Johnny O'Brien, Nick Hardcastle
Day of Deliverance
A poisoned sword
Jack thrust the rapier forward. Angus jumped back, but this time he was not quick enough. The blade pierced his flesh and an ominous red patch appeared on his white shirt. Angus glanced down at the wound and looked back at his opponent with an expression of rage on his face. A frisson of excitement rippled through the crowd. The contest was proving far better than they had imagined. Jack was exhilarated — one final blow and it would all be over.
His confidence was short-lived. The strike had found its mark but he’d also momentarily lost his balance and Angus came back with a violent counter-thrust. His blade flashed through the air and caught Jack in the ribs. There was a gasp from the crowd. The foil was so sharp that Jack scarcely felt it. But in only a few seconds his own blade grew heavy in his hand and his breathing quickened. Sensing his chance, Angus darted forward once more, his sword aimed at Jack’s chest again. This time Jack spotted the move and swayed to one side. Angus’s forward momentum presented Jack with an opportunity. He grabbed his opponent by the arm and heaved him onwards, while simultaneously thrusting out his leg. Angus tripped and spun through the air landing with a crunching thud, his sword spinning from his hand. Jack pounced onto him and they became locked in a deadly struggle. But he should have known better than to take on Angus in a wrestling match. Angus was much too strong and soon he had Jack pinned on his back beneath him. He grasped Jack’s sword hand and banged it hard on the ground until Jack relinquished his grip. Angus lowered his face towards Jack’s and sneered.
“You will die.”
Jack was nailed to the ground. He was wounded and he had no weapon. Angus’s massive bulk was pressing down on him. But it wasn’t over yet. He gritted his teeth, and with a super-human effort jerked his knee upwards into Angus’s crotch. Angus wailed in pain and Jack seized the moment to wriggle free. Snatching up a sword, he wheeled round. The sword felt different — heavier and unbalanced — but it didn’t matter now. Angus jumped back to his feet and grabbed the other sword and the two of them circled round and round, panting at each other like wounded animals. The crowd jeered. Jack’s remaining energy was melting away — he knew he only had seconds left. There was blood all over the floor and Angus slipped. He was only distracted for a split second but it was enough. Jack leaped forward to land a second, fatal blow. Angus screamed as blood from a second wound spurted from his chest. He dropped to one knee, and looked up at Jack. It was an unexpected expression — almost apologetic,
“The poison… I am killed with my own treachery…” He stammered.
Jack glanced down at the sword that dangled loosely from his hand — and suddenly he understood. He had snatched up his opponent’s sword, which Angus must have dipped in poison before the contest. Jack had already been injured with the same sword, which meant that, in less than a minute, both of them would be dead.
But there was still time to see to unfinished business. Jack knew what he had to do.
Clutching his chest to stem the bleeding, he staggered across to where his uncle sat cowering behind the long banqueting table. The food and drink was laid out — still untouched. Jack mounted the table and fixed his eyes menacingly on his uncle who sank back into his chair, shaking. There was to be no mercy and Jack did not hesitate. He thrust the sword into his uncle’s heart.
Words,words,words
Miss Beattie scurried onto the stage, “Well done, everyone! Lights!”
There was a spontaneous round of applause from the cast and crew. Nothing was being left to chance. The week before, Miss Beattie had even arranged for a special fight choreographer to come in and help them with the sword fight between Hamlet and Laertes in the last scene. It was all perfectly safe, of course, and the flashing swords reassuringly blunt, but there was always tension in the air during the famous scene and everyone stopped what they were doing to watch. And today, with Angus a reluctant and unrehearsed stand-in for the real Laertes who was off sick, anything might have happened.
“That’s all coming together quite well.” Miss Beattie said, pleased with their progress. “Only two weeks to go now…”
Jack looked down at Tommy McGough from his position high up on the table. Tommy was playing Claudius, Hamlet’s uncle, and he nervously opened one eye.
“Did I survive?”
“Looks like it,” Jack said. “Don’t know how you get away with it. Every rehearsal I somehow manage to miss.”
“Dangerous business this Shakespeare stuff…”
Angus bounded over from centre stage, flushed with excitement after the sword fight.
“That was awesome…”
“Told you…”
Angus’s shirt was almost completely red as Miss Beattie removed the pouch of stage blood from underneath it.
“What a mess,” the English teacher fussed.
Angus grinned, “I thought I would go for Hamlet meets Terminator… Everyone likes a bit of blood, don’t they, Miss?”
Without looking up, she replied, “Actually, you’re right. When they performed these plays in the old days they wouldn’t have skimped on the blood… they’d have used real goat’s blood probably. The audiences loved gore. There’s even a story of actors using a real musket. In one production it went off and someone in the audience had his head blown off by mistake.”
Miss Beattie was always coming out with stuff like this. It was one reason why Drama was so popular at school — and successful. The whole town of Soonhope would probably turn up for the end-of-term performance of
“Is that true, Miss?”
“Apparently. They just dragged the body out. Next day they were on again. I doubt they used the musket again, though health and safety wasn’t top priority in the sixteenth century…”
“I could get into that,” Angus said.
Jack elbowed him. “See — told you it was worth coming.”
“Well — the fighting was good fun, but I couldn’t stand Shakespeare for too long — you know, all those… words.”
Miss Beattie looked up at Angus with a steely eye, her good humour evaporating. At nearly six foot, Angus towered over her, but somehow, the expression on her face made him shrink.
“You’ve done it now…” Jack murmured, casting a sidelong glance at Tommy, who grimaced in return.
“Words!” Miss Beattie rolled the ‘R’ in her strong East Scots brogue. “WORRRDS!” She repeated it — louder — and it came from her lips like a dart from a blowpipe. “Is that all you have to say on the matter — WORRRDS?”
Everyone around the stage stopped what they were doing and turned to look at Miss Beattie. For all her boundless enthusiasm, she was also prone to dramatic changes in mood. As a result, Angus was about to receive what was popularly termed by the pupils of Soonhope High School as ‘a Beattie Beating’. It was never pleasant.
“But, Miss…” Angus bravely tried to stand his ground, but it was too late. It was as if he had inadvertently triggered a small thermo-nuclear device.
