Page 102 of A Night with Damien Spur

Damien dipped his head, flared his nostrils and pawed his foot. ‘Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage.’ He narrowed his eyes focusing on his enemy. ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George! Let’s go!’

The lovesick rival charged.

‘Javieeeeeeeer,’ he roared.

Javier, who had previously been oblivious to all but the dance, seeing crazy Damien come for him armed with forks, nimbly ducked.

‘Okay, let’s play the game properly,’ the Argentinian said, and with a flourish swiped a cloth from a nearby table.

Damien, who had sprinted past him, spun round and paused to stamp his foot, the forks still held to his head, ready to charge again.

Elizabeth smiled, thrilled to see two men fight, beguiled by her beauty.

If only they both had guns, she thought,now that would be sport.

There was a silence in the room. The bride and groom sat like king and queen, watching the horror unfold.

Damien was ready. It was exciting. ‘Come on, the crowd is waiting,’ he said to himself.

No,said the Voice,you’ll regret it.

‘Leave me alone. This is my show. Don’t try and stop me. I’m super-charged. I can take on anybody.’

The thoughts pounded in his head.

He crouched down, eyes straight ahead.

The taunting matador brandishing the tablecloth struck the floor with his foot. Suavely, he pivoted and shuffled back as Damien rushed through the makeshift cape.

‘Olé,’ the guests chanted, swept up by the macabre dance.

Damien, incensed that he’d missed his target, charged again, but this time fell. The forks clattered across the floor as a rivulet of blood trickled from Damien’s temple.

‘Oh my goodness, is he dead?’ Sophie cried.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Elizabeth laughed, and stepped over him.

‘That’s it, old boy.’ Justin appeared. ‘Thanks for the show, but now it’s time to go home.’

Damien struggled to his feet and, smiling at the victor, bowed.

‘Pride comes before a fall,’ he said as the groom led him through the guests to the exit.

Justin hoisted Damien into the back of the taxi. He was a lot heavier than he looked. ‘Come on, old boy, need a bit of compliance here.’

Damien tugged at the lapels of his friend’s dinner jacket. ‘Stay with me.’

The smell of his sweat made Justin queasy. ‘Take him to 22 Cheyne Walk,’ he said, and gave the driver a £20 note. ‘And look after him.’

The car pulled into the traffic. Damien curled himself into a foetal position and wept. What had he become? A tragic disappointment of a man who had sunk into the abyss of unrequited love. Waves of nausea swept through his body. The throbbing in his head had fogged his brain, obscuring all reason. He wanted to die.

‘Driver, let me out at the river. I need to walk. I need some air.’

‘Whereabouts, mate?’

‘Waterloo. Walk will do me good. Take me to the bridge.’

‘Are you sure? Your mate asked me to keep an eye on you,’ the driver said.

---