Bentwhistle the Dragon in A Threat from the Past

by Paul Cude

  Chapter 12: A Member of the Magic Circle?

  September seemed to positively fly by from Peter's perspective. Having returned to the hockey, he was happier than ever, despite the obvious ongoing tensions at work with Manson and the fact that Richie hadn't spoken to him since their argument after the first night's hockey training. She had been avoiding him at work ever since.

  Hockey though, was great. He'd been to two more training sessions, comfortably getting his eye in, and had played in two games. With the league starting in two weeks time, the games at the moment were all friendlies, all of which had been won by his second team, the last one by eight goals to nil. Finding their form early on, and gelling as a team, the side were playing much better than last season, with the new additions only strengthening things further. As standards go, they weren't that far off the first team.

  During his evenings, Peter had spent the vast majority of time trying to develop the spyware program that he hoped to upload at Cropptech with a view to finding out just what Manson was up to. He knew, of course, that even if he managed to perfect his program and get it past the company's mainframe, there was still no guarantee that anything would come of it.

  Tonight was going to be another night in front of the computer, trying to put the finishing touches to his rather pieced together program, before testing it with the aim of uploading it sometime next week. Having just finished his rather bland tea, he headed for the living room, plopping down in his big black swivel chair that was parked in front of his computer. As he did so, the doorbell rang.

  'Let me guess,' he thought, 'someone wanting me to change my energy supplier, no doubt. Only been three of those already this month.'

  Strolling down the hallway, he could just make out the silhouette of someone tall through the semicircle of triangular windows at the top of the wooden door. He psyched himself up to be brutally rude to whatever sort of salesman it was, knowing full well that he was normally a soft touch when it came to this sort of thing. Putting on a steely face, he opened the door sharply to find... Tank, grinning inanely at him.

  "Wotcha guv'nor, I've come to fix your telly," Tank said in a comedy voice, as he squeezed by into the narrow hallway, carrying a huge tool case.

  "Come in, why don't you," Peter put in, to Tank's wide back, which was quickly vanishing up the hallway.

  Turning into the living room, Tank opened his toolbox on the floor, and proceeded to pull Peter's television out from the wall, so that he could get to the back of it, all the time ignoring his friend hovering over him.

  "So... heard from Richie?" Tank enquired, as he unscrewed the back cover from the TV.

  "Nope... you?"

  "Well, I tried ringing her mobile, but there was no answer and it didn't even go to answer phone so that I could leave a message. I guess she just wants a little space. Nothing unusual there I suppose," said Tank, sliding a long, thin flat-bladed screwdriver behind the back panel, trying to lever it out.

  Peter stood wincing, waiting for the television to shatter into a million pieces. He could see in all their detail, Tank's huge arm muscles straining with the effort he was putting in to trying to lever out the panel, and with the television looking so delicate, he just knew a busted set was only moments away.

  Suddenly there was a tiny little 'pop' and the panel came away from one side in Tank's enormous hands. The strapping rugby playing dragon repeated the feat on the other side of the panel and, much to Peter's amazement, the whole thing came away in one piece, exposing the inner workings of the television. As Tank propped the panel against the wall, out of the way, he turned to Peter.

  "Surprised?"

  "Not at all," Peter lied. "Just curious, that's all."

  "You're such a terrible liar Pete. I could see your reflection in the blade of my screwdriver. You looked like a little toddler needing to use the potty. You were just waiting for something awful to happen.”

  "Yes, yes I know, I'll leave you alone to get on with it. Can I get you a drink or anything?"

  "No, I'm fine thanks," replied Tank, his head once again buried in the back of the television.

  Slumping back down in his computer chair on the opposite side of the room, Peter started to test his program, occasionally glancing over to see how his friend was progressing.

  As the evening wore on, the two friends working in silence were polar opposites. Frustration threatened to overwhelm Peter, with his program doing nothing that it was supposed to. Tank, on the other hand, was getting on much better. Well, I say much better... the television was now in fifty different parts, but... they all seemed to be laid out on the living room floor in a clear and logical manner, all undamaged. Seemingly satisfied with his progress, Tank got up from the floor and made his way out to his car. Engrossed in what he was doing, Peter didn't even realise his friend was missing. When Tank came back in a few minutes later, Peter was swearing and cursing like a Premiership footballer, most unusual for him.

  "What's the matter, bud?" enquired Tank.

  Peter explained what he was trying to do and why, also adding the fact that he couldn't make the program work as it was supposed to, despite his best efforts. Tank agreed to take a look at it when he'd finished with the television, telling Peter to take a break for a while. Peter did as his friend suggested, taking a seat on the sofa, secretly relieved that his friend was going to bring his superior programming skills to the party. Tank was way better with computers than he would ever be.

  In the middle of the living room floor, Tank unwrapped a large object shaped like a pyramid from a flowery old tea towel that he'd brought in from his car. Peter sat transfixed as a bright and sparkling translucent crystal pyramid, a cable running out of its base, was revealed.

  Tank held up the crystal for Peter to see.

  "This, my friend, is the clever bit."

  "What does it do?"

  "This is what allows us to pick up the feed, whilst at the same time converting it into a digital format that the television can display... hopefully."

  Tank ran the cable from the crystal carefully to the back of the television, and after plugging it in, he started to put the components so carefully laid out on the floor, back into place. Peter remained totally silent, knowing just how much his friend was having to concentrate. After about fifteen minutes, Tank let out a visible sigh of relief and looked over towards his friend.

  "Want to give it a try?" asked Tank, a manic grin scrawled across his face.

  "What can we expect to see?" replied Peter nervously.

  "Dunno. Depends on what's in the buffer at the other end. Whatever it is will be in tomorrow's newspapers, that's for sure."

  Sceptical as he was, he knew he had no chance of getting out of what was to come, so Peter put on a little smile for his friend and said,

  "Sure, let's do it."

  Tank plugged in the mains lead and switched the set on, causing the pyramid to glow ever so slightly. Peter was sure something bad was about to happen. Holding the remote, Tank started the manual tuning sequence, not entirely sure what he was looking for as he scrolled through the static-filled screens, absolute confidence about what he'd done encompassing him totally. As the static started to form a black and white picture, the two of them tried to make out what they were seeing. After a slight re-tune, both realised they were looking at a mass of sand dunes in a desert. That's all they could see... sand everywhere.

  "Nice picture. Not very exciting though. Do you think the papers are running a count the sand grain competition tomorrow?"

  "Give it a minute," added Tank, squinting hard at the picture.

  The two friends studied the vivid, albeit black and white, picture. Peter was just impressed that his friend had managed to get the television to work with the crystal, but couldn't understand for the life of him why they were staring at sand dunes in the desert. As this crossed his mind, a small dark shape some way off, swam into view. At first, Peter thought it to be a bird swooping down low, but the more they watched, the m
ore it became apparent it wasn't that. Whatever the shape was, it was clear it was moving at quite a speed, and was some way off, so much so that its down-draught was spraying up the sand beneath it. And that was the giveaway.

  "SANDSKIMMING!" both friends cried in unison.

  "That must be the new course in the Sahara," observed Tank.

  "I didn't think it was supposed to be ready for at least another six months," added Peter.

  "Ah... they always do that, just to create a surprise and more publicity around it all. Cool though, eh?"

  "Oh God, yes."

  Sandskimming was another dragon thing. Not so much a sport, or obsession like laminium ball, but more like a relaxing pastime. The idea was to fly low to the ground on a timed lap. The lap, or circuit, would be created by the first dragon, due to them flying so low the down-force would produce a pattern in the sand that looked very much like a road or route. The next competitors to go would have to follow the pattern in the sand, with the winner being the dragon whose timed lap was the fastest. Sand was the ideal game for this to be played over, with dried mud and sometimes a lake or two used in very rare circumstances.

  Sandskimming had started off as a younglings game from the nursery ring, but had managed to capture the imagination of older dragons everywhere after being introduced to one particular holiday destination, and although not nearly as popular as laminium ball (what was?), every dragon knew about sandskimming and most had tried it out at some point in their life.

  When young dragons were taken on field trips to different parts of the world, whenever they were somewhere exotic and out of the way, usually a desert, they would almost always resort to playing this game. However, the last fifty years or so have seen the development above ground of dragon holiday camps and it has been there that sandskimming has really taken off as a form of relaxation.

  Dragon holiday camps first came about in 1956, the brainchild of a dragon called Firesworn. He was a respected scientist who'd been working on supplementing the worldwide underground monorail with solar power. Committed to his study of solar power, once his work underground had exhausted all of its theoretical possibilities, he then had to find an area on the surface to continue his experiments. Exploration and development took him to the Kalahari Desert in Southern Africa. Based there primarily because of its remoteness and the fact that human contact was unlikely at best, he also found it was possible to keep all his equipment out in the open, as well as maintain his dragon form without fear of discovery.

  It didn't take long for Firesworn to realise he loved being in his natural form, soaking up the sun's rays and flying around the hot, arid desert, in between working on his solar power project.

  Most dragons in Firesworn's position would have occasionally returned underground to visit their family or friends. But he got so caught up in his work and the sheer exhilaration of living above ground that the last thing he wanted to do was to go back underground. So instead, he got his family to visit him on the surface. Reluctantly they went, and once there, were captivated by the desert and everything that involved being in their dragon forms above ground. When the time for them to return home came around, they did so grudgingly, and once back home underground, they told all their friends and neighbours about the wonderful experience that they'd had.

  Soon, Firesworn was inundated with dragons wanting to visit him or help with his project. Ironic really, as before he hadn't managed to find one volunteer to accompany him. At about this time Firesworn's passion seemed to be less concerned with the solar power and more with developing a place where dragons could rest and relax on the surface, while still maintaining their privacy and keeping any knowledge of their existence a secret. Two years later, after a Herculean amount of work, not only from himself, but his family and friends, Firesworn came up with the answer... the first dragon holiday camp.

  Based in the exact same place he'd been carrying out his research, an area of five hundred square miles was set aside for the camp when it was first fashioned. That sounds like a lot, but when you consider the Kalahari covers an area in excess of one hundred thousand square miles, it was really only a needle in a haystack. Basic as things went, the only feature of any real note in the camp was the stunning oasis situated almost directly in the middle. Firesworn and his friends had extended the oasis from a rather small and badly formed watering hole, into a superheated swimming pool for dragons of all sizes that was over fifty square miles in area. It was the talk of the domain.

  Lookout posts with dragon guards were placed around the perimeter at ten mile intervals to make sure the visiting dragons weren't accidentally discovered. Their tasks were simple: to use their telepathic powers to persuade and encourage animals and in particular humans, to change course if they looked at all as though they might be heading in the direction of the camp, an easy feat really for a dragon with enhanced telepathic abilities.

  However, at first this wasn't as straightforward as it should have been. While animals were relatively easy to dissuade, some of the human tribes in the area were rather harder to convince. The lookouts soon found the easiest way of convincing the humans to stay away, was to show them in their minds the area of the camp, and just how treacherous the terrain was. That combined with the mirages the dragons created, showing watering holes and oases off in other directions, seemed to prove a huge success. This combination still works around the world today at some of the many modern day vacation camps that exist in remote areas across the planet.

  Before long, Firesworn didn't know what had hit him. Dragons were coming from all over the planet to sample the delight of simply relaxing in the sun on the surface in their dragon forms. With popularity spiralling out of control, the camp was increased in size, provided with dedicated underground access and an easy link to the worldwide monorail and better facilities such as restaurants, sleeping areas and exceptional entertainment. More guards were provided as the camp expanded, and specially designated lookouts had the task of making sure the camp wasn't spotted from the air by any stray aircraft that might be passing.

  Firesworn's solar power project had been totally consumed by his obsession for creating the ultimate in dragon relaxation, something he'd more than achieved. Over the coming decades that original camp expanded even more and became the blueprint from many more camps to come. Today major dragon vacation camps can be found all around the globe, in such places as the Great Basin in North America, the Namib in Southern Africa, the Gobi Desert in China, and the Gibson Desert and Great Victoria Desert, both in Australia.

  The very latest undertaking, and the one Peter and Tank were now viewing through their television, is very special indeed. Over ten years in the making, quite a feat in a dragon timescale given what they can do with their mantras and magic, it dwarfs anything else on the planet. Sitting proudly in the middle of the Sahara Desert about one hundred and fifty miles south of Adrar in Algeria, just north of the Tropic of Cancer and just west of the Prime Meridian, its location has been subject to much planning. Apart from the fact that it needed to be remote and in a suitable climate, its current location has the added bonus in that it sits directly over the main southern monorail route out of London, which follows the Prime Meridian all the way to Accra, and then splits into two, with one heading Southwest to Rio, while the other heads Southeast towards South Africa.

  Covering an area in excess of four thousand square miles, which again sounds a lot but is merely one drop in an ocean when it comes to the size of the Sahara itself, every conceivable luxury has been catered for, from lava pools with giant flumes, to a la carte charcoal dining, to death defying sandskimming courses. No expense has been spared, with everything under one roof so to speak, or not as the case may be.

  Hundreds of lookouts have spent years being trained to make sure they're the best that they can be at their jobs to try and do everything to minimise the risk of discovery by the outside world. Everything that can be done has been done to make it as hard as possible to be discovered. T
he only eventuality that the dragons in charge seem to think presents any sort of risk, is the scenario of a passenger plane crashing down and landing smack bang in the middle of the camp with lots of survivors and that, they say, is so unbelievably unlikely that the odds can't even begin to be calculated, and that's with the best dragon minds in the kingdom on the case.

  So with all of that in mind, the camp was nearly ready to be opened and announced to the general dragon population for the first time. The two young dragon friends were currently viewing the few privileged dragon media trying out the facilities so that they could report on it for their telepathic papers the following day. Who wouldn't want to try out the most amazing getaway resort ever?

  Their eyes glued to the television, Tank and Peter sat watching for the next twenty minutes or so as the images changed from different dragons flying over the sandskimming course, to views of fabulous giant lava pools, bubbling away furiously, to watching charcoal being prepared by the best dragon chefs in new and mouthwateringly exotic ways (which made both of the young friend's stomachs rumble repeatedly), all for the consumption of the expected guests.

  "Well, we know it works," remarked Tank, beaming.

  "I never doubted you," replied Peter, looking as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

  "Yeah... right," said Tank, punching Peter playfully in the arm.

  "Well... maybe just a little," added Peter, rolling away and standing up.

  "Anyway, it doesn't matter. We can all watch the match together... YIPPEE! Now all you have to do is tell Richie," urged Tank, uncomfortably.

  "Oh good," sighed Peter, having forgotten all about their falling out.

  "I'll do it if you want?" offered Tank.

  "No it's all right, it should be me. I'll do it at work tomorrow."

  "Want me to look at that program on the computer for you?" volunteered Tank.

  "That would be great if you've got time."

  "Sure... no problem."

  Two hours later, having fixed his friend's computer program, Tank and his huge case made their way back through the front door and into his car. Peter walked down the garden path in the crisp night air to see his friend off.

  "Thanks for the help with the program," he said, his breath starting to freeze as it came out of his mouth.

  "No problem mate," replied Tank through the open driver side window, having just switched on the car's so-called heating system to clear the windscreen of condensation.

  "Don't forget to talk to Richie tomorrow... tell her the good news about the game."

  "Will do. Safe journey back."

  And with that, Tank pulled away from Peter's house, his giant frame hunched down so low in the front seat, due to only being able to see past the condensation through a hole the size of a pea that had cleared on the windscreen. Peter smiled at his friend as he made his way back up the garden path, weaving his way in and out of the snails which were about in such great numbers that they could probably start a large scale military engagement, by the look of things.

  The following day at work, Peter found himself once again scanning the bank of security monitors in his office, only this time not for the ever elusive Manson, but for his friend Richie.

  'What did I do with my time before I became hooked on these?' he wondered to himself, studying row after row carefully.

  Richie proved as elusive as Manson, at least until lunchtime when Peter spotted her heading for the canteen. Having waited for this chance all morning, he zipped out of his office like a bolt of lightning, slamming the door shut behind him and broke into a sprint, knowing full well that if he got a move on he could time his arrival to match that of his friend. As he rounded the last corner he slowed to a walk, all his effort rewarded by the sight of his friend right in front of him as he reached the canteen's double doors.

  "Hi," he said, holding one of the doors open for Richie.

  She stood, hands on hips, refusing to go through the door that he was so gallantly holding open, to the delight of the other diners.

  "Training for a marathon are we?" Richie enquired, just a little too loudly for Peter's liking.

  He could feel himself start to blush. Clearly Richie had no intention of forgiving him.

  'DAMN! This is going to go badly,' he thought to himself.

  Suddenly Richie grabbed him by his tie and yanked him through the double doors, much to everybody else's amusement.

  "Could you be any easier?"

  "Probably not... no," he mumbled, not quite sure what was going on.

  Joining the snaking queue, it soon became obvious to Peter that he'd been forgiven.

  "How did you know I'd run all the way?"

  Richie sighed and shook her head. Leaning forward so that no one else could hear, she whispered,

  "You may be a prim and proper dragon, only using your senses when told it's okay to do so, but me... not so much. Heightened heart rate, perspiring badly and most obvious... your tie flying back over your shoulder," she said smiling.

  "You're way too clever for me."

  "I know," replied Richie, nodding her head.

  The two friends went on to have an enjoyable lunch, with Richie telling Peter all the gossip from her department and Peter telling Richie about Tank and the television, and the fact that they could watch the big game together, albeit in a rather roundabout way due to the number of people close by. For once, Richie seemed genuinely surprised, something Peter could barely remember happening before. As the pair cleared their plates away, they agreed to meet in the bar of the sports club on Saturday after their respective lacrosse and hockey matches, with a view to going back to Peter's to watch the Global Cup on the rigged up television. Peter went back to work a happy man or dragon, depending on how you looked at things.

  His good mood continued throughout the week, especially at the prospect of a fantastic Saturday to come, which he hoped would include a home hockey win in the last friendly before the league started, followed by a rousing night in watching the Indigo Warriors with Tank and Richie.

  For the first time ever at Tuesday night's training, the entire second team squad was there, culminating in a highly charged, intense and thoroughly enjoyable session for them all. On his way home, all Peter could think about was how this season's league campaign could be their best ever, with promotion there for the taking. With just one more friendly to go this Saturday, he just knew they couldn't fail to get off to a cracking start.

  Saturday morning was normally quite a relaxing time for Peter. Generally he fell out of bed quite late, had a bite to eat and then went and played hockey. Not today though. Awake at just gone six, he tried desperately to go back to sleep without any luck. Getting up, he realised just why he was too excited to sleep. The hockey... he just couldn't wait. Considering himself just like a child on Christmas Eve, he could come to just one conclusion.

  'What a sad fool I am,' he laughed, whilst brushing his teeth.

  With his game not starting until four, time dragged by as he tried to keep himself busy. Needless to say it didn't work. By midday he was going up the wall. All he could think about was hockey, hockey, hockey. How he would play, how the team would perform, who would be playing for the opposition, would they have their strongest team out? All these questions and more picked at his brain, like vultures on a carcass.

  Eventually two fifty arrived and he could wait no more. On arrival at the sports club, he found the second team captain, Andy, waiting in the car park.

  "Hi Pete," said Andy. "Looking forward to the game?"

  "Can't wait," he replied, like a giddy child.

  "There's been a bit of a change of plan I'm afraid," announced Andy, rummaging through his kit bag.

  "Oh?" said Peter inquisitively.

  Andy kept on rummaging as he talked.

  "The opposition cried off late last night. Half of their team have flu. Anyway, all is not lost. The same thing seems to have happened to their first team as well, and they were due to play our first team. S
o, we're going to be playing our first team instead, which as it happens is not a bad warm up for our first league game next Saturday," said Andy grinning.

  Peter was crestfallen.

  'Oh my God,' he thought. 'I'm going to be playing against Manson!'

  "You okay?"

  "Ahh... yeah... fine," Peter lied.

  "You just look all... pale, that's all."

  "No... no... I'm fine."

  "Okay, I'll see you in the changing room shortly," voiced Andy, heading off towards the entrance to the clubhouse.

  Peter leant on his car, head in his hands. It felt as though his world had ended. Of all the things to happen.

  'I'd rather face a team of drunken, diseased, ravaging Vikings on a hockey pitch than Manson,' he thought. Taking some deep breaths in the hope of calming himself down, he brought his head out from beneath his hands just in time to see Manson's black Mercedes pull into the car park. One word and one word only popped into his head... PANTS! Manson got out of his car and headed towards the changing rooms with some of his teammates, who had gathered in the car park. Halfway, Manson craned his neck and gave a sly glance over his shoulder in Peter's direction, making a mock salute as he did so. What was supposed to have been a brilliant afternoon had started in the worst possible way. He knew he had to get past it and focus on what a good evening he was going to have, and not worry about the hockey. That was easier said than done though.

  Making his way to the changing rooms to join the rest of his team, he got halfway and then changed his mind, opting instead to head into the bar. It was still early and he couldn't face going to get ready just at the moment. Hearing that he'd be facing Manson on the hockey pitch had really knocked him for six. The bar itself was relatively empty, with only a few hockey players from earlier games gathered around the large tables at the far end. Walking the length of the deserted bar, on reaching the end he plonked his kit and stick bag down on the well worn carpet. Gazing out through the panoramic windows, lost in thought, he could see that both the rugby and lacrosse matches were in full flow. Squinting a little against the bright sun, he could just make out his friends competing in their separate sports. Richie was screaming down the wing at full pelt, her stick high above her, the ball cradled in the head, bursting through full throttle towards the opposition's goal. Tank, on the other hand, had just that second been buried beneath half a dozen hulking great rugby players. Peter watched, concerned, as play continued. His brief worry misplaced, he felt a sense of relief as only a few seconds later his giant friend stood up, covered from head to toe in mud, holding the ball aloft, players from both teams tumbling off him like rag dolls. He smiled at the thought of the exhilaration his friend must be experiencing. A light tap on his shoulder startled him back to reality. He turned to see one of the bar staff smiling at him. He struggled to remember her name, which was odd in itself given his eidetic memory. Finally it came to him.

  "It's Janice isn't it?" he asked.

  "That's right," replied the bubbly blonde with a beaming smile. Despite feeling thoroughly miserable, he smiled too, that's how infectious her grin had been. For an instant his mind wandered off, caught up in just how beautiful she was.

  "Ummm... you couldn't do me a little favour, could you?" she asked.

  "Of course. What do you need?"

  "I need some more cartons of orange juice from upstairs and I can't leave the bar unattended. I wondered if you could just nip up and grab a couple of boxes for me," she continued, once again flashing her best smile.

  "Sure," stammered Peter, finding it hard to concentrate, but not sure why.

  "The boxes are on the right, just inside the stock cupboard door on the floor. It's unlocked, they just need bringing down."

  A brief nod was followed by,

  "Back in two tweaks of a dragon's nose," after which he bounded off towards the stairs right at the end of the bar, her chortling at his hopeless joke ringing in his ears. Taking the stairs two at a time, he headed towards the first floor. It wasn't just the stock cupboard that was located on the top floor, but a private function room with its own small bar, a tiny balcony overlooking the sports pitches and the chairman of the sports club's private office which was only accessible through the function room. Reaching the top of the stairs, he strolled purposefully along the corridor to the stock cupboard. Gently, he pushed open the door. Without the need to switch on the light, he could see the boxes of orange juice on the floor, just where Janice had said they were. Using one foot to prop open the door, while bending down to lift up the boxes, it was then that a bone chilling sight on the other side of the function room caught his attention. Hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention faster than Usain Bolt rushing for the last of the chicken nuggets. Outside his office, the chairman of the sports club was having a heated conversation with... Manson! A mixture of raw anger, outright bluster with just a hint of fear scored the chairman's face. He did not look happy. Knowing that he could be spotted at any moment, Peter slipped back into the dark cupboard, closing the door as much as he dared while still being able to see what was going on. Manson had his back to Peter, so it was only really the chairman's face that he had a view of. Softly whispering a very basic enhancement mantra, he was surprised when his hearing didn't pick up what the two of them were saying. Abruptly Manson turned and faced his direction, seemingly searching for something. Peter stood deathly still, the tiny slit through which he was watching concealed by shadows. Clearly on edge, Manson turned back, with the heated discussion continuing for another minute or so, the chairman becoming more and more disappointed.

  It was then that the oddest thing happened. The chairman's face turned whiter than a cartoon ghost. Manson had pulled something out of a bag on the floor, and was offering it out to the chairman. For his part, the chairman didn't want to take it, seeming scared, nervous, almost petrified. Even from as far away as he was, Peter could make out the sweat pouring down the man's neck and face. Manson leaned menacingly close to the chairman and whispered something in his ear, causing him to shake uncontrollably. After ten seconds or so, he reached out and reluctantly took the object, handling it as if it were about to explode, before turning, walking into his office and putting the parcel down. After locking the office door the two men headed out of the function room, towards the corridor where the stock cupboard was. Peter gently closed the door right up and, holding his breath, stood as still as he could. Hearing the footsteps of the two men pass his hiding place he let out his breath, unable to resist one last look. Opening the door up a little, just enough for him to see out, he watched them going down the top flight of stairs, Manson clapping the chairman on the back, the chairman looking as though someone had just told him he'd got one day left to live. Leaving it for a couple of minutes, he picked up the orange juice boxes, and headed back down to the bar. A beaming Janice was there to greet him.

  "I was just about to send out a search party for you," she said with that gorgeous smile.

  Peter returned it with interest as he plonked the boxes down on the bar.

  "The lock on the door jammed just as I was coming out. Don't worry I managed to fix it. It's fine now."

  "Well, thank you very much," replied Janice, lining all the boxes up on the bar. "Perhaps I'll see you after you've finished your game. Good luck."

  Peter was lost for words as he realised he should be heading for the changing rooms. Giving Janice a quick wave, he scooted out of the back entrance of the bar, and into the changing area. His team were in the changing rooms adjacent to the first team and due to the paper thin walls, could hear just how confident their opponents were. Although his team should have been on a high from all their previous results, their changing room seemed to be charged with negativity. Peter was unusually quiet, for good reason, but then he was never really the life and soul of the banter and chat anyway, so that shouldn't have made a whole lot of difference. It was almost as if a spell had been cast on them.

  As the first team passed the half open doo
r, joking around and playfully slapping each other, the atmosphere inside the Second XI's changing room resembled a morgue. Andy the captain gave his usual rousing team talk to very little effect. The passion and spirit seemed to have been sucked out of the entire squad. With time ticking away, reluctantly the players headed out to the Astroturf pitch, to do battle with the First XI.

  A shrill whistle reverberated around the ground, signalling the end of the current match on the Astroturf. Both teams made their way on to the artificial pitch to complete warming up. Orange tops and white shorts were the order of the day for the first team, sporting the club's normal home strip. For the Second XI, Peter included, it was bright blue tops complemented with dark blue shorts. Knocking a ball back and forth with one of his teammates, Peter picked up on the distant cheers from the rugby and lacrosse matches. He figured they must both be coming to an end. Body on autopilot, still moving the hockey ball around, his thoughts turned to his friends, hoping they'd had an enjoyable afternoon in their respective sporting endeavours, wishing that it would suddenly be this evening and he could be with them watching the Indigo Warriors.

  One of the umpires blew his whistle, indicating that it was nearly time to start. Both teams’ players finished stripping off their tracksuits and assumed their corresponding positions on the pitch. After removing his top, Peter trotted from the sideline to his position as sweeper (the last line of defence except for the goalkeeper), standing just outside the twenty five, directly in the middle of the pitch. Checking to make sure Matt, his goalkeeper, was okay, he watched as Manson strolled purposefully into the opposing centre forward position. That pretty much meant that Peter would be facing him for most of the match. Taking a deep breath and rapping the bottom of his shoes with the head of his stick, something of a ritual he'd developed just as games were about to start, he focused his concentration on what was about to happen.

  Both umpires checked the two goalkeepers were ready and then blew their whistles to start the match. After pushing back, the second team managed to string together seven or eight passes before being hounded off the ball by the first team. Having found possession, the first team surged forward on mass at an unbelievable pace.

  'The accuracy of their passes isn't too shabby either,' thought Peter, as one of his opponents used a cunning bit of deception to slip the ball through the Second XI defence, straight to an onrushing forward.

  In the blink of an eye Peter found himself faced with two opponents heading for him at full speed, the one without the ball being Manson, with only his goalkeeper behind him.

  'Here we go,' he thought as instinct took over. Approaching the player with the ball, he noted Manson off to his left. Taking a deep breath, he offered his stick out to the right as if to make an open side block and then... timing it down to the very last split second, flipped his stick over and laid it down flat, reverse stick on the ground.

  Much to Peter's relief, it was the perfect interception, with the player having taken the bait, trying to pass to Manson who was free, off to his right. With the ball on the end of his stick, Peter pulled it round to his open side and passed it wide to his right back, who had, along with the rest of the defence, busted a gut getting back after the defence-splitting pass had exploited their weakness. As his team went back on the offensive, Peter looked around to make sure no immediate threat presented itself. All it would take was one long ball and they could easily be undone again, something he knew only too well, given that it was his responsibility to rally his defenders and make sure they picked up their assigned players, preferably goal side.

  As all of this happened, he noticed Manson growling some very harsh words at his playing partner from the previous attack, the one whose pass Peter had intercepted. Turning away from the two players, the slightest of smirks tickling his face, Peter hoped that his team could chip away at the first team's attitude throughout the match, with a view to giving them a chance at getting some kind of result.

  Lightning pace would best sum up the next fifteen minutes or so, with both teams winning short corners and goal scoring opportunities but for last gasp interventions from brave defenders. One stocky first team defender blocked a rising shot right on the very goal line, tipping it around the post at chest height, while Peter made a diving reverse stick block, to a shot that Manson had seemed to spend an age teeing up. It was adrenaline pumping chaos... in a good way. But with the highly charged nature of the game and more and more reckless tackles flying in, it seemed only a matter of time until the umpire started showing his cards. As half time approached, the first team became more dominant, their superior fitness showing. However, Peter's thought about team spirit seemed to echo more and more as the match progressed. With each new onslaught the first team created, frustration seemed to stop them in their tracks, more often than not ending up in a missed chance to take the lead. Frayed tempers and verbal backlashes became the norm as one breakdown led to another, Manson generally being the main culprit. Every three or four minutes he was berating one of his own players for either a sloppy pass or just general poor play. A welcome relief to the second team players, after having been run rugged for the final ten minutes of the half, the umpires finally blew for half time, putting them out of their misery with the score remaining level at 0-0.

  Plodding over to their stick and kit bags, dripping with sweat, the second team players took on some welcome water before joining their captain in the goal mouth at the opposite end of the pitch from the one they'd been defending in the first half. As the players gathered round, Peter noted how exhausted they all looked. Each and every one of them had given nothing short of one hundred percent and, although tired, most had a smile on their face. The atmosphere was electric and although the adrenaline rushing round his body was totally and utterly fake... he felt it, all of it. For him it was more real than anything he'd experienced in the dragon domain. He was where he should be, right here, right now.

  He stood with the other players and watched Andy the captain give one of his highly motivating speeches, the gist of which was that they were playing out of their skins and that realistically the first team should be beating them by a rugby score, bearing in mind the different leagues the two teams played in.

  With everyone suitably pumped up, Andy asked if anyone else had anything to add. Every week it was the same, normally with one or two of the more experienced players chipping in with the odd tactical thing, or a potential weakness they'd spotted in their opponents that could be exploited. Peter had never had the courage or felt the need to speak up before now, what with his incredible shyness and the fact that he was still relatively inexperienced at the sport, compared with others in the team. But something about this game today had... got under his skin, or scales if you like. A little reluctantly, he raised his hand, feeling his temperature rising as the whole team gazed in his direction.

  "Peter," said Andy. "This is a surprise. It's not often we hear from you... go ahead."

  With all eyes on him, he suddenly wished he'd kept his mouth shut. Forcing a smile onto his face and trying desperately to ignore the somersaults his stomach was doing, he forged on.

  "Well... I... ah... um... totally agree with everything you've said," he stuttered. "The... um... um one thing I would add is that... well... that I think we can use their lack of team spirit and discipline against them."

  A few of the team members nodded in agreement, giving the young dragon the confidence to keep going.

  "The longer it stays 0-0, the more volatile they'll become. They've already lost their rag with each other a dozen times. Anything we can do to enhance that, we should. Laugh at them, mock them, ignore them - anything that gets them riled will only benefit us and, I believe, give us enough of an advantage to win."

  "Who knew we had our own sports psychologist in the team?" added Andy.

  Peter could feel his temperature skyrocketing, his face turning a rather dark shade of crimson.

  The umpires blew their whistles to signal that half ti
me was over. Before the players turned to walk back to their positions on the pitch, Andy said,

  "You heard the man," pointing directly at Peter. "Do as he says, make them lose their tempers and we can all celebrate a stunning victory afterwards."

  And with that, their captain waved them all onto the pitch, the team duly obliging, the players all taking up their first half positions. Peter felt like he'd never felt before. It couldn't be the adrenaline because, as a dragon, he had none, even though his DNA had been manipulated nearly down to the atomic level in his representation of a normal human being. The feeling was hard to describe. It felt like opening up a promotional pack of anything and winning a huge expensive prize. It felt like opening a door and finding limitless amounts of all your favourite foods, and some new ones as well.

  Jolted from his reverie of foody thoughts by the umpire's whistle, he took in his surroundings, pleased to see the other defenders quickly pick up their players. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Tank and Richie just wandering out into the spectator area beside the pitch, both holding plastic pint glasses full of beer, which they raised on noticing they'd caught his eye.

  As the match progressed, it didn't take long for him to realise that the entire nature of the game had changed quite dramatically. There was far more urgency in every aspect of their opponents’ play. Their tackling, movement off the ball and passing was far superior to anything they'd done in the first half. Some of the tackles that were flying about though, were on the hospital side of dangerous. The stakes had certainly changed; clearly the first team had got a rollicking at half time from someone, and Peter was pretty sure he knew who.

  Peter's team found themselves defending for their lives for the first ten minutes in the second period of the game, barely getting out of their own half and giving away numerous short corners. In his mind it seemed like only a matter of time before they would concede a goal and then the floodgates would probably open, something he was determined wouldn't happen. Bizarrely, even his idea about exploiting their indiscipline and lack of spirit seemed dead, as they were playing so well that they didn't seem to have anything to argue about.

  Losing the ball once again in midfield, Peter's team looked shaky and disorganised as the first team forwards came hurtling towards him for what seemed like the thousandth time in only a few minutes. Holding his concentration and, as with the first tackle he'd made in the match, he dummied to go one way and went the other at the last second, again finding the ball on the end of his stick.

  Momentarily relieved to have gained possession of the ball, he looked up to play a simple pass to one of his teammates. His first thought was that things looked pretty grim for him. Not only was there no obvious simple pass, but more worrying was the fact that three of the opposition were on their way to close him down. What to do?

  From that very first training session, it had been quite apparent what type of player he was. Certainly not an attacking player, that's for sure. His dribbling skills were erratic at best and he lacked the confidence to run at people and take them on, nearly always preferring the simple pass to get himself out of trouble, knowing that the easiest way to beat a player was to... PASS, something many other players either failed to realise, or deliberately chose to ignore. If anything could be said to be Peter’s best quality on a hockey pitch, then it would have to be his tackling which seemed to get better and better each time he played. It was as if he could tackle and stop a ball instinctively.

  With this in mind, his current situation didn't bode well. His teammates were exhausted, he could see that in the periphery of his vision as time seemed to slow right down. His mind told him that he'd have to dribble around at least two opponents, not really a great idea, particularly at the top of his own 'D'.

  All this zipped through his mind in milliseconds. Continuing to scan the field of play in front of him, he caught the movement of one of his own players through the oncoming mass of orange shirted opponents. The player in question though was at least fifty yards away, with an opposing player easily able to intercept his pass. 'Or would he?' he suddenly thought, his mind considering something of a radical alternative, picked up during the last couple of training sessions. A flick, or aerial ball, was a difficult skill to master and very rare at this level of hockey, but it was something he hadn't done too badly at during practice. Out of options (with the dribbling around two players not really being viable) his mind made up, he totally changed the shape of his body (not like his natural change!) and angled his stick under the ball. With his opponents getting nearer and nearer, he knew it would be now or never as the incoming players would soon be too close for him to safely execute what he had planned. Watching the ball intently and twisting his wrist with all his might, he pushed through and flicked the ball into the air. It was a sight to behold. Graceful, majestic, magnificent would all describe the moment perfectly, to him anyway. Having fully expected the ball to roll about two inches in front of him, he was stunned to see it cut through the air over the heads of the opposition players closing him down, continuing on towards the teammate that he'd picked out. But he was still not as stunned as the first team players, many of whom looked on in horror at the audacity of what they'd just seen carried out against them. All this happened in only a few seconds, but would be engrained into Peter's eidetic memory until the very day he died, that and the looks of the opposing players.

  As the ball landed with a slight 'THUD', cushioned by the excessive sand that carpeted the pitch, his teammate steamed onto it at full pelt and after a great sequence of five passes in a row, it found its way to the second team centre forward, a nimbly built lad by the name of Malcolm. As the first team keeper sprinted off his line for all he was worth, Malcolm unleashed a vicious shot that the onrushing keeper managed to repel with the tip of his right foot. Just as the chance to go ahead looked to have been spurned, in roared the second team's left wing to stroke in the rebound, much to the disappointment of their opponents. The sound of the ball smashing against the backboard brought an almighty roar from every second team player on the pitch, along with the rest of their squad on the sidelines. 1-0 to the Second XI. Where on earth was this going?

  Two or three of Peter's teammates congratulated him on the fabulous pass that had set up the goal, while their opposition seemed to be having an inquisition as to who was responsible for letting the goal in. Peter wasn't quite sure how it would play out from here on in, and in fact it took only a few moments for him to get some idea, as a sloppy bit of play from the first team allowed the seconds in on goal again, with the defender inadvertently forcing Malcolm wide, his off balance shot pinging into the side netting. If nothing else, it was a warning. In mere moments the first team's composure had been shot to ribbons, with their players openly arguing and blaming each other, left, right and centre. For the first time in the game, Peter actually started to believe that the second team could win.

  With the breakdown of any and all discipline on the part of the first team, the match became more and more even, being almost wholly played in the midfield area of the pitch. Peter found he was constantly marshalling his defenders, so much so there was a real danger that he might lose his voice. Every now and then he would glance over at his friends on the sideline who, without spilling a drop of their beer, managed to offer him terrific smiles and give him a double thumbs up each.

  As the midfield struggle continued, the intensity of the tackles ramped up, predictably ending with one of the umpires cautioning two of the first team, and a second team player, in the space of only a few minutes.

  Foul after foul led to the game becoming very scrappy. More confident in his and the team's ability to negate any first team threat, Peter pushed further up into the midfield to support his beleaguered comrades, all the time wary of the space left behind him, as in hockey there is no offside rule (not now, anyway). With the first team's defence having done the same thing, the middle of the pitch became a frantically packed battlefield. As Peter feared the umpire
s might start to get fed up with the constant series of fouls and actually send someone off with a yellow card, the second team skipper, Andy, intercepted a wayward first team pass and went all out on a gung-ho run straight at the opposition's goal. Because all the defenders had pushed up, the captain found himself in acres of space after beating two flat footed opponents and used a quick burst of speed to put him through one on one with the exposed goalkeeper. For all involved, time slowed irrecoverably. As the goalie shot off his line to narrow the angle, one of the first team defenders ran his socks off to get back on the goal line and cover. By this time, Andy had reached the top of the 'D' and upon crossing the line had let rip with a fearsome shot. 'Greener', the first team goalie, had a reputation as an excellent shot stopper, which on this occasion was well deserved, as he managed to get a heavily gloved fingertip to the ball, taking all the pace off it. Spinning like an unruly planet, the ball ended up right by the penalty spot, halfway between Andy and the defender on the line. Instinctively, the pair of them raced forward with the grounded Greener unable to influence the situation in any way. Unfortunately two strides into his run, the defender slipped on the sandy surface and skidded to his knees. Andy took immediate advantage, racing onto the ball and slipping it past the flailing defender and into the back of the empty net. To everyone's amazement, the second team led 2-0.

  Each individual roared as the goal went in, some raising their sticks high above their heads in celebration, much to the first team's disappointment. As the forwards made their way back to the halfway line for the restart, Andy the captain motioned with his arms for them all to calm down, knowing there was still more work to be done. While this was happening at one end, a meltdown of epic proportions was taking place at the other. Pushing, shoving, finger pointing and all sorts of recriminations were going on amongst the members of the first team. It got so bad that the umpire had to blow his whistle and tell them to calm down before the restart could take place. With everyone set to begin again, one of Peter's teammates asked the nearest umpire how long was left.

  "Eleven minutes," he replied, looking up from his watch.

  'All we have to do is hold on for eleven minutes,' thought Peter promisingly. 'With our opponents squabbling like toddlers, we might just be able to do it.'

  As the teams lined up against one another, his attention was drawn once again to Manson, taking up his forward position after having been in the centre of the melee that had just broken up. As Peter watched his menacing adversary, he noticed that Manson was doing something very unusual with his hands. Shielding them with his body so that most of the people on or around the pitch couldn't see what he was doing, the ex-army major started weaving intricate patterns with his fingers, while at the same time silently mouthing long and peculiar words. Peter found himself mesmerised by the patterns that seemed to almost leave a trail through the air, that is until Manson looked up... directly into his face. He froze in terror at the unadulterated look of hate on Manson's face. Instantly his legs turned to lead, his arms to jelly. It was all he could do to stay standing up as his vision started to blur. Subconsciously he heard a noise, a sharp shrill noise. In his peripheral vision he could make out movement... shapes getting bigger and bigger. It took a few seconds for Peter's brain to register what was happening... the match had restarted and the opposition were on the attack again.

  With this revelation, the fogginess clouding his brain started to part, albeit rather slowly. By the time he had any real idea as to what was going on, opponents were on either side of him, just about to enter the 'D' and have a shot at goal. Willing his lead-like legs to work, with all his might he forced the player with the ball out wide, hoping that he'd done enough to make up for his momentary lapse in concentration. Impossibly, as far as Peter was concerned anyway, the player increased his speed, getting ever closer to the byline. Knowing he had but one chance to block the cross, Peter threw himself for everything he was worth, to make a one handed reverse stick block. It was a great attempt and nothing short of idiotically brave. It was, however, all in vain. As he followed the ball, all the time showing his reverse stick in an effort to block the shot, feeling as though he were wading through treacle, the first team forward did the unexpected and lifted it over his outstretched stick. But for that, it would have been a fantastic take. Up stepped a sneering Manson, hammering the ball into the roof of the net from only a few yards out, the second team keeper rooted to the spot. A sharp whistle and the sound of people cheering brought Peter back to earth as he brushed the sand from his bloodied arms and knees after his extravagant attempt at an intervention. The first team had scored, straight from the restart. Not only that, but most of the second team were swaying about in something of a daze. It didn't look as though anyone apart from Peter had even tried to stop them.

  Just as her last sip of lager rolled pleasantly down her throat, the whistle blew to restart the match. She'd been stood talking to Tank and watching Peter now for the best part of twenty minutes, aching fervently from her agonisingly tough lacrosse match, but determined to come and show support for her friend. Moments earlier, Tank had disappeared inside to chat to one of his rugby playing mates about something. So as she pulled away the empty pint glass from her delicate lips, she was blown away by what was happening right in front of her. Nearly the entire first team surged forward as one big wave of players, passing the ball from one side of the pitch to the other, with unerring accuracy and incredible speed. That wasn't what blew her away though. They were allowed to surge forward almost unhindered. One or two second team players half heartedly waved their sticks about, but most just stood, seemingly glued to the spot, even Peter, right up until the last second anyway, by which time it was pretty much too late, despite his valiant last effort. Richie couldn't believe her eyes.

  'Perhaps,' she thought, 'that's the answer.'

  On taking human form, dragons generally take on a lot of their characteristics as well. A human heart with a pulse, red blood instead of the usual green, with things like fingernails, toenails and hair growing of their own accord, unlike in dragon form where once a dragon reaches maturity, nothing else will grow, no extra scales, talons stay the same length... nothing. A dragon's vision will also mimic that of a human, something that takes more than a little getting used to, because in its natural form, a dragon can see in a whole host of different ways, by, if you like, scrolling through a series of different modes. Normally, when above ground human style vision would be the default, but a dragon can also see in the infrared spectrum; it can bear witness to mantra effects and magic in general; it has a limited heat sense as well as having enhanced night vision. A dragon maintaining human form will still have access to all these talents, but it isn't easy to use them, and no dragon would go around in human form looking in anything other than the default human mode.

  For whatever reason, whether instinct, suspicion or just plain curiosity, Richie closed her eyes, took one long deep breath, and let her mind slowly alter her physiology. Moments later she opened them again, taking in the sight in front of her... the hockey pitch and everyone on it with the benefit of her, if you like, mantra vision. She gasped out loud at what she saw. The scene before here bore little or no resemblance to the one she had witnessed only moments earlier with her human vision.

  Every member of the second team was shrouded from head to toe in a swirling cloud of black mist, coiling around each of them like a terrifying constrictor squeezing the life out of their prey, with the exception of Peter. His cloud seemed to be slowly dissipating.

  'What on Earth...?' Richie thought. Suddenly a hand touched her shoulder. Unusually for her, she jumped, startled.

  "Whoa... sorry Rich," pleaded Tank, "didn't mean to startle you."

  Richie pulled him closer to the small fence, from which they were watching the hockey and lowered her voice.

  "Look at the pitch and tell me what you see."

  Not sure what was going on, but assuming it was one of Richie's renowned practical jokes,
Tank reluctantly looked at the pitch, waiting for the punch line.

  "Well?" demanded Richie.

  "A game of hockey?"

  She leaned in close and whispered in Tank's ear.

  "Now use the vision you would use if you were experimenting with a mantra."

  Tank, confused and surprised by Richie's comment, managed to stutter a loud, "What?"

  "Just humour me... pleeeeeeease."

  Putting his near empty glass on the ground, he closed his eyes momentarily and focused on changing his vision. It was a quick change, quicker than Richie that's for sure, as it was something he did all the time back in the workshop alongside the master mantra maker. The look of disbelief when he opened his eyes though... that was something else, and easily matched Richie's from a few moments earlier.

  "Twist my tail and call me a dragon," blurted Tank loudly.

  Richie clamped her hand over Tank's mouth, much to the amusement of other nearby spectators.

  Quietly, Tank whispered,

  "What the hell's going on Rich?"

  To which she had no real answer.

  Gradually, Peter came to his senses, albeit too late to prevent the first team from scoring. Smarting from the burns on his arms and knees, he felt like he'd just woken up from a sleep that would have made Sleeping Beauty's look like a mid-afternoon nap. A quick glance around told him that something very odd was going on with the rest of his team. Both umpires and the opposition seemed oblivious to this, or if they had noticed, they clearly weren't going to stop the game for it. As a matter of urgency, he needed to buy some time. Jogging over to his unsteady goalkeeper, he reached behind his right leg and in the blink of an eye undid the straps in his kicker (the protective shoe) and forced it over the shoe he was wearing. Nobody spotted him doing this as everyone else was busy trying to get the woozy second team forwards to restart the game. With the keeper's kicker dangling right off the end of his shoe, Peter shouted and waved in the umpire's direction to signal that something was wrong. Raising his eyebrows, and shaking his head at yet another enforced interruption, the umpire reluctantly blew his whistle to stop time and halt the match. Jogging over to where Peter was squatting in front of a rather bewildered goalkeeper, the umpire asked,

  "What's wrong?"

  "Straps on the kicker are broken," replied Peter innocently, fiddling around with the kicker and its perfectly good straps. "Give me a few minutes. I think I can fix it."

  "Well... try and make it snappy. We've had enough stoppages in this one game to last a whole season," said the umpire haughtily.

  He knew he'd only bought himself a couple of minutes at best. He had to figure out what was wrong with everyone, and he had to do it now.

  Meanwhile, Richie had just finished describing the first team's goal to Tank.

  "It looks as though someone's stunned them all using some kind of mantra," uttered Tank, frowning.

  "Well," whispered Richie, "you're the mantra expert... why don't you see if you can... undo everything."

  "How am I supposed to do that?"

  "Oh... I don't know. How about using a mantra to negate the mantra that's already been used? It's only an idea of course," remarked Richie, sarcastically.

  "You know we're not supposed to use mantras out in the open, willy nilly, like that. What happens if the Council find out?"

  "When has that ever bothered you before?" objected Richie, shaking her head and turning to look in the direction of the pitch, where Peter appeared to be fiddling about with part of the goalkeeper's kit. Abruptly turning on Tank, getting right up close to his face, she said,

  "Whatever that is out there, it's not a natural phenomenon. You have a duty to get rid of it if you can. If that's not enough for you, you should do it for Peter. Ultimately he's the one that's being affected the most by this. Right at this very moment he's out there buying time, trying to figure out what's going on. By the time he does, it will be way too late."

  Tank already knew he'd lost. When had either of them ever won against her?

  'If I had access to the Mantra Emporium's vast resources, then getting rid of whatever's out there would be a piece of toasted charcoal,' he thought. Limited by the number of mantras he knew, he quickly racked his brain to find one that might help.

  Peter had run out of time. Both umpires had lost their patience and had told him that unless the kicker was fixed immediately, they were going to award a win to the first team. Not knowing what else to do, and having tried everything he could to figure out what an earth was going on, he reattached the kicker and moved gingerly back in position, preparing for what he knew would be nothing short of an onslaught. Looking around, he could quite clearly see that unlike himself, none of the others had shrugged off whatever it was that was still affecting them.

  Tank thought he knew what pressure was, with some of the things that Gee Tee had got him to do at work. Although he thought the world of the old dragon, at times he could be a really harsh taskmaster. That, however, paled into comparison to what he now felt with Richie standing over him, well... not exactly over him, more... staring up at him from chest height, hands on hips, and a frown on her face that was going to be mighty hard to turn... upside down.

  'She could intimidate the king himself,' he thought, small beads of sweat running down his neck, which was quite something in the cool autumnal air. Then, out of nowhere... it came to him. Of course, why hadn't he thought of it sooner? The tornados. Not two weeks after joining Gee Tee at the world renowned emporium, Tank had been given the mundane task of filing away some old mantras. He'd been told one key thing: to keep his mind totally blank while doing this, because the occasional mantra will respond to the merest thought in a dragon's mind. At first, things went well, he did a sterling job, just as he'd been instructed to do, and being full of enthusiasm and endeavour, he was keen to show his new employer just how useful he could be. It was a little boring, but he seemed to be getting through it at quite a rate. However, as time progressed, he became more and more fascinated by the language and the words that made up the mantras. They were so unusual. He'd never seen anything like them, and he prided himself on his language skills. Unfortunately, being so distracted culminated in him setting one of the mantras off with a stray thought, unleashing a plague of magical, mischief making monkeys throughout the shop. They were everywhere, turning over bookcases, eating scrolls, playing chase and, the thing that the other staff members will always remember from that day... they were peeing off the rafters in the ceiling into a giant vat of freshly made mantra ink that Gee Tee had spent two weeks preparing. When he came downstairs to see what all the noise was, he went absolutely ballistic, particularly about the part with the ink. What he did do, however, was cast a brilliant mantra that Tank had never seen before, that created a series of tiny tornados that sucked in anything magically active and made short work of getting rid of the rampaging monkeys. He'd been too amazed by the mantra that the old shopkeeper had cast to be afraid of the consequences of his mistake, and had been so dumbfounded by the mantra that he'd gone off and found out all about it, before committing it to memory. That was what he needed now. It should in theory get rid of everything magically wrong, but he needed to make sure it was the powerful rhyming version of the mantra that he cast. Noting that the umpires were just about to restart the game and with Richie standing next to him, glaring, he closed his eyes, combed his memory and found the words he needed. Using the full force of his mind, and with absolute belief, he whispered very carefully:

  Round and round and round you go,

  Tall and powerful you must grow,

  Suck up magic in your path,

  Don't hold back, let loose your wrath.

  Opening his eyes, he stood transfixed with Richie and watched with his mantra vision as four waist height tornados zoomed through the fence in front of them, heading straight onto the Astroturf pitch. As the tornados zigzagged back and forth, he felt a little disappointed at what he'd achieved. Gee Tee had effortlessly cast the mantr
a back in the shop to clean up the mischievous monkeys, creating no less than eleven tornados, while his best attempt produced just four. Despite what he sometimes thought, he still had a lot to learn. Luckily he was based in just the right place, being nurtured and taught by the very best. If he took away anything from this, it would be that.

  Leaves and sand scattered across the pitch didn't move an inch as the oily black vapour got sucked into each of the tornados as they tore past the players who, amazingly, suddenly started to come back to their senses, just in time for the game to restart once again. Tank turned to Richie, winked and smiled.

  "Not bad, huh?"

  Richie patted her friend on the back as they continued to watch the tornados, all of which had now grown as tall as Tank, finish cleansing the pitch, knowing that they were the only ones that had seen anything at all. Or were they?

  Out of the corner of his eye, Peter had caught sight of his friends watching behind the tiny metal fence. He'd sorted out the kicker rather quickly after the threat from the umpires to award the match to the first team, and as he stood waiting for the inevitable assault from the opposition’s forward line, willing to battle them on his own if he had to, he had the peculiar feeling that his friends were... up to something. It wasn't anything obvious, well not to anyone else anyway, it was just that they looked like they were conspiring. 'Conspiring to do what?' was the million dollar question that circled through Peter's head. Those two scheming could mean anything from the human police arriving, to an all out war to save the planet, or indeed anything in between. He didn't know what was going on, but he was sure he'd find out later.

  As all this weaved through his muddied brain, his teammates for no apparent reason turned back into their normal selves from the zombie like states they'd been in for the last few minutes. To say Peter was surprised was an understatement. In each and every one of them, the swaying stopped and the blank looks were replaced by puzzled ones, just momentarily, until they realised where they were and what was going on. Peter's feeling of doom turned to elation, at the prospect of not having to face the opposition on his own. He shouted across to the nearest defender.

  "We've let one back in. It's now two one. Tell everyone else!" Travelling throughout the team like wildfire, the message was reluctantly accepted by everyone, despite them having no recollection of it happening.

  The game restarted with the second team pushing back; however the first team soon gained possession of the ball and began another overwhelming attack. With the rest of the second XI still shaking off their fuzzy heads and heavy legs, Peter knew the rest of the match was going to be hard fought if they were going to get anything from it. He and his team managed to weather the next three attacks, mainly due to luck rather than judgement. But as every minute passed, the second team played more like themselves, holding out hope that not only could they get something from the game, but they might just be able to hold onto their lead and win it.

  More than ever now, the game was end to end, with the second team on the attack, forcing the first team players to get behind the ball. As Peter rallied his defenders, making sure they were goal side of their players for fear of the obvious counter attack, he noticed the umpires signal to each other that there were only two minutes of the game remaining. Knowing that they only had to last a couple of minutes, he became even more vocal, his croaky voice encouraging the team and urging them on to greater things. Everything looked fine until a foul by a first team player went unnoticed by both umpires, thus giving possession of the ball and a rather big advantage to the first team. They surged forward and with a couple of clinical passes, carved open the second team defence. Peter himself had been beaten by a nifty dummy and was now duly sprinting back into the 'D' to get round behind the onrushing second team keeper and provide cover on the goal line. The first team attacker with the ball reached the top of the 'D' as the second team goalie threw himself towards the ball. Peter would have bet his tail that the forward in question would have chosen to take on the keeper but, much to his utter horror, right at the last second, the player slipped the ball under his arm, straight into the path of... MANSON! And in doing so, totally took the goalkeeper out of the equation. The ex-army major picked up the ball on his open side and stepped into the 'D'. His mad dash back to cover behind the keeper had left Peter standing squarely in the middle of the goal, two footsteps in front of the goal line. He'd never felt more alone and vulnerable than he did now. As he watched his fellow defenders give all they had left to get back and help, it was obvious no one would get anywhere near Manson before he had a chance to unleash his shot. It was now about just the two of them.

  Surprisingly, as all this flicked through Peter's clumsily organised brain, rather than paralysing him with fear, he realised he was actually looking forward to the next few seconds and although it was against the odds, he felt confident he could thwart the ever nearing Manson.

  Not normally having an over-abundance of confidence, he had in his short hockey playing career made some excellent goal line saves. Diving saves, one handed saves, reverse stick saves, even saves that, had he not stopped the ball it would either have taken off his head, or in one rather noticeable case, something far more precious, let's just say his... ears, for example (not really). Ears (you know what I mean) were very important to a dragon, much like other things are very important to... humans (especially male humans).

  Basically, he knew what to do when it came down to goal line saves. It was almost as if it were engrained in his very DNA to do so. (Perhaps that was something he'd have to talk to Gee Tee about. Would it be possible for a mantra to make you good at one very specific part of a sport? An interesting question for another time.) In the here and now, he was going to stop Manson scoring a goal, thus levelling up the match. In a unit of time so small it would have been barely measureable, he briefly considered using the magic that was his birthright. But before the thought had even finished, the rest of his body had screamed, ”CHEAT!”' at him, knowing just how wrong it was, and just how disgusted his friends would have been with him for even considering it. It was fine though. With his tried and tested reflexes, he didn't need to rely on anything dragon related. He'd stop Manson in this form... a battle of equals, and one he was determined to win.

  As the moment came, and with all of his senses heightened, time once again slowed. Manson was five feet into the 'D' now, his stick drawn back behind him, knees bent, eyes firmly on the ball, ready to strike. Peter tightened the grip on his stick, making sure his hands were apart on the shaft, ready to stop the ball wherever it should go, legs one in front of the other, fully balanced, his cat-like reflexes itching to be let loose. Still moving forward, Manson's stick cut through the air in a sizzling arc, about to make contact with the ball.

  Focused only on the ball, Peter could just see in the periphery Manson mutter something as his stick sweetly struck the dimpled ball. A rocket powered by a god, that's how fast the ball was moving, it seemed to Peter anyway. Not once did he blink, or take his eye off the ball's trajectory, knowing with every molecule in his being that he was going to stop the ball going into the goal, and reward his team with a hard earned victory. Lining up his stick, he loosened his lower hand slightly, so that he would stop the ball cleanly and not let it bounce away from his stick. Inside his head, he'd already played the pass out wide to one of his defenders, who would no doubt take it up the field in time for the final whistle to be blown.

  With the blur that was the white ball only a fraction of a second from the end of his stick, Peter felt all warm inside at what he knew to be HIS victory over Manson. Everything that had gone on over the previous months, all the bullying, silent threats, the mistreatment of Al Garrett, the dismissal of Dr Island... this he knew was the start of the fight back. From here on in, it changed. From here on in, he was in charge, and it would end with Manson's imprisonment and the return of a fit and healthy Al Garrett, with Cropptech back to the way it was supposed to be.

  Looking down at h
is stick, he waited expectantly for the comforting impact of the ball, knowing that its course would put it right on the end of his stick, ready to pass it out of harm's way to one of his defenders. As he watched, filled with the thrill of the game, to his utter amazement, just as the ball was about to hit the end of his stick, it disappeared and, without warning, reappeared six inches off to one side, still travelling at the same speed. Instantly he moved his stick to try and get a touch, any touch. His reflexes were good, better than good in fact, but he never stood a chance. No one would have. It was too late. A resounding 'THUD' later as the ball smashed against the back board, he just caught sight of Manson wheeling away in celebration, a massive cheer from the first team igniting the air all around.

  Rooted to the spot, Peter played out the events again in his mind. He'd watched the ball all the way. It should have arrived on the end of his stick. At the last instant it just... moved over to the right. Impossible! Absolutely impossible! But it had happened... just like that. Reluctantly striding towards the top of the 'D', passing his goalkeeper on the way, he shook his head at the injustice of it all, still convinced it had played out the exact way he'd seen it. Then it hit him. Manson had been saying something just as he was about to strike the ball. Who on earth did that? Nobody! What the hell was going on? Out of nowhere an arm appeared around his shoulder.

  "It's alright Peter, it's not your fault. We should have got back quicker," put in Mark, the second team's left back.

  Peter was still in a daze. He looked over at his friends on the sideline, hoping that maybe they'd seen something, but they just shrugged their shoulders in his direction.

  "You must have seen what happened?" he pleaded with Mark.

  "It was just a good shot mate, one of those things. Nothing you could have done. Don't beat yourself up."

  "But the ball, it changed places. You must've seen it?"

  "Don't worry Pete. A draw for us today is as good as a victory. Head up."

  Shaking his head in downright frustration, he caught sight of Manson on the halfway line getting ready for the restart. The smug, arrogant sneer on his face told Peter everything he needed to know. Somehow Manson had power, magic... something. In that single moment on the goal line, everything he'd feared and suspected had been confirmed. Not only that, but Manson had risked revealing it just to take Peter down a peg or two in a hockey match.

  It only then occurred to him.

  'What on earth is going to happen when we get back to work?' he thought. Manson knew that Peter knew. What did it all mean?

  With only a matter of seconds left in the game, the umpires blew their whistles to restart, moments later blowing them again to end the game. Each team gave the other three cheers, albeit begrudging ones on both sides, as players shook each others' hands, including the umpires. For the first time in a hockey match, he was reluctant to shake the hands of his opponents. He'd often thought the sportsmanship side of hockey had been one of the key lures for him, and before today had never had any qualms about shaking an opponent's hand, but all that seemed to have gone out the window during the ill tempered last seventy minutes. Aimlessly shaking the first team player's hands without thinking, another was thrust in his direction from off to one side. Reaching out for the hand, he looked up into the face of... MANSON! Peter's hand shot back faster than a man peeing against an electric fence. Manson walked right up to Peter and stood head to head. The two of them gazed into each other's eyes for what seemed like the lifespan of a new universe.

  "Not very sporting," commented the ex-army major.

  “No... you’re not,” was the witty reply that Peter came back with. Manson’s face was a picture... almost worth every ounce of trouble Peter was bound to get into, back at Cropptech.

  As Peter continued to look into his face, unmoved by the attempt to provoke him. Manson leaned his head even closer to Peter's face, his hot breath washing over the young dragon's cheeks and nose.

  "You and your kind have had your day. Looking down your superior noses at everything else, judging, manipulating. WELL NO MORE! There's a new force to be reckoned with, one that won't bend to your will as easily as everything else. Your pitiful existence will soon be put into perspective for you," derided Manson, darkly.

  Peter had closed his eyes and, while trying to ignore the ever tightening knot in his stomach and the fear running down his arms and legs, had opened himself to all his dragon senses, setting them free to explore the solid pillar of hate that stood before him. With Manson's hot breath cloying at his face, Peter tried with everything he had to find something, anything, to explain what gave the ex-army major his powers. But even though he stood only a few inches away from him, he could find nothing, not even a hint of magic or dragon or anything to explain what he knew in his heart of hearts. Manson came out smelling of roses and seemed to be nothing more than an ordinary human being. Opening his eyes, Peter noticed players from both sides staring at their face off, wondering what was going on. Looking into Manson's dark maelstrom eyes, Peter tried hard to think of something dramatic and frightening to say. Try as he might, nothing came to mind. Anyway, Manson had just beaten him to it.

  Barely a whisper came out of Manson's mouth, designed so that Peter was the only one that could hear his words.

  "Enjoy your lucky victory with all your little friends," Manson waved his arms to indicate everyone else on the pitch. "If you think you've had a tough time at work up until now, you wait until Monday. I will personally crush you like the insignificant insect that you are." With that, he dramatically turned away, head held high, waving his hockey stick above his head.

  Peter turned his head as a voice from behind said,

  "What was that all about?" Andy the second team captain had a worried look on his face.

  Peter shrugged his shoulders.

  "Dunno. Just sore about not beating us I suppose."

  "Well, don't let it bother you. The whole team did really well today, and I can't believe I'm gonna say this, but the first round of drinks is on me."

  And with that the two players joined the rest of the team in the showers and then headed off into the bar to celebrate their well deserved draw. Once in the bar, the celebrations began properly with Andy buying the first drinks for his team who were, for the most part, in very high spirits.

  After being in the bar for about fifteen minutes, it became apparent that something odd was going on. Normally both teams who had been playing on the Astroturf got showered and then changed, before coming into the bar for a drink and some food. Peter wasn't the only one to notice that only two of their opponents had shown up. Something about it struck him as odd, just as Andy the second team captain sauntered over to the two to ask them what was going on. He couldn't quite make out what was being said, but from what he could see, Andy had clearly taken offence at what the two players had reluctantly told him. Momentarily glancing away from the disagreement, he noticed his two friends sitting at a table in the far corner. They waved him over, but he was desperate to see what was going on with the first team players, so held up five fingers to indicate he'd be over in five minutes. Richie and Tank nodded and continued their conversation. In the meantime, Andy had left the two first teamers and was headed back across the bar, a look of thunder on his face.

  "What's going on?" enquired Peter as Andy rejoined the group, the highly spirited second team players having all gone quiet, eager for the response to Peter's question.

  "Apparently all the first team players have gone off to one of the pubs in town to get drunk, according to those two," declared Andy, indicating the two first team players with the shrug of his head.

  "Why the hell have they done that?" stated one of the players.

  "Bad losers," somebody muttered, to the sound of much sniggering from the rest of the team.

  "All I know," said Andy "is that they were all persuaded to go by that Manson bloke who plays up front for them. The one who went head to head with Peter here."

  The whole team looked
at Peter and let out a knowing, "Ahhhh."

  "Those two over there," continued Andy, "are as embarrassed and shocked about it as we are, so don't give them a hard time," he said, waving his finger in front of all the second team players gathered round.

  Moments later it was forgotten, with some of the team breaking into song, while others made for the pool table and gaming machines. Due to their later start, it was now early evening, the huge bar being the quietest it had been all day, and would almost certainly have been empty if not for the match that had been played on the Astroturf. With everyone dispersing to various corners of the bar, Peter headed on over to his friends.

  "Can I get you both a drink?" he asked as he approached the table.

  Tank looked at his watch thoughtfully.

  "Just got time for one more," he said, raising his eyebrows and winking conspiratorially.

  "You've had a big day. Congratulations on the result by the way. Well done," added Richie, gulping down the last of her drink and handing the empty glass to Peter.

  "Yeah, well done mate," remarked Tank. "On that subject though, we've got something we really need to talk to you about."

  "TANK," declared Richie. "I thought we agreed to tell him later."

  "Oh yeah... sorry Rich."

  "What's going on?" asked Peter intrigued.

  "Grab the drinks and we'll tell you."

  Peter wandered off to the bar to get fresh drinks for his friends, carrying the empty glasses. As he approached he saw Janice slip round the front of the deserted bar from somewhere out the back. With her friendly smile beaming at him, he nearly dropped the glasses instead of putting them back on the bar itself. Only his quick dragon reflexes saved him.

  "Did you win?" asked Janice in her infectious, bubbly way.

  "Ummm... it was a draw, but it certainly felt like a win," Peter managed to babble, unused to any sort of attention from someone so attractive.

  "Oh look," squeaked Janice, "your friends are waving at us."

  Sure enough, Peter turned to see Tank and Richie waving in their direction, having recognised a little something between the two of them, doing their utmost to try and embarrass him. Fully trained in lip reading, he was taken aback by some of the things that Richie was mouthing. They were very rude indeed. He just hoped that Janice lacked that particular skill; luckily for him, it seemed that she did. Turning back to the beautiful bar worker, all the while ignoring his friends and hoping against hope that nobody from his team cottoned on to what was happening, because if they did, Tank and Richie would be the least of his worries, he was just about to order the drinks, when he was beaten to it.

  "What can I get you?" asked Janice politely.

  "Can I have a pint of bitter, a diet Pepsi with some ice and... a traffic light please," ventured Peter, uncomfortable about ordering Richie her traffic light cocktail.

  "Oh... who's the traffic light for?"

  "It's for my friend Richie, the one who was waving and trying to whistle," cringed Peter.

  "Ahhh," sighed Janice, starting to get the drinks. "Is she your girlfriend?"

  He couldn't find the right word to describe it. Uncomfortable was as close as he could get, but it wasn't that. It was an odd feeling. His legs felt both light and heavy at the same time, while something strange started to happen in his stomach, which felt very much like a large ball rolling around and around the inside. Combine that with his temperature rocketing skywards, it made for a very 'out of his comfort zone' dragon. Worst of all, he didn't know why.

  "No, no, nothing like that. She's one of my best friends; we've known each other since... school." Being so flustered, he'd nearly blurted out... nursery ring! That would just about have finished things off.

  "Oh," countered Janice. "That's really nice. I think it shows a lot of maturity to have a member of the opposite sex as a best friend."

  Peter nodded in agreement, not entirely trusting his mouth, as he handed over a ten pound note. Janice quickly returned with the change.

  "Perhaps I'll see you on Tuesday after training?" she suggested, with a big smile as Peter headed off towards his friends with all the drinks. He turned over his shoulder and just managed to get out, "I hope so," before he staggered out of range. Placing the drinks on the table, he flopped down into the chair opposite his friends, waiting for the inevitable. It didn't take long.

  "Welllllllll!!!!! Look at you, you... human women attractor!" slurred Richie as she picked up her drink.

  "I think you mean... magnet," added Tank, taking a big gulp from his fresh drink, trying to contain his laughter.

  Peter gave both his friends the look. The one that said, “NO MORE PLEASE!” Thankfully they both seemed to take the hint, but he knew for certain he'd hear more about this from Richie at some point in the future, given her rather dubious dalliances.

  "Well... ?" questioned Peter.

  They both looked at him, puzzled.

  "There was something you were going to tell me."

  "Ahhh," they both said at once.

  With nobody in eavesdropping range, Tank and Richie started to tell Peter about everything they'd spotted at the match: the swathe of strange mist that encompassed each second team player, making them unresponsive and at fault for the goal conceded, and the way Tank cast his cunning mantra to remove all trace of it. In turn, Peter told his friends about how he noticed Manson chanting something before the restart, the ball seemingly moving on the goal line, and about the threats he'd made at the end of match. Richie looked absolutely stunned, and while she didn't actually offer up an apology, he got the distinct impression that despite the alcohol taking its toll on her, she did feel very sorry for siding with that slime ball Manson. All three of them agreed to rally together and use all the resources available to them to try and find out exactly what Manson was up to, with a view to thwarting whatever dastardly plan he had in motion.

  Glimpsing down at his watch, Tank was shocked at how long the three of them had been talking. Looking at his two friends, he tapped the face of his watch and mouthed the words, “laminium ball match.” From the look on their faces, it was clear that they'd forgotten all about the match as well. Standing up, Peter pulled out his car keys, ready to head for home and of course the big match. Tank followed suit, leaving Richie languishing in her comfortable chair.

  "C'mon Rich," ushered Peter. "Finish up your drink, it's time to go."

  Richie wobbled to her feet, much to Tank's delight and Peter's frustration. Squinting and swaying just slightly, she rocked up closer to Peter and slurred,

  "For now hockey player," she said poking him in the chest, "you are driving me and the big one to your... house as both me... hic... and the huge one... hic... have had waaaayyyyyy too much to drink. Onwards and upwards. My chariot awaits!"

  "Yes," replied Tank flashing his best smile, "the big one has had a lot of beer but unlike the little one, has chosen not to let it affect him in any way."

  "Spoilsport," slurred Richie.

  All three of them made their way back through the bar towards the exit, Peter saying goodbye to the remainder of his team who were, by now, in much the same state as Richie, who was being comically guided by Tank around the maze of chairs and tables. As the cold night air hit them, Peter let go of Richie's arm, having taken it to offer up a bit of stability and support as they left the bar. Without anything to hold onto, she promptly fell flat on her face on the cold, hard concrete floor.

  "Heeeeeyyyyyy!" she yelled, looking up at Peter. "That's not very friendly."

  Peter leaned down very close and whispered in her ear, his breath freezing as he did so.

  "You know full well Rich, that with one click of your fingers, so to speak, you could purge all the alcohol from your system. Your dragon physiology allows you not to be affected by its influence but every now and then you insist on experiencing its effects. Well, the next time you want that experience, get somebody else to carry you through the bar." With that, the hockey playing dragon turned around and sto
mped off towards his car, which was parked on the far side of the car park.

  Rolling her eyes, Richie lay spread-eagled exactly where Peter had dropped her.

  "Grumpy teetotaller!" she shouted after him. "Tank... do you mind?"

  Having taken a step back, hoping not to get involved, Tank knew that it was too late now as he picked Richie up, threw her over one of his gigantic shoulders and headed off in the direction of Peter. Once at the car, he threw her into the back seat, before whispering to the sober driver.

  "Just be thankful that she just gets a little silly when she's drunk. Can you imagine what would happen if she got a little bit feisty? We'd have to get the King's Guard up here to contain her."

  A short, silent drive later, the three of them arrived at Peter's house. Peter and Tank got out first, while Richie lounged across both back seats. Peter stood with his hands on his hips, glaring down at her.

  "All right, all right I'm doing it," she protested. And with that, she closed her eyes momentarily and... bam! Sober as a judge.

  "Happy now?" she enquired, as they walked up the garden path.

  "Much better," acknowledged Peter.

  "You really should try it, you old stick in the mud."

  "Why on earth would I want to do that?" spat Peter. Can you remember the last time we went to the cinema? I seem to recall it was a Saturday night and the film finished at eleven. We decided to walk back to your place if memory serves me correctly."

  Wishing she hadn't asked, she now had a vague idea as to just where this was going and although she was too stubborn to tell him, he did make a very good point.

  "Salisbridge High Street looked like the aftermath of a war: people lying in the gutter, others throwing up, some urinating in shop doorways. And that's the best you could say about it. There were groups of girls fighting amongst themselves, three blokes having an argument with a taxi driver, passengers being thrown off buses, not to mention the two gangs of youths having a running battle at the end of the street, all watched by a van full of police, too afraid to get out and involved. And can you blame them? I mean, where on earth are they supposed to even start? That was at eleven. What's it like at two in the morning? And you know full well that almost all of it is fuelled by alcohol. It's the same discussion we've had time and again Rich. You accuse me of being dull and unadventurous, but you only need to look at the binge drinking and alcoholics. Salisbridge is only a tiny little city. This happens throughout the country night after night and frankly it's out of control. If I was on the dragon Council, it's one of the first things I'd try and change. I'm all for guiding the human race and letting them fulfil their potential, but on some issues we take a back seat when we know how damaging they are and this, I do believe, is one of them."

  Peter stood on his doorstep, hoping that none of the neighbours had heard any of that, looking at his friends, both of whom carried expressions of complete and utter shock.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to go off on one... it's just that... ah... never mind. Let's just say it's something I have extremely strong views on and leave it at that. Forgiven?"

  Tank and Richie both nodded in agreement, much to Peter's relief. Entering the house, all three were excited about watching their team compete in the semi final of the Global Cup.