Behind Golden Boy came the scary-looking Ascot boy who was usually guarding the King. He was wearing a white sweatshirt over his clothes, the hood up and half covering his face. Then, from Sandhurst – Ella had quickly learnt the colours of the different camps – a big boy in leather on a horse that was a bit too small for him. He was sitting uncomfortably and looked all wobbly. If Ella hadn’t been so anxious she would have laughed. From Slough there was a girl with a ponytail, her head shaved round the sides. Then there was a boy from Maidenhead and a girl from Bracknell, both with lances.

They all went round and round the arena, encouraging the kids to cheer for them and throw more stuff into the ring. All sorts of rubbish was fluttering down. The Maidenhead rider speared a teddy bear on his lance and held it up in the air, grinning.

At last the band stopped, and the people stopped cheering and making so much noise, and the riders got ready, drawing their swords, patting their horses’ necks to calm them down.

Everyone was waiting now. Ella wanted to be sick. Time had slowed down until it felt like it had stopped.

And then a great shout went up as the grown-ups were forced into the ring, shielding their faces from the light. These ones were bigger and stronger-looking than the first lot. They didn’t seem so scared and confused. They were angry, ready for a fight, the pick of the pack. Most of them were fathers, but there were some nasty-looking mothers among them, baring their teeth at the kids. One ripped down her top and bared her breasts at the crowd who screamed with laughter. Ella just felt embarrassed.

The grown-ups spotted the riders and formed into a group, waiting. Ella searched them, looking at their faces, the way they were standing, what they were wearing, trying to see if Malik was among them.

No, just ugly, diseased grown-ups, mothers and fathers and …

There. Right in the middle of the pack, trying not to stand out.

Ella wished that time really had stopped and would never start again.

Malik. His movements so familiar to her. Sniffing the air, his head turning and twisting to check out the whole area, thinking, planning, getting ready.

What could he do? What plan could he have? What hope did he have against these kids with their horses and their sharp weapons? Their swords and lances.

All her fault.

Golden Boy raised his sword and charged, shouting, ‘Windsor …’

And the rest of them followed. All shouting except for the bald boy.

‘Bracknell …’

‘Maidenhead …’

‘Sandhurst …’

‘Slough …’

Chapter 65

65