by Frank Almond
“You would like me to choose,” said De Quipp, pointing his finger at my nose, “because you sink I yam the loweur one, but hin France an English Baronet his not so high as a chevalier.”
“Whatever,” I said.
“Ahem, I think you’ll find you’re about the same rank socially, Monsieur De Quipp, according to Debrett’s,” said the Duck, smiling with his teeth.
De Quipp shrugged. “Vary well, hif you say so, Sir Julianne. I will not quipple.” He turned to me again and gestured to the case with a flourish of his hand. “Choose your weapon, Baron Duckworth.”
I peered into the case and pretended to be making up my mind, because I didn’t want to make it look too obvious that I was only going to go for one particular pistol. I put my finger to my lips. The Duck’s right index finger moved along the edge of the box, and was clearly indicating the left hand pistol, as he held it open. I picked it up and weighed it in my hand.
“Good balance,” I nodded. I looked along the barrel, with one eye closed and curled my lip. “Sight’s a bit out.” I made an effort to bend it straight, although there was nothing really wrong with it, not that I would have known even if there were.
The Duck scowled at me.
De Quipp quickly took the remaining pistol and expertly turned it over in his hands, checking that every moving part was in working order and the barrel was clean. And then he helped himself to more things from the case—a small flask, a lead ball, some little cloth wads, flint. Then, holding the flask in his teeth, he removed a rod thing from his pistol, which was slotted in under the barrel, directly in line with it. Mine had one, too, so I pulled it out and showed it to the Duck. The Duck shook his head. I shrugged.
“Ahem, Monsieur De Quipp?” said the Duck.
“Oui?”
“In England it is considered proper etiquette to let the combatants’ seconds load the guns.”
“Not so hin France,” said De Quipp, briskly pouring gunpowder down the muzzle of his pistol.
I was trying to watch and copy him at the same time, but dropped my flask and bent my ramrod thingy when I went to pick it up.
“Well, this isn’t France, is it?” said the Duck. “I must insist you abide by English rules.”
“I hallways load my own pistol,” said De Quipp, rapidly plunging his ramrod in and out to pack his powder down firmly.
Aleman, moving clumsily in his ill-fitting French cavalry sergeant’s uniform, which was at least two sizes too small for him, came to my aid and straightened my rod for me. Well, the guy was a blacksmith in his own time, so he knew a thing or two about working metal.
Meanwhile, De Quipp had put the flint in the pan under the hammer and was pouring a little black powder in from the flask. I copied him.
“I insist, sir!” cried the Duck, still trying to get his hands on De Quipp’s pistol, presumably because he hadn’t had a chance to nobble it yet.
“Thees his most irreguleur!” cried De Quipp. “No shootist hin hall France would permit thees!”
“This is not bloody France!” cried the Duck. “Give me back my pistol!” And he attempted to take it by force.
“Non!” exclaimed De Quipp, struggling with the Duck.
“It’s my pistol—I say who loads it!”
“I load hit myself!”
“Let it go—or I won’t let you borrow it!”
“Thees his outrageeus!”
“Votre manteau, chevalier?” inquired the not so stodgy-witted as I had thought Aleman.
This had the effect of stopping the quarrel between the Duck and De Quipp, because De Quipp made a point of handing his primed gun to his second, so that he could take off his jacket.
The Duck came to take mine. Remembering the rules stated I should be attired in similar fashion to my opponent, I started to take it off. But then it occurred to me that it might give me an unfair advantage, by providing a few extra layers of protection between my skin and any pistol balls that might come flying towards me, so I quickly pulled it back on again.
“I’m keeping mine on, mate,” I said, elbowing him away from me.
The Duck’s attention switched to Aleman, who still had De Quipp’s pistol, and now his coat as well.
“Give me his coat,” he ordered, and took it, but snatched De Quipp’s gun out of Aleman’s other hand at the same time. And ran off with it.
“Sir Julianne!” exclaimed De Quipp, who had been rolling up the right sleeve of his shirt. “Geeve hit back!”
De Quipp gave chase. The Duck pretended to bump into me—and now we had a frock coat and two pistols in our fumbling hands.
“Switch it, switch it!” hissed the Duck.
I tried to grab De Quipp’s coat.
“Not the coat, you pratt—the gun!”
I got the message and took the one he was trying to force into my hands, while letting him grab mine from me. We managed to effect this exchange under cover of the coat, so the Frenchman was none the wiser when he caught up with the Duck and snatched back what he assumed to be his own pistol. But, of course, he had mine. And I wasn’t sure whether I had loaded it properly or not, because I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, and couldn’t remember if I had put a ball down the muzzle.
The Duck sidled up to me and spoke to me out of the corner of his mouth, while De Quipp did some impressive stretching exercises.
“Did you load it?” he said.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I put one of those balls in,” I said.
“Yes you did—I counted ’em and there’s two missing—shit—you must have loaded it. What order did you put the powder, shot and wadding in in?”
“In in? Um?”
“Think!” quacked the Duck, speaking through his nose, in that irritating way he had.
“I don’t remember,” I said.
“I yam ready,” said De Quipp, tossing his head back haughtily and looking down his nose at me.
“Fingers crossed,” said the Duck. “Let’s hope you cocked it up.”
“Get that helicopter revved up,” I said, and did some running on the spot to practise my back-up plan.
“Gentlemen!” cried the Duck. “To your positions!”
I headed for the nearest tree.
Aleman tugged my sleeve as I passed him and turned me round.
“Monsieur, Monsieur!” he said, in a voice so deep and bass-toned it sounded as if it was emanating from somewhere down in the bowels, the bowels of the Earth. “Hit is zat way, Monsieur,” he growled.
“You’d make a great lead singer for a heavy metal band,” I said, having a private joke.
De Quipp was standing in the middle of the path, with his back to me, his pistol held aloft, alongside his head, like that famous poster of James Bond. The Duck was just staring at me with a crooked grin on his face, and pointing.
“Out there?” I said. “I’ll be a sitting duck—there’s no cover!”
“You will stand back to back with Monsieur De Quipp, sir,” commanded the Duck.
“Old friends, bookends…” I sang, as I passed him. “Get me out of this!”
“Take up your positions, gentlemen,” said the blank-faced Duck
I reversed into place, shoulder blade to shoulder blade and backside to backside with my adversary, only my backside must have bumped a little too firmly against his, because he instantly responded by giving mine an even bigger bump right back. I, of course, being at the seat of the Duckworths, so to speak, and thinking of the family honour, responded doublefold. The bum bumping escalated from there really and soon we were smacking backsides with huge exaggerated thrusts, neither of us prepared to give an inch, although, I’m sure De Quipp would have insisted on using centimetres.
“Stop it! Stop that! Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” flapped the Duck.
But De Quipp and I were well out of control, taking run ups and locking bums—like two confused stags—and then De Quipp lost it and turned on me, sticking the barrel of his Wogdon right up my nose.
“You try
my payshaunce, Monsieur!” he snarled.
Aleman grabbed me from behind and dragged me out of harm’s way, while the Duck tried to placate the mega-passionate Frenchman.
The Duck quickly arranged a compromise and got us to stand back to back, one pace apart, like two naughty schoolboys.
“Now, gentlemen,” he quacked, “on my command, you will take six paces, stop, turn and fire at will. Remember, if you should discharge your weapon and miss, you must remain where you are on the field of honour until your opponent has discharged his weapon.”
I turned my head towards him and mouthed the words: “Do something.”
He merely blinked complacently. “Are you ready, gentlemen?”
“Oui.”
“Nope.”
“I am going to count to three, on three, you will slowly commence walking to your firing positions,” continued the Duck, in a monotone voice he had adopted, because he probably thought it made him sound important and dramatic. It just made him sound like a pompous ass.
“Get on with it,” I said.
“One…two…three,” said the Duck, thus making the only contribution to the whole sorry proceedings he hadn’t messed up.
I set off along the path, swinging my gun down by my ankles and looking around me at the purling stream, and up into the beeches and the green hills and the house beyond, wondering if these scenes were really the last I would ever see. I totally forgot to count! So, I just turned. De Quipp was already facing me, some fifty feet away, his arm outstretched, aiming directly at me.
“Oh, shit!” I exclaimed, got my gun up as far as my hip and it went off.
I felt the dull percussion reverberate through my hand and all the way up my arm to my skull. There was a blinding flash, followed by a shower of sparks and a very loud resounding bang. I was immediately enveloped in a pall of thick grey, choking smoke. I tried to stagger out of it, clutching my throat and coughing, my ears ringing with the deafening explosion, which I was so sure I could still hear, I thought De Quipp must be firing at me. I tried to dodge imaginary bullets by stooping low and weaving my head from side to side, as though I were doing some funky new dance. And then my ears popped and I could hear the horses snorting and the rooks shrieking from the trees like a coven of witches.
“Stand your ground, sir!” cried my father, who had retreated behind a tree on the brook side of the path.
“I can’t bloody breathe!” I spluttered. The smoke was slowly dispersing in the wind, but somehow the pungent gunpowder smell was still hanging in the air.
Suddenly, Aleman ran up to me and started slapping my arm.
“Monsieur, Monsieur!” he snorted.
“Did I win?” I said.
“Non—you are hon fireur!”
He was right! The whole of my right arm was alight. I leapt up and down and blew at the flames, which only made matters worse. The sparks had clearly sprayed over my sleeve and burnt through to the lining, and now the fire was spreading—inside the garment! Aleman was pummelling me so madly I had to push him off before he broke my arm.
“I’ll take it off!” I shouted—pulling my left shoulder and arm out and letting Aleman wrench the whole coat off my back.
He ran with it down the bank, dragging it behind him like a wacky firework display, and flung it into the stream.
I rolled my billowy white shirtsleeve up and rubbed my scorched arm, and checked for any blood on the rest of me. I was okay. I looked over at the Duck, who was leaning against a tree, with his arms folded, shaking his head.
“You could have told me,” I said.
The Duck pointed up the path.
I turned round to find De Quipp still standing, side-on to me, in the classic duellist pose, with his arm fully extended, aiming his pistol straight at my heart.
“When you planned all this,” I said to the Duck, “tell me, was this the worst case scenario, or did you think of anything else that could go wrong?”
“Don’t worry,” said the Duck. “I’ll have you in Bristol Frenchay Hospital in under five minutes.”
“Can you make that five seconds?” I said, closing my eyes.
There was a loud report and something punched me in the left arm, just above the elbow, and spun me round in a complete circle, only my feet stayed put and I tripped over them and fell to my knees. I opened my eyes and saw De Quipp running towards me through a swirling cloud of grey smoke. But stronger arms reached and held me first, before I pitched forward and smacked my nose into the dirt.
“Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!” snuffled a gruff voice.
“Mon Dieu!” cried another voice. “I neveur miss! Such braveury, Monsieur!”
“Is he dead?” said the Duck.
Aleman was sitting on the path with me, cradling me in his arms. De Quipp took one look at me, dropped to his knees, and hung his head, uttering a prayer under his breath. Next, the Duck’s big red spectacled face loomed into close view.
“Oh, Christ!” he exclaimed.
“It’s just my arm,” I said, trying to point.
“Shh. Don’t move, Monsieur,” croaked Aleman.
“It’s more than that!” quacked the Duck. He reached inside his frock coat and whipped out a tiny mobile phone. “Get that bloody helicopter down here quick!” he quacked. “Yeah, to Frenchay!”
“Vite! Vite!” urged Aleman.
I looked down at my shirt. Aleman’s hands were clasped around my chest, soaked in blood. I passed out.
Chapter 4
I think I remember being in the helicopter and the thump-thump-thump of the rotor blades.
I also think I remember opening my eyes fleetingly when the crash team were charging me through the hospital corridors on a trolley.
The last thing I remember was some doctor standing over me with a pair of those electric shock paddles, and some guy saying: “Okay, we have a pulse.” But I might be being over-dramatic there.
Anyway, these were just fragmented memories. I believe there was also a giant squid in there somewhere, so they may not be that reliable. The next thing I really knew for sure was waking up and seeing the Duck’s ugly mug, grinning down at me.
“How you feeling?”
“Nearly got me killed,” I said, softly.
“Sorry. You needed six pints of blood,” he said.
“A six pack,” I said.
“Yeah. You were lucky, mate. Travis just missed your heart.”
“Thought it hit my arm.”
“Yeah, it did, but that’s just a scratch. It did all the damage when it hit your rib and sheared off, came out your side and lodged in your arm. I reckon you put that sight out of line when you were messing about with it,” said the Duck. “That’s how he missed.”
“I owe me my life,” I said, forcing a smile.
“You owe Aleman, too. He stuck his fingers in the holes and stopped you bleeding to death,” said the Duck.
“Little boy and the dyke. Thank him for me.”
“Yeah, I will.”
“Is he here?”
“No, I took him home. His wife’s got another nipper on the way. He sends you his best.”
“Betha’s pregnant?”
“Yeah. Here, it’s not yours, is it?”
“Get stuffed. Aleman’s a good man. What about Emma?” I said.
The Duck helped himself to a grape. “All you’ve got to do is concentrate on getting better, mate,” he said.
“Where is she?” I said.
“She’s, er, still at Duckworth Hall. What do you think of your suite? Nice, innit? Nothing but the best for a Duckworth—you’ve got everything in here—cable TV, movie channel, your own nurse, you can even go online, if you want. Er, when you can move again. This is the luxury deluxe package—none of your NHS rubbish.”
“Why isn’t she here?”
“Who?”
“Tooth Fairy—Emma!”
“If that chick don’t wanna know, man—forget her,” he said.
“Get her here, Duck.”
&n
bsp; “I can’t.” He lowered his voice and looked over his shoulder. “I can’t. She’s back in 1803. Anyway, she doesn’t want to see you. She and Travis are—”
“—De Quipp’s with her?”
“I had to take him back, didn’t I? He thought it was 1803. I couldn’t let him stay here, could I? He’d be chasing cars up the motorway on his horse and having duels with traffic wardens.”
“Get me out of here,” I said. “I have to go back.”
“I can’t. The doctors say you’re going to need at least another ten days to recover,” said the Duck.
“I have to see Emma. You could get me out if you wanted to.”
“But I’m not going to,” he said. “It’s for your own good.”
I turned my face away from him. “Thanks a lot.”
“Give it up, mate. Emma said your relationship was past tense. She and Travis got engaged. I’m sorry. Here, these grapes are nice, try one.”
“Tired. Go away.”
“Yeah. You get some sleep now,” he said. “Anything you need, just tell the nurse, she works for me.” I heard him get up. “I’ll come and see you again tomorrow, hey? We’ll soon have you back on your feet. See you, mate.”
I heard him go out.
I stared up at the ceiling. I didn’t know what to think anymore. The whole business with Emma and De Quipp was beyond belief. I kept thinking it wasn’t serious, that I could sort it out and get her back, but now it seemed I was too late. I was stuck in a hospital two hundred years away, by the time I got out she and De Quipp could be in Napoleonic France saying their wedding vows. Our relationship wasn’t just past tense—it was future tense, too! How could a stupid argument in a restaurant over nothing have ended up like this? That’s how it all began, an argument over a stupid holiday. I just said I fancied going to the Far East to do a bit of backpacking, before we were both past it, and she went crazy. Why didn’t she tell me she was pregnant? Did she really think I would make such a lousy father? I kept coming back to two things. What had really made her storm out of that restaurant and end our relationship after nearly three semi-blissful years? And how could she have fallen so deeply in love with a pratt like Travis De Quipp in just three weeks? Lying there, analysing it all, I came to a startling conclusion, and the only one that made any sense to me. The Emma who left that restaurant had not terminated our relationship, we had merely had a row, like all couples who’ve been around the block do from time to time—it was just a tiff and she’d walked off in a huff, that’s all. It should have been no big deal. But what, I hypothesized, if the Emma in the restaurant and the Emma I met at Duckworth Hall were not one and the same? I was excited—my mind was racing—it was all starting to fit together. How could the real Emma behave like the Emma who was running around after a guy like Travis De Quipp? I knew Emma better than anyone and De Quipp was definitely not her type. He was too—too corny, too—tall, dark and handsome—too bloody Latin-looking!
