Attack of the Cupids (13 page)

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

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

Whack!
went Sally's stick.

WHAM!

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

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

‘Are you all right?' said a voice.

Is that me talking? thought Sally.

It wasn't. It was Kaz.

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

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

‘Just ten minutes, I think.'

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sticks!' shouted someone.

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

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

Holly was still crouching in the centre, clutching her shin. The play swept past her.

Whack!
And here it came again, cruel, lethal, the little white ball spinning across the grass towards Sally with all the inevitability of death. Tara was chasing it like a hound. Desperately Sally tried to control it, scrabbling after it as it bounced away from
her stick. Tara was beside her, poking for it. And up the field there was Ameena, exactly as before, running, pointing exactly as before . . .

Whack!
went Sally's stick, and as it did so she tensed for the impact that would send her spinning into redness.

It didn't come. Tara sped away from her shouting, ‘
Mark Ameena! Stop her!
' Up the field Ameena gathered the ball. She had no support. Four green bibs were bearing down on her. On the far touchline Billie was shouting, ‘Over here, Ameena! Over here!' She was in completely the wrong place.

Ameena wove. Click-clack went her stick and she was through them! The goal was ahead of her. So was Imogen.

‘Go, Ameena, go!' yelled the reds.

‘Stop her!' cried the greens.

‘GET UP THERE, REDS! GIVE HER SOME SUPPORT! WHERE ARE YOU?!?'

Ameena seemed to hang in her stride. The defenders she had beaten were on her shoulder. Imogen was backing before her. She leaned one way, she went the other. She was away from them! She was through on goal!

‘Stop her!' screamed Cassie.

‘Stop her!' yelled Tara.

And Imogen, who was the only one who could do anything, did the only thing she could. Her stick sliced low through the air.

‘
Aarghh!
' Ameena barked in pain and fell.

‘Foul!' groaned the reds.

Pheeeeeeep-pheeep!
‘PENALTY HIT!' roared Miss Tackle. She dashed to the scene of the crime. Billie was ahead of her. Screaming ‘
Yaaaarrh!
' (or something like it) she pushed Imogen full in the chest and knocked her over. Angry cries broke from the greens. Tara caught Billie by the hair and yanked her head back.

‘STOP!'
bellowed Miss Tackle.

They stopped. There was an awful silence.

‘Get off,' Miss Tackle said softly. ‘The three of you. Wait for me on the touchline.'

Another time maybe they would have protested. (‘But Miss
Tackle
! It wasn't
my
fault!
She
started it.' etc.) This time, no one did. They all knew it had gone too far. And when Miss Tackle spoke like that you did not argue. Billie strode to the touchline like a small ball of sparks. Tara and Imogen followed, coldly keeping their distance from her. No one said anything.

‘Ameena?' said Miss Tackle.

Ameena did not get up. Her eyes were shut, her lips were drawn so the teeth showed. Shocked, the other girls gathered around her.

She's really hurt, thought Sally. Badly. And this wasn't anything to do with her. She wasn't taking sides. She was just playing for us because we asked her to.

Carefully, Miss Tackle began to unlace Ameena's boot.

‘Holly's hurt too, Miss Tackle,' said someone.

Miss Tackle frowned at Holly, who had limped over to join them. ‘Why aren't you wearing shin pads?' she said crossly.

‘Someone took them, Miss Tackle,' said Holly.

Miss Tackle was still frowning. At a time like this, losing your kit was definitely your own fault.

‘Can you walk?'

‘Yes.'

‘Go to the office and get it looked at.' She went back to unrolling Ameena's sock.

Ameena
had
been wearing shin pads, but it hadn't helped her. The edge of Imogen's stick had come slicing in just over the top of her boot and caught her full on the ankle. There was a vicious red mark there. It was already swelling. Miss Tackle tested it gently with her finger. Ameena sobbed.

‘We need the stretcher,' said Miss Tackle.

The bell had gone for last period but Charlie B was still standing by the lockers illegally loading himself up from a packet of crisps.

Charlie was one of those boys who would one day discover weight training and turn himself into something surprisingly solid. But for the time being the gym was a bit distant, rather too much effort and a lot too expensive, and he got his exercise mostly by eating things he shouldn't. His big brother worked in a local takeaway, so some truly unbelievable stuff showed up in Charlie's packed lunches and none of it was ever less than a day old. Like most other Year Seven-to-Nine boys he lived in an entirely separate world, one ruled by anarchy and fantasy violence; but Sally had shown him how to multiply fractions last term and there remained between them some tenuous interplanetary contact.

‘Here're your shin pads,' said Sally, handing them to him. ‘Thanks.'

‘Oh, right,' he said. ‘Hope they helped.'

‘I'm OK,' said Sally. ‘But Ameena and Holly are both in the Accident Book, and Ameena's going to the hospital. Imogen and Tara and Billie are in front of the Deputy Head now.'

‘That's tough. Did you know they've discovered an asteroid that might collide with the Earth in a few months? They've called it Zebukun.'

This was the sort of news that Charlie genuinely thought could cheer people up.

‘. . . I reckon if it hits in our hemisphere we're bound to see something. That'd be so cool!'

‘If you say so. By the way . . .'

‘Umm?'

‘Where
did
Billie get that mouse?'

‘Why ask me?' said Charlie, showing no surprise.

‘I just thought – if I had to find a dead mouse in school, whose pockets would I search first?'

‘You can search ‘em now,' said Charlie innocently.

‘What would I find if I did?'

Charlie smiled a tight little smile.

‘Stay out of it, Charlie. It only makes things worse.'

‘You know what I'm going to be when I grow up? I'm going to be a gun-runner. Rich'll be pushing smack but I'll be running guns, dodging patrols, breaking blockades, all that. Guns are cool.'

‘You,' said Sally, ‘are going to be a chemist. Rich will be an engineer. And you'll each have a wife and two kids and you'll be very proud . . .'

‘Don't
say
that!'

‘But if you see Tony Hicks?'

‘Yeah?'

‘You could drop a toad down his trousers for me . . .'

W
INDLEBERRY:
Sally!

‘. . . Preferably one of the poisonous type.'

It took a moment for her words to filter across whatever light-years divided Charlie's personal universe from reality. Then, slowly, a kind of light began to grow in his eyes. Deep within his brain thoughts fired and ideas came wheeling into focus. Mental capacities that were kept firmly shut down for 90% of the school day soared to full power. A smile spread over his lips, as if he were an artist who had glimpsed in some clouded sunset a gleam of the walls of Heaven.

‘Could get him to swallow a frog. How about it?'

W
INDLEBERRY:
Sally!

‘Forget it,' sighed Sally. ‘I was only joking. Thanks for the shin pads, anyway. You really saved my life.'

‘Y'r welcome.'

It is time to consider the sex of an angel.

Angels have no sex. They don't need one. An angel is an ‘it' rather than a ‘he' or a ‘she'. This is true even if – like the cupids – their physical appearance very strongly suggests something else.

Angels can appear as anything. It could be a shaft of light or a wonderful smell, or a voice speaking from the air. Traditionally, however, they appear as a person. And again traditionally, that person is almost always male.

Why?

Probably
it's because when angels appear it's to hand out orders, and Tradition has always found it easier to take orders from men. It's something to do with the deeper voice, the bushier eyebrows and the
hint that you'll get beaten up if you don't do as you're told. There's no point getting upset about this. That's the way Tradition is. Or was.

So angels mostly appear as ‘he' and are mostly referred to as ‘he'.

There is one angel, however, who has very good reasons for appearing as ‘she' at least half the time, and has spent her career operating almost exclusively as ‘she' under names such as Venus, Aphrodite, Aidin, Branwen, Chalchiuhtlicue, Erzulie, Hathor and so on. It is she who lights the divine passion in the heart of human souls. It is she who commands the cupids. She is the Angel of Love and her seat is in a chamber in one of the highest towers of Heaven.

Now, suppose that it were possible to enter that chamber (without melting). Suppose that your eyes were to adjust to the glare and the glory, that you looked around. What would you see?

All right, the Mirrors of Burning Glances, the Arch of Pure Joy, yes, yes. But what else? You know you can get clues about a person if you're in a room they use a lot. What
else
would you see?

Would you, possibly, see that the Chamber of Glory was . . .

. . . maybe . . .

. . . just a little untidy?

Like, these
piles
of letters and reports and things everywhere?

Love is patient. Love is kind. She does not envy, she does not boast, she is not proud. She is not rude, she is not self-seeking, she is not easily angered, she keeps no record of wrongs. In fact, she prefers to keep no records of any kind at all. Love is just ♥♥♥♥ when it comes to paperwork.

The paper streams in through the door, with lots of things written on it that people think Love ought to see or know or do something about. And then it gets added to the piles. Which pile? Take your pick – it doesn't matter. Usually her secretary adds it to whichever one is lowest and least likely to collapse under its own weight. So they rise and rise – amazing, teetering constructions, until they appear more like a model of some great city on a hill than the workload of an important angel assembled on an important angel's desk.

Oh, yes. About that desk . . .

There had been a woman who had begged that her heart should live on after her death, so that she might love her lover from beyond the grave.

‘Sure,' the angel had said. She liked this sort of thing.

‘There you go,' she had said, a moment later. ‘Now, er, what shall I do with it?'