Second Intention (15 page)

All the same, five victories from six fights wouldn’t do me any harm. I shook hands with all my opponents, then gathered up my stuff and began strolling back to the grandstand seating where we had based ourselves. Sue was positively glowing. It was the sort of high you get when you see a track and field star post a new P.B.

As we walked across the hall I was trying to work it out in my head. Three from the first round and five from the second. That gave me eight victories from twelve bouts. Surely that would be enough to put me in the top half of the draw? Surely I was going to get a lower ranked opponent in the DE?

I didn’t have long to wait before finding I was totally wrong. Ours was one of the last pools to finish, so the organisers posted up the rankings very soon after we had handed in our pool sheet. What was written up there, and its implications, really did leave me speechless.

I had completely forgotten what they had said at the beginning about the seeding for the DE. They were
only
using the results from the second round. I didn’t have eight from twelve - I had five from six, which meant I had ended up ranked seventh overall going into the DE. With only fifty-three fencers in the tournament, they would run an incomplete tableau of sixty-four. The top eleven fencers would therefore have no opponents in the first round, and were guaranteed a place in the last 32.

I couldn’t believe it. My first ever overseas international, and I had made it to the last 32!

Sean, it seemed, had had a bit of a nightmare and only got three victories

again, putting him in 27
th
place. Toby, I noticed, had again only notched up one victory, which was gifted to him by his having priority at full time when they were at four all.

His opponent in the first round of the DE would be Krauss, the Swiss veteran I had just underestimated and lost to.

I wandered back to Sue and gave her the news. She was thrilled to hear that I had assured myself of a good result, and suggested I have a sit down, although I knew it wasn’t a good idea. When you get through to the next round by default it’s known as a “bye”, and whilst it means you save a bit of energy by having one less fight than your next opponent there is a downside to it. Your opponent, when you finally face him, is fully warmed up and raring to go. You, on the other hand, can easily have cooled down and lost your edge. I always find it’s really important to keep moving and stay focused.

I jogged around a little, and then went over to look at the tableau and see who I would be facing in the last 32. It was either going to be Hahn, the German I had lost to in the first round, or Meuvissen, the Dutchman I had beaten in the second. I figured I could take either of them if I kept my head.

It was at this point that I was distracted by a bit of a commotion at one of the nearer pistes, and I looked around to see a mask skittering away across the floor accompanied by some shouting. It seemed that Krauss had just put an end to Toby Rutherford’s tournament, and was being rewarded with the usual display of sportsmanship and decorum from my countryman.

Sean, I had just seen, had narrowly taken his fight against one of the Danes, which meant that he, too, had made it through to the last 32, although he was on the other side of the tableau so we were very unlikely to have to cross swords.

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, the time finally came for me to fight my first DE bout, against Hahn as it turned out. He had only just beaten Meuvissen, which I took some encouragement from, and I felt his defeat of me in the first round was due more to my nerves than anything else.

I was wrong. He was, pure
ly and simply, better than me. Yes, I got some good hits on him, but it was never enough. I would edge back a couple, but he would have taken three in the time it took me to do it. He was in control all the way through, and never looked particularly worried by whatever I managed to pull out of the bag.

He was fencing better than I was
, and there isn’t really much you can do about that.

He eventually took it 15-10, and we barely made it into the second period. The only real puzzle in my mind was how he had gone into the DE with such a low ranking. He must have had a nightmare in the second round.

As I came off the piste I could see Sue’s look of concern. She obviously thought that I would be despondent after losing to somebody with a lower ranking, but when she saw the wry smile on my face she perked up.

‘You okay, pet?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I said, truthfully. ‘He deserved that, and I can’t complain about how I’ve done today, can I?’

‘No, you can’t.’ She replied, stroking my cheek with the back of her hand.

‘I’m very proud of you, my love. You know that, don’t you?’

It was such a touching moment, I nearly burst into tears on the spot.

*                  *                  *                  *

The changing rooms were completely deserted when I went in. Leaving my fencing kit in a soggy pile on the floor I padded through to the showers and began hosing myself down under a hot spray. I was knackered. The past week had been a tough one, and this moment had been occupying my consciousness for such a long time. There had  been the business with Doktor Chuckles and the mobiles, Sue had gone away, I had made the trip up to the university and seen Grace again, and then there had been the stock run, which, as it turned out, had gone completely smoothly and they hadn’t needed me there at all.

Yes, it was a lot to have happening in the run up to this tournament. A tournament in which I didn’t know whether I was just going to end up embarrassing myself and British fencing. And now that it was all over the sense of relief was enormous. I had done okay, all things considered, but it had left me feeling totally drained. I rested my head against the white tiles and let the water just wash over my shoulders and back.

I don’t know how long I had been like that. It could have been one minute, it could have been five. When I heard the door to the changing rooms creak open I assumed it must have been another eliminated fencer coming in to get cleaned up, but was surprised when nobody presented themselves in the showers. After a moment I stuck my head round the doorway into the chan
ging area to see who was there. Nobody.

It was weird, but I had been sure that somebody had come in. I shrugged and began drying myself off.

Once changed into ordinary clothes, my fencing kit packed into plastic bags for the journey home, I realised that I was feeling much more relaxed than I had for weeks. Everything was okay. The tournament was over, and I had done better than I could have hoped, and Sue and I could now go and hit the sights of Copenhagen.

Yes, it was a pretty good day’s work. I had every right to be feeling rather pleased with myself.

Sixteen

We didn’t stay to watch the finals after I had emerged from the changing rooms. I figured Sue had seen enough fencing for one day, and, to be honest, I really fancied hitting the town and sinking a good helping of the wonderful beer for which Danes are so famous.

Before we left I strolled over to the organisers’ desk to thank them, but also find out what my final placing was. I was thrilled to see that I was ran
ked eighteenth out of the fifty-three who started the tournament. Sean was further down in the mid twenties, whilst Toby, who seemed to have disappeared very soon after his defeat by Krauss, was just a few places off the bottom.

We said our farewells to our hosts, and wished them well for the junior event they were running the following day, then stepped out into the gloom of the late afternoon.

Although the organisers had negotiated special rates for competitors at local hotels, we had deliberately chosen to stay a little further away. This was now the time for my lovely wife and I to enjoy each other’s company, and we didn’t want to be constantly bumping into people whose only topic of conversation would be fencing. Yes, I was feeling elated by how the tournament had gone, but we were done with fencing for the weekend.

Our hotel, which was a five minute walk from the Valby S-Train, suited us perfectly. After dropping off my kit and giving Sue a chance to powder her nose, we headed for the centre of the city.

We emerged from Central Station and made the short walk east to Radhuspladsen, the bustling square which forms the heart of Copenhagen. All around, the high buildings carried bright neon signs promoting all the major companies and corporations which traded in the city, and I was reminded of London’s Piccadilly Circus back in the good old days, when it was a symbol of the British capital’s vibrant prosperity, rather than just a cesspit of druggies and winos. There were hundreds of people around, but, perhaps unlike any other capital city I have visited recently, they
all
seemed happy. I don’t know what it was - maybe their body language, or their facial expressions, or just the tone of their voices - but there seemed to be nothing threatening about them. It was a really refreshing place to be.

Sue was clearly enjoying it, and I could tell she was feeling strong just then. We began walking along Stroget, which proudly claims to be the longest pedestrian shopping street in the world, and were enchanted by the charm of the place. There were street vendors and buskers lining the route, and some of the shops were still open even though it was early evening. All the bars and cafes had large terracotta oil lamps burning away outside, and we dived into one of the first ones we reached where we were quickly enveloped by its warm embrace.

The Danes have a passion for what might be termed “cosiness”, and this place proved to be no exception. We ordered food, since it had been a long time since either of us had eaten, and washed it down with big tankards of Tuborg. The staff and fellow clientele all seemed very welcoming, and as the effects of the beer kicked in, we began to feel very mellow.

A light, misty rain had begun to fall when we re-emerged onto Stroget, although it didn’t appear to have dampened anybody’s spirits. They all just seemed to pull their collars up a little more and get on with things. We continued along the street, arm in arm, and I knew that this was just one of those moments which we would treasure for ever.

We finally made it to Nyhavn, the picturesque little harbour at the far end of Stroget, and found another cosy hostelry in which to down some more beer. From our seats by the window we could see out across the waterfront, and happily absorbed the scene. There were tall, gabled townhouses on the far side, one of which had once been the home to Hans Christian Andersen himself. In the murky water just a few metres away from us old, timbered fishing boats gently swayed and creaked. All around there was the flickering of yet more oil lamps, and the dim lighting of our bar was quaintly reflected by the polished brass of a myriad collection of seafaring artefacts.

It was hard to believe that we were right in the centre of the capital of a vibrant, modern European country.

*                  *                 *                   *

We had done Copenhagen by night, so after a hearty breakfast the following morning we felt it was time to take in the sights by day.

Obviously, our first call had to be Copenhagen’s best known landmark. The journey to the Osterport stop on the S-Train only took us about fifteen minutes, and we then had a delightful stroll through the park and citadel of Kastellet. This man-made island fortress, nestling in its own moat right by the waterfront, resembles a flattened out turtle on the map, and still houses an active army garrison. It was strange to amble through the 17
th
century buildings in the drizzle with dozens of other tourists while uniformed soldiers practiced their drill right in front of us, but nobody seemed to mind the intrusion.

A few minutes further on, and we reached the waterfront, where we found what we had come to see.

Paris has the Eiffel Tower, Rome has the Coliseum, and New York has the Empire State Building, but Copenhagen’s most notable landmark, famous the world over, is small, understated, and undeniably romantic. Commissioned by Carl Jacobsen, the man behind Carlsberg beer, after being suitably moved by a ballet performance of Hans Christian Andersen’s famous story, the Little Mermaid seems to reflect the Danish capital perfectly.

And we loved her. Perched on a small pile of rocks, with the drab, industrial waterfront as her backdrop, we really enjoyed her melancholy beauty, the setting somehow adding to the tragedy of her story.

We did the touristy thing, and posed with her for photographs, just as everybody else there seemed to be, then carried on walking south through Amaliehaven.

Sue was clearly doing well. After our final drink at Nyhavn the previous evening we had indulged in the extravagance of a cab to take us back to the hotel, and she seemed to be feeling pretty strong. Stronger, in fact, than I could remember her being for a long time. It was good to see, and it was great to get the chance to share this wonderful place with her fully.

Turning her back on the waterfront, she took the guidebook from her pocket and began thumbing through it. After a moment she had found what she was looking for and looked up.

‘Take me to the Rosenborg Slot,’ she said brightly.

‘The what?’

‘It’s this place.’ She showed me the picture in the book. ‘It’s a royal palace. Just up there.’

She pointed up Gothersgade toward Kongens Have, the magnificent open park which was once the royal gardens, and we set off just as the sun started breaking through.

As the angular outline of  the Rosenborg Slot came into view I realised what it was she really wanted to see. On going through the main door into the 17
th
Century castle we were greeted by an old man at the reception desk. He had a kindly face fringed with grey hair and beard, and spectacles covering a pair of moist eyes. He looked as though he could easily have been there since the royal family had been in residence all those years ago, but clearly recognised what we were there for.

‘Here in the main building,’ he said, in perfect English, ‘you will find tapestries and furniture dating back to the fifteenth century, and if you start by going through that door over there you may follow a route through the palace which will show you everything.’

He handed us a photocopied A4 sheet, complete with map, which explained exactly what it was we would be seeing, then went on to the star attraction.

‘And if, when you have finished here, you go through that door and
down the stairs you will find …’ and with this he leaned towards Sue conspiratorially, and lowered his voice to little more than a whisper, ‘the
crown jewels.’

We thanked him and set off on our tour. It really was lovely. The whole set up was very informal, unlike tourist attractions back in
Britain. You really could get right up close to everything, but it was only when we reached the strongroom in the basement that we realised just how laid back the Danes are.

There, almost close enough to touch, we saw the dazzlingly ornate royal treasure. It was one of the most magnificent sights we had ever seen, and yet there seemed to be almost no security of which to speak.

Sure, there was a rather bored looking old man sitting quietly on a chair in the corner, and two teenage sentries outside the main building, but apart from the glass cases in which they were housed there seemed to be nothing to stop anybody from just helping themselves. They had even provided steps around the plinth on which the queen’s crown was displayed so that you could look down on its intricate beauty from only a few inches away.

Sue was transfixed. She gazed in awe at the incredible display, a look of childish wonder on her gorgeous face.

Sod fencing, I thought. This whole trip was worth it just to see that.

You would never,
ever
be allowed such intimacy with anything of that value back in Britain.

*                  *                  *                 *

By late afternoon we were both getting pretty tired and had decided to call it a day. It was beginning to get dark, and a chilly wind was blowing from the Baltic, so we headed back to Central Station. From there we would catch the S-Train to Valby, have a bit of a rest, and then think about where we would get dinner.

Funnily enough it was me, rather than Sue, who seemed to be flagging the most. My legs were feeling a little stiff after my exertions the day before, but she was as right as rain. It was all really encouraging. We had had a very pleasant day of sightseeing, and she was still looking really well.

We had decided earlier in the day that, after checking out of our hotel the following morning, we would leave Sue’s suitcase and my fencing bag in the left luggage room at the station, leaving us free to have another half day of sightseeing before heading off to the airport. It was not something I’d ever done before, so I wanted to find out just where we had to go and how to go about it.

On reaching the station we followed the signs and found the luggage room down in the basement near the toilets, staffed by very helpful young men who patiently explained what we would have to do. Whilst there, we realised we both needed to pay a visit to the loo before getting on the S-Train back to Valby, and agreed to meet up in the newsagent’s shop out in the main concourse.

After five minutes of browsing the magazines, a surprising number of which were in English, I began to wonder where she had got to. Yes, there were times when she might have been a while, but it was never
that
long. After ten minutes I went looking for her.

There was no sign of her around the large open concourse of the station, and she wasn’t waiting outside the toilets either. I wondered for a moment if I had misheard her when she had said where we were to meet, but realised I couldn’t have done.

I asked the guys at the left luggage room if they had seen her. They hadn’t. I asked a smartly dressed Danish woman who was just going into the ladies’ if she would mind checking if my wife was in there, and she very kindly did precisely that. No, she explained, there was no English woman in there.

That was when I started to panic.

We had been having such a wonderful time, had been enjoying Copenhagen so much, that I had completely forgotten about the other matter. It had completely slipped my mind that Doktor Chuckles and his sinister campaign were unfinished business.

Sue was missing. I had not wanted to worry her, so I hadn’t told her the full story about what had been going on. I had just hoped it would all go away, at least until we were back in
Britain. And because I hadn’t told her she wouldn’t be on the lookout for anything potentially harmful.

I
had put her at risk, and now she was missing.

I should have thought more carefully about what I was doing, but I really started to flap. I went to the information desk and asked them to tannoy her, which they did. They also asked the police officers on duty in the station to look around for her, but there was no sign. She had simply vanished.

At that point I should have stayed with the police and got them to start sorting something out, but I just lost it. They wouldn’t have understood the seriousness of it, I reasoned. They didn’t know about Doktor Chuckles and all that he had been doing. They would just have seen it as another tourist who had wandered off and got lost. Sue was in danger.
I
had to do something.

I ran out of the main entrance and into the night, frantically looking around, desperately hoping I might see her, but there was nothing. There were people coming and going, a taxi rank, and hundreds of bicycles stacked up in multi-storey racks, but of my wife there was no sign.

Then I saw it.

Across the road, on a wall by the bike racks, was his calling card. It was only part completed, suggesting he had been interrupted part way through, but it was unmistakeable all the same. In red marker pen, showing up clearly on the grey concrete, was the grinning face of the clown.