Attack of the Cupids (23 page)

Maybe.

Anyway, it was the only way that Sally could think of to get the oboe back without pointing the finger of guilt at Janey or Billie or anyone like that, because that would just make things worse. Boys did have their uses sometimes. All she needed was one who would deliver it.

And whoever he was, the poor sap wasn't going to get told what was in it either. There was too much riding on this. He'd have to accept his fate and be grateful. Cupid didn't give you the vote.

She was lurking round a corner within sight of the door to the boys' changing room. She had the oboe in her P.E. bag. She was waiting for the football club to finish getting dressed after their lunch-time training. One of them would do.

The changing room door opened. Sam Wray came out.

No, thought Sally.

The door opened again. Jeff Butcher came out, calling over his shoulder to the guys who were still inside.

Again, no, thought Sally.

Why not? Jeff was nice. He'd do it if she asked him.

‘It's got to be someone good-looking,' she said to herself.

‘It's
got
to be a boy,' muttered Sally to herself. She felt quite sure about it. And also, for some reason, angry. And tense. She was trying hard not to panic.

She'd seen Dom. She'd seen Jeff, both Sams, Tim, Tyrone and Louie. And Stevie. She had almost gone for Stevie.

There could only be three of them left in there.

‘Come
on
,' she whispered.

The central chamber of Billie's mind was done up like a gothic temple.

(A gothic temple is not a cathedral. Definitely not. It is something quite different and it really exists. In Billie's mind it does anyway.)

The walls were of black stone, rugged and yet shiny, as if this were a cavern underground and the rocks were filmed with chill waters seeping down through the earth. The ceiling was vaulted, the floor uneven, the chamber lit by lamps of crystal set in niches. An eerie wailing came from somewhere. It might have been mystic chanting, but in fact it was Cindy Platter's latest being played over and over through hidden speakers. In the centre of the chamber was a great stone altar block and on it Billie lay like a sacrificial victim, because that was what she wanted to be.

Ismael took out the golden arrow and lifted it high. He was not at ease with the situation. Yeah, sure, if he had to be a priest, then he could be a priest. Organized religion comes naturally to angels.

It was just that he had never expected to be
this
kind of priest.

On the far side of the altar Scattletail looked even more uncomfortable. That was because of his white robes, which were clean.

‘Drive it into my heart!' cried Billie.

Ismael sighed. ‘You're really up for this, aren't you, honey?'

‘I like it.'

‘We, um, doin' it now?' said Scattletail. ‘Don't we have to wait for someone to, er, come along?'

‘Anyone you like,' said Billie, ‘provided he's good-looking.'

‘What about the Tony bloke?'

‘I don't mind if it's him again. But there might be someone better.'

‘Like who?'

‘Could be anyone,' said Billie. ‘Provided he's tall and trim and a bit muscly, tanned skin, dark eyebrows and curly dark hair – an afro, maybe.'

Ismael and Scattletail looked at each other. Billie's
could be anyone
was sounding a lot like Zac Stenton.

‘Or blond,' said Billie. ‘And he doesn't have to be tall-tall, so long as he's good at sports and has got a lean face and chin.'

And that was Alec Gardner.

Scattletail coughed. ‘A lot of scope, there. Lot of room for manoeuvre, you might say.'

‘Couldn't we keep it to Year Nine?' pleaded Ismael. ‘We'd see so much more—'

‘Not on your life,' said Billie. ‘The Year Nine boys are all hopeless. I want someone I can be proud of and who will bring me liquorice.'

Ismael tested the arrow with his finger. It was loaded, all right. There was enough power there to make his princess fall in love with any passing frog (or Year Nine) no matter what her wish-list was beforehand. Good job
he
was the one who was holding it . . .

Scattletail must have read his thoughts. As if by magic, a pack of cards appeared in his hands. ‘Guess we cut?' he said, grinning evilly.

‘Cut?' Ishamel grimaced. ‘Not with
your
deck.'

‘We'll play for it,' said Billie, promptly sitting up. ‘Deal me in.'

‘Sure, Queenie.' sighed Ismael. ‘You're the boss. What game?'

‘Hearts, of course.'

Come on, thought Sally. Come on. Come . . .

The handle of the boys' changing room turned.

Oh no!
thought Sally.

Here they come!

Here they came, Zac and Alec and Tony. Three rangy forms, lightly swathed in half-buttoned shirts and loose ties, grinning to each other about something one of them had just said. The air of gods was about them.

And Sally's knees were trembly as she stepped out
into their path. Her palms prickled and her heart was going thump and she wanted to swallow. Nerves, she thought. Just nerves.
Why am I so nervous?

‘Um . . . hi,' she said.

Alec passed her and he hadn't heard.

‘Hi,' said Sally again.

Tony ‘Hi-Hi'd back. Though Sally wasn't sure he knew who had spoken to him.

‘Hi, Sally,' Zac said.

Zac was nice, but he hadn't stopped walking.

They were walking by her, going somewhere she wasn't. If she let them.

‘
Um
 . . .' she said.

Zac stopped. So did Tony.

Alec looked back. Then he stopped too.

Zac and Alec and Tony.

They were looking at her.

‘So this,' said the Angel of Love, ‘is where I take over.'

Love can strike like lightning. She can leap out of a rosebush, yelling and firing gold tipped arrows. She can pluck all the fibres of the human soul and make them sing like the strings of a harp. But she doesn't have to.

She can wait.

She can wait like one of those beautiful, carnivorous flowers – the sort that beckons insects and spiders into its sweet-smelling petals (ever thought why it's called the
Venus
flytrap?) and then catches them there.

She waits, standing silently, while the busy little creature goes left and right and up and down, following what it thinks are its own purposes. Until it persuades itself that there's a reason, a very good reason, why it should go to one particular place, alone.

And say, ‘Um . . .'

And push forward, into the soft, yielding, deadly embrace.

Sally stood, open-mouthed, lost in the middle of her own mind. Two cupids had caught Muddlespot from behind and wrestled him silently to the floor. About twenty had dropped out of nowhere on top of Windleberry and buried him under a squirming mass of naked bodies, which shuddered sporadically and emitted the occasional muffled
Hai!
but nothing to any effect.

And before her, tall and slim and lightly clad, stood Eros himself. He held a mask in front of his face. Through the eye-holes she felt his gaze burning into her, all the way down to her heart.

Everything stood still.

‘Did you know the world is about to end?' said Eros softly. ‘It's going to end very soon,' he added. ‘A star will fall and everything will burn. Sally, you will burn with it.'

His words burned as he spoke them, and at the same time they sang. Sally nodded slowly. She believed him at once but she did not feel very upset. After all, it hardly mattered. How could anything matter, except him?

‘You haven't very long, I'm afraid,' Eros said. ‘Not long at all. Time is precious. What do you want to do with it?'

There was a pause.

‘Schoolwork?' he said. ‘Really?'

Another pause.

‘Or save the world? Nice thought. But it can't be saved. Not this time. These days are all you have . . . they are all you have, Sally,' he said. ‘So what do you think you are here for?'

Sally could not answer.

‘Let's play a little game,' said Eros. ‘You'll see what I mean. Let them up.'

The cupids lifted Muddlespot to his feet. They stood behind him, holding his arms. Slowly the pile
on top of Windleberry rearranged itself. Windleberry's head and shoulders appeared, poking out of the masses of pinky flesh.

‘Let them up,' Eros said again. ‘They won't fight. She won't allow it. Will you, Sally?'

‘No,' whispered Sally.

Grimly, Windleberry climbed to his feet. His suit was rumpled. There was a bruise on one cheek. Some cupid had remembered the last time they had met and had put the heel in. He folded his arms and faced Eros.

‘Game?' he said.

‘A very old game,' said Eros sweetly. ‘But a good one. We each offer Sally what we have to offer, and then she will choose between us.'

‘And the winner?'

‘The winner wins.'

‘Don't listen, Sally!'

‘A disappointing opening,' sighed Eros. ‘Amateur, really. I had expected better from you, my dear.' He turned to Muddlespot. ‘Would you like to try next?'

Muddlespot opened his mouth and shut it. He knew the game all right. Everyone from Below and Above knew
this
game.

He just hadn't seen it played three-sided before. That was what was throwing him. Suddenly there
were a lot more angles and he couldn't work them all out fast enough.

‘Do be quick,' said Eros mildly. ‘The world
is
about to end, you know.'

Muddlespot panicked. ‘All the kingdoms of the world and their splendour,' he gabbled, going straight to his bottom line. ‘If you will only bow down and worship me!'

‘Ah, the “Wilderness Gambit”,' said Eros happily. ‘So nice to see it played in the classic manner.
Un
fortunately, the lease on those kingdoms is about to expire very soon. Along with everyone in them. It's not your fault – well, it
is
your fault, as it happens, but don't let that bother you. It's just that if a kingdom is about to go up in smoke, then maybe it isn't really so worth having after all, is it . . .?

‘. . . So, Sally. Shall we think about it? Shall we think about what you
really
want?'

The mask turned in his hand, in one neat movement. It became his face, and it was the face of Alec Gardner. He smiled at Sally, a beautiful, white-toothed smile, and her heart went
thump!

‘Well?' said Alec.

Sally's mouth was dry. ‘Let's . . . let's play again,' she managed to say.

The mask twirled in the fingers of Eros. Once more it was as blank as the face of a statue. He turned it on Muddlespot.

‘Do you want to improve your offer?'

‘Eeeeerrrrrrrhhh . . .' said Muddlespot.

‘I don't think you can, can you? Once you've offered all the kingdoms, there aren't any more to offer. Awkward for you.' He turned to Windleberry. ‘Would you like to go next?'

‘Sally!' Windleberry's voice was urgent. ‘You mustn't think about yourself. Think about Truth. The difference between what is True and not True is the only thing worth knowing . . .'

‘Ah, wisdom!' said Eros. ‘
That's
better. I thought we should drag it out of you eventually. And what can I possibly say to that?'

The mask twirled in his hand. It became his face, and it was a living one. Lean, brown, curly-haired. Tony stood in the middle of Sally's mind. He gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘Except this?' he said, and grinned. Sally's heart trembled.

‘Sally!' cried Windleberry. ‘Remember what happens! Remember the play and the city that burned!'

‘Hey!' said Tony. ‘How was that my fault?'

‘What about Ameena's ankle?' said Muddlespot,
who could play the blame game better than any angel. ‘
That
was because of you!'

‘Guilty
!'
cried the oboe case from somewhere.