Sean’s voice dropped cold and serious instantly. “Why not?”
I shrugged, aware that maybe I’d said too much. “I just have the feeling that Gilby’s men knew what they were looking for today,” I said. “They seemed to know just which buttons to press to get me to let go.”
“By the sound of it, Charlie, they’re pressing everyone’s buttons.”
“True,” I said. “But not like this.”
I’d asked around and they’d given the others a rough ride also, but nothing quite as specific as the treatment they’d given me. Having said that, the sim had been the final straw for Shirley. She’d packed up her stuff and taken the long walk up the driveway and out of the Manor, struggling to carry her dignity along with her suitcase.
“Apart from that one slip-up on the range yesterday,” I went on, “I don’t think I’ve done anything that should have made them so suspicious – unless my cover story isn’t holding water. Where else could they be getting their information from?”
“I’ll check,” Sean said, his voice clipped. Anger or concern? I couldn’t tell. “Call me tonight. I’ll try to have something for you then.”
***
At lunch we found out that we’d all failed the first-aid simulation. Almost everyone had blundered straight in and been judged shot dead, too indoctrinated by their army training to question the order to go over the top. Those who weren’t hamstrung by a military background had simply been too intimidated by the frenzy of the instructors not to do as they were told.
Apart from me, only Tor Romundstad had perceived the dangers waiting in that darkened room. He’d point- blank refused all Blakemore’s rabid inducements to enter the study. Some sixth sense warning the Norwegian to stay clear.
Despite this, we still failed. When Romundstad asked Major Gilby why, he was told it was because we’d obviously left our principal unguarded for long enough for him to be attacked in the first place. A real no-win situation.
I think I was finally beginning to learn.
***
Todd was back on his feet in time to eat, so it didn’t seem like I’d done him any lasting damage. It was clear I hadn’t made any friends in that direction though, and more than ever I regretted my instinctive violent reaction.
I found out just what a bad idea it was during the unarmed combat session that followed. Previously Blakemore had used O’Neill as his guinea pig, but when I saw the stocky phys instructor step into the gym in his place, I knew there was going to be trouble.
The thing that alarmed me most was the fact that there was nothing overt about the threat Todd exuded. There was no stare-out contest, no stamping of hooves in the dust, no throwing of salt into the ring. He didn’t even look at me. Not once.
But I could feel his enmity washing in like the cold draught from a broken window.
Blakemore had decided to teach us how to use extendible batons. In countries where we would not be allowed to carry firearms, he said, they were a viable alternative for disabling a would-be attacker.
In its collapsed form the baton was about eight inches long. It sat cold and heavy in my hand, the weight of the concealed end making it feel unbalanced.
Blakemore demonstrated the technique for opening it up, flicking his wrist so the two magnetically held inner sections telescoped out and locked into position with a solid click like the racking of a pump-action shotgun. Fully extended, the baton was just short of two feet in length and weighed four hundred and fifty grams, nearly a pound.
The sight of it was enough to push sweat out all along my hairline.
A year or so previously I’d had my left arm broken in two places by someone using a metal rod that seemed very similar to the baton. He’d been aiming for my face at the time and if he’d connected I probably wouldn’t be still around to tell the tale. My forearm still gave me gyp when the weather was cold and I could forecast rain with it more reliably than the Met Office.
Listening to the fizzing sound of the baton parting the air as Blakemore made a few exploratory swipes with it brought that memory rushing back in all its sharp and bitter glory. It made my bones tingle, sent a ripple sizzling across my skin.
Blakemore and Todd moved onto the crashmats and sprang at each other, sparring with the batons and a liberal dousing of testosterone. They clashed with great energy but to little effect. Like a couple of stage actors indulging in a sword fight designed to make the audience gasp, but not to put either in any real position of danger. It looked impressive, though.
When they were done they stepped apart, breathing hard. Blakemore had put enough effort into the display for the sweat to track down his temple and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He turned, caught my set face and grinned. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we don’t expect you to practise on each other.”
He and Todd dragged out a line of weighted mannequins and strolled among us while we went through the drills of deploying the baton and striking the dummies across the head, chest, and neck.
Once we’d got the feel of it, Blakemore moved on to set attacks and defences. As he’d done before he formed us into two groups. Instinctively, I graduated towards his side, trying not to make it look too obvious that I’d made a conscious choice.
Just as casually, it seemed, the instructors deliberately changed places at the last minute so I ended up in Todd’s group anyway.
The first pass went fine. When I reached the front of the queue and stepped forwards onto the mat Todd walked me through the move without a hitch. I was to make a strike for him, which he would evade, and then I would counter, formal as a dance. He followed the same routine with everyone, and we lined up to go again.
It was only on the second pass that Todd deviated from the game. Instead of the move I was expecting he went for the hand holding the baton, grabbed and burrowed in with steel fingers, trying to force me to release my grip.
I’d taught my self-defence students more escapes from wrist-locks than just about anything else. I didn’t have to think about my response, it was knee-jerk and immediate.
I twisted so the baton lay low across the back of his hand, then reached across to grasp it with my left, jerking the hard edge of the baton down and into his wrist, just where the bones protruded. It was a surprisingly delicate area, vulnerable to force in just the right spot.
Todd stiffened in surprise as the baton dug in, and I let the pressure off right away. I’d no wish to antagonise the man any more than I had done already.
I should have known better.
As soon as I’d partially released him, Todd curled himself around my arm, tucked in to my body, and brought his elbow back, hard. I don’t know if it was luck, I don’t know if it was judgement, but the blow landed smack in the centre of my sternum.
The following few moments disappeared in a haze of pain. I don’t remember letting go of the baton. I don’t remember falling. My next recollection is staring up from the crashmats at a circle of faces above me. Blakemore’s was the closest, but I saw more curiosity written there than alarm.
I sat up, suppressing a groan that movement provoked, and the faces retreated a little way.
“Are you fit to continue, Miss Fox?” Blakemore asked. There was just a touch of challenge to his tone.
I looked past him to where Todd was lounging with his arm draped around one of the mannequins. In his hand he was swinging the baton he’d taken from me and his eyes met mine with a lazy arrogance. He’d made his point, I realised, shown me who was top dog. I would do well to remember it.
I nodded briefly to Blakemore, who condescended to give me a hand up. The other pupils were watching me with a bemused air, as though I was going out of my way to cause trouble for myself.
Somehow, I got through the remainder of the lesson. The pain in my chest subsided to a dull throbbing ache that only hurt if I tried to fill my lungs to full capacity. I wondered how much more of this I was willing to put up with, just to act as a balm to Sean’s guilty conscience.
Todd stopped me on the way out. “Feeling all right, are we?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said, and was reminded of the way O’Neill had said the same thing to Blakemore after that first unarmed combat lesson. The standard lie.
