C Darts ch27

Chapter 27

It was later. In the end the wedding had gone well, despite all the
monkeys. Or perhaps because of them. I wasn't sure. C and Gaston
Fontaine had left for their honeymoon to cheers of the crowd. Everyone
had continued to drink. Everyone had continued to dance. We were all
having a good time. Humans and anthropoids alike.

At some point Seven must have disappeared because suddenly he was
there next to me again. He had a sheepish smile on his face. I recalled
the dodgy looking sheep I had seen in the field earlier that day. I
hoped they weren't related.

"Yes?" I said, worried.

"I have a proposal," said Seven.

"Good timing," I said. "But the vicar looks out of it. Too much cherry
brandy, I'd say."

"No," said Seven, shaking his head, "it's my brothers. They've
challenged us to a game of darts."

"Farts?" I said. The music was suddenly loud and all I'd heard was
something about Seven's brothers and then something else. I still
remembered Seven's story, The Fart Catcher.

"Not farts," said Seven, "darts. DARTS."

"Oh," I said loudly.

"We'd never beat them at farts," said Seven. "They're expects."

"I supposed they are," I said.

"Well?" said Seven.

"Quite well," I said. "Although I could do with another drink."

"No," said Seven. "Darts. DARTS. Do you want to play?"

"A tray?" I said. "I don't think I need a tray."

"PLAY," shouted Seven. "DO YOU WANT TO PLAY DARTS?"

I laughed and that must have cleared my head because suddenly
everything was clear. "Need you ask?"

"I'm asking," said Seven.

"Let me at them," I said. "Let me at them."

Seven clapped his hands and then, thankfully no longer looking like a
sheep, he said his brothers were waiting in the barn. He said we had
five minutes. He said we had to find the others. I said OK. I said that
shouldn't be a problem.

I was right. Finding the others wasn't difficult. 16 was on the dance
floor pogoing gently to a waltz by Schubert, AkiMat was feeding nuts to
the monkeys and The Poet was noticeable by his absence. Therefore, easy
to locate.

In five minutes we were all in the barn, ready, present and
correct.

"Wow," said 16, looking up and turning around, "so this is the barn
from the story. I feel like I'm part of some historical
reconstruction."

I knew what he meant. It was just as I had imagined it. The wooden
walls. The bales of hay. The dart-board. The seven brothers. One, Two,
Three, Four, Five, Six, and of course, Seven.

On closer inspection I realised the brothers were like Russian dolls
who would never fit into each other. They were exactly alike but all
the same size.

"Your father wasn't so stupid," I said to Seven, "without the tattoos
I wouldn't know one from the other."

"How about two from the others?" said Seven.

"Sorry?" I said.

"Or three?" said Seven.

"You're losing me," I said.

"I hope not," said Seven sweetly, "Anyway, I told you about my father
and the tattoos. You should have believed me, all my stories are
true."

"I'm beginning to believe you," I said.

"You should," said Seven.

"Let's play," said one of the brothers stepping forward. It was One. I
knew because he had his shirt off. There was the one on his chest,
ornate and filigree. It was like Seven's only it was a different
number.

"OK," I said. "Best of five?" I said.

All the brothers turned to look at Five.

"OK," he said. "Best of five it is. But believe me, you won't get the
best of me."

The brothers nodded their heads as if something had been agreed but I
wasn't sure what. I realised it wasn't the vicar who had had too much
cherry brandy, it was me.

Then The Poet fell to the floor. I was worried about him. He was going
back to his old ways, ways I thought we had left behind. I pulled him
up and took a piece of straw out of his left ear.

"What is it?" I said.

"A prize," he said. "We need a prize."

He was right. We did. How could I have forgotten? But I didn't know
what to suggest. Somehow a story on the cock didn't seem suitable.
After all, Seven was my boyfriend. The family already had a history of
incest. It wasn't something I wanted to drag up, especially on a
wedding day. Our team was supposed to be destroying bastions, not
creating new ones. Luckily, 16 had an idea, or so I guessed. He was
thrusting his hand in the air. His face was straining.

"Yes?" I said.

"Well," said 16. "I was thinking...."

"Yes?" I said.

"You see," said 16.

"Yes?" said The Poet.

"It would be nice," said 16, "on this day of new beginnings and all,
on this day of nuptials and tradition, if we could resurrect an old
tradition."

"Yes?" said Seven.

"What is it?" I said.

"I was thinking," said 16, "that the loser, ie the person from the
losing team who loses by the largest margin, should have to catch the
farts in bed that we all sleep in tonight."

The Poet fell to the floor. AkiMat folded his T-shirt into a
helicopter. Seven smiled and flexed his tattoos. I just clapped my
hands. We all thought the same. It was a good idea. That would be the
prize.

First off we had to decide who was playing who. We did this by playing
a series of inaugural challenges, arm wrestling, chequers, quoits and
so on. Apparently it was a family tradition. I didn't really have a
clue what was going on but the brothers seemed happy enough, they were
strutting about like cocks let on a hen night. Seven had told me they
were a competitive lot. He had been right about that too. I was
beginning to think I really should believe everything he said. I had
never had a boyfriend like him.

At last the playing order seemed to have been decided. It would go
like this. 16 would play Two, The Poet would play Three, AkiMat would
play Four, I would play Five, and finally, Seven would play Six.
Simple.

"Go for it," I said as 16 stepped up to the oche.

"I will," he said. "Don't you worry."

I didn't worry. He lost. 0 - 136.

"In one week's time," said The Poet, "we have to face the secretary.
We have to overcome the biggest bastion of them all. We have to change
the face of darts as we know it."

"Keep that in mind," I said.

"I will," said The Poet.

He lost. 0 - 365. We were 2 - 0 down.

"All we can hope for now is a stunning fight back," I said to AkiMat.
"Do your best."

"My best is what I'll do," said AkiMat.

It was close. He lost. 0 - 18. We were 3 - 0 down. We couldn't
win.

"It looks like you'll be catching farts," I said to The Poet. "0 -365.
I can't see anyone else doing worse than that."

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched," said The Poet.
"You're next."

The Poet was right. He was right on both counts. I was next and I
shouldn't have counted my chickens. I only hit the board once. The rest
of the darts went everywhere. If this story was a musical then
Fleetwood Mac would have been playing in the background. "I can hear
you calling, out my name. I'm feeling so horny and I don't know what to
say. Ooooo yeah, I wanna be with you everywhere." I didn't know what
was wrong with me or the darts. Perhaps they had wanderlust. Perhaps I
wasn't the wunderkind I thought I was. I only scored one. One. The
number after zero. The result of dividing 51 by 51, 1. The final score
was 0 - 500. I lost.

"What were you saying?" said The Poet. He put his hands in the air and
walked like an Egyptian. "What Were You Saying?"

I ignored him. And I also ignored the smug look on his face. I spoke
only to Seven.

"You didn't tell me your brothers were so good at darts."

"We had a good incentive."

"What do you mean?"

"Spending the nights catching farts," he said, "it isn't great. That's
what I mean. Incentive. It gives you an edge." Then he stepped up to
the oche. He won. Nonchalantly. With panache. Without a hint of defeat.
What kind of boyfriend is that?

So it was me. Without doubt, I was the fart catcher. In Seven's own
words it would be me who was spending the night in the region of arses.
But somehow that was OK. It was OK because I had learnt something.
Later that night as I was given the sack and as I trudged off to our
communal bed with a clothes peg over my nose I realised I had learnt an
important lesson. It was this.

Seven's brothers were great at darts. Seven had explained why. They
were great because they had a goal. They didn't want to be at the one
at the bottom of the bed holding the sack. That was something we could
learn from them. As The Poet had said in one week we had a potentially
life changing meeting. We had to focus the same way the brothers
focused. We had to think that we had to win. We had to think that the
alternative was too horrible to contemplate. We had to believe that we
could do it. At any cost.

I spent the night catching farts. But I was a better man for it.

Things were going to change. As The Poet said, we had the biggest
bastion of them all to defeat. We had to do it. I believed we would. I
really believed we would.