finally he pulled his blazer from the clothes hanger over which it had been draped, slipped it on, checked that he looked perfect, and after picking up his bag, headed downstairs.
* * *
In a not too distant flat, it was a whole different story. Somewhere there was a large double bed, but it was impossible to see where at this precise moment, as it looked as though some kind of clothing bomb had gone off, tossing items everywhere. Socks, knickers, a crumpled towel, as well as half a dozen different tops and three or four rain jackets littered the room. Trousers and shoes lay scattered across the fluffy beige carpet; well, the glimpses that could be seen looked beige. Richie Rump's match day preparation differed a great deal from that of her friends. Continuing to root about in one of her drawers, she finally found the tightly fitting red top that she'd been looking for. Grabbing the light coloured jeans that she'd only moments ago flung across the bed, she rolled them up with the top and tossed them casually into her pink and white emblazoned kit bag, adding a scrawny looking towel for good measure. Fleetingly, she checked the large zipped end pocket, making sure she had shampoo and deodorant, and that the prized alea that she wore almost all the time was wrapped tightly in a small leather wallet, so that she could put it on after showering. Playing lacrosse was the only time she didn't wear it, as it would stand out and lead to too many awkward questions. But she loved it, because it made her feel powerful, secretive and safe, all at the same time. Picking up a couple of spare balls from behind the door, she lobbed those into the bag from a distance, pleased to see that her aim was its usual... spot on. Grasping the handles of her still open bag, she swept up her two favourite lacrosse sticks from the side of the wardrobe as she passed by and gazed lovingly at the gorgeous linen dress Tim had bought her in Florence. Intricately embroidered with flowers, it looked stunning clinging to a clothes hanger, dangling from the top of her wardrobe door. Clumsily, she headed downstairs, her sports skirt flapping behind her as she did so, the tiniest jolt of excitement running through her, knowing that he'd be at the club at some point today, looking forward to their next sneaky rendezvous. After tying back her hair, she too was ready for the weekly battle. But not just ready to play... ready to WIN! For her, nothing else was imaginable. Failure was not an option.
* * *
The clubhouse was relatively empty. One or two people were about... grounds people making sure the rugby and lacrosse pitches were suitably marked out and in the best condition possible, the occasional contingent of players wanting to buy a drink to take with them to their away matches or use the loo before their journeys, and the odd member of staff. Janice usually treasured this particular time on a Saturday, thinking of it as the calm before the storm, as the afternoon and evening were easily the busiest times of the week. But this morning, she felt uncomfortable. The manager had let her in nice and early and to her credit, as always, she'd simply got on with her work: stacking the shelves, checking the pumps and the barrels in the cellar, making the place look clean and respectable, emptying the dishwasher... all those things and more. But about halfway through her long list of jobs, the bar door had swung open, and in had stormed the chairman of the sports club. 'Stormed' was the only way possible to describe it. Taking one long look at him, she knew it would be unwise to make even the friendliest of comments, and so didn't even bother to try. Instead she watched from the other side of the bar as he stomped across the as yet unvacuumed carpet, banged open the door at the bottom of the stairs and trampled all the way up to the first floor, all of which she could hear. Judging from the look on his face, he was in the kind of foul mood that would make Sir Alan Sugar look like a sugar plum fairy on a day out at Disney World. Choosing to ignore what had just happened, she got on with everything else on her list, focusing intently on the thought of seeing her beloved Peter later on in the day. That thought had just the right effect, and not five minutes later she was singing one of her favourite songs as she swerved in and out of all the tables and chairs with the vacuum cleaner.
* * *
An hour or so later, with the bar and seating area looking immaculate, though now starting to fill up with customers, one of the female hockey players came running through, covered in sweat and out of breath.
"Please can we have the key to unlock the double side gate to the Astroturf?" she puffed. "One of the opposition has fallen and damaged her ankle rather badly and we've had to call for an ambulance."
Janice knew the only way to get an ambulance anywhere near the pitch was through the double gate, of which there were only three keys to the lock: one each for the hockey men's and ladies' first team captains, both of whom were elsewhere, and one always kept on site, located on a little silver hook on the wall of the chairman of the sports club's office.
(Incidentally this was the key to the same gate that had raised questions on the bonfire night Manson had attempted to flee with the stolen laminium and murdered his cohorts in their van in cold blood. No one had been able to explain to the dragon authority investigators, in their human guises, how the gate had been opened that night, and of only three keys to that particular lock, how two had disappeared. Of course little was made of this at the time amongst the sports club members, due to the fact that the memories of all the spectators from that night having to be quickly and permanently erased by an elite team of King's Guard, put together for just such contingencies.)
With few other bar staff about, and understanding the urgency of the situation, Janice knew what she had to do, despite really not wanting to.
"I'll go and grab the key from the chairman's office and bring it out to you. Shouldn't be too long," she said, smiling reassuringly.
"Thanks," replied the player, turning and sprinting back out to the pitch.
Shaking her head at the thought of what was to come, she headed hastily up the stairwell at the end of the bar, all the while telling herself to be calm and polite whilst dealing with the chairman... after all, it would only be for a few brief moments. Reaching the top of the stairs, she nipped round the first door on the right and into the function room
. From where she was she could just make out the door to the chairman's office was ajar. Keen to get on with her urgent quest she strolled over, knocked lightly on the door, and started to push it open, while at the same time politely saying,
"Excuse me." As she entered, the chairman swivelled back round from the wooden desk in his high backed chair, his freckled, bony hands trembling, his narrow face the colour of beetroot, barely able to contain his erupting anger.
"OUT!" he ordered, pointedly, signalling with his arm.
"But, but... I... I... I need the..."
"I DON'T CARE... OUT! NOW!"
Thoughts of the poor injured hockey player out on the pitch, awaiting an ambulance, and Peter's idea that all hockey players are friends all across the world, whether you've met them or not and if not, then they're a friend just waiting to happen, buoyed her spirit and strengthened her resolve.
"The, the... hhhockey pplayers... on the... ppitch need the kkkey to open the bbig gates," she stammered horribly. "Ooone of thee players has bbbbeen hurt," she announced, managing not to burst into tears, but shaking more than a little.
Deep inside the chairman's world of total and utter madness, the tiniest hint of sanity started to filter back, his breathing slowed to long, ragged breaths, his hands almost having stopped quivering. But still, he looked a state. Janice wouldn't have been at all surprised to learn that he hadn't slept not only last night, but for the last few nights. In fact he looked so bad, she wouldn't have been surprised if he'd been sleeping rough.
With the colour of his forehead having almost turned back to normal and his breathing under control, he dismissed Janice with a casual wave and an overwhelming arrogance.
"The key's on the wall. Take it and go," he commanded.
Turning to look at the key on the wall, because of her diminutive stature, she knew that she'd struggle to reach it, and so with the chairman having already forgotten about her, she got as close to the desk in front of the wall as she could, leant over against the table and reached for the key. As she did so, the table jarred ever so slightly. Instantly, the chairman turned with an angst on his face the like of which Janice had never seen. In an instant his face had turned pale, his forehead clammy, and his eyeballs looked as though they were about to pop right out. This time it was his turn to stutter.
