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He cast a quick look around and huddled me into a corner where he felt sure no one was watching. Now he had got my attention.
Then he pulled out two flick knives.
“Here, take it.”
I took it.
The handle fitted neatly into my palm. The chrome felt smooth and polished. It was still warm from his pocket.
“Look, do what I’m doing. Flick in, flick out.”
I smiled. The mechanism was quick and light.
“Let’s ramp,” he said. Let’s muck about.
We started making phantom jabs for each other’s fists.
Imagine fencing with flick knives and you’re getting close. Some kids play it with tennis racquets. Some kinds pretend they’re on Star Wars. And some kids in Tulse Hill fence with knives.
He was quicker than me to start, but I soon caught up, matching every flick of the wrist and jolt of the fist.
I wasn’t afraid.
“See? Good, isn’t it?”
I took my eye off his blade. He jabbed towards me. As he did, I went to block.
“What the fuck are you doing, you idiot?”
He had caught my hand, piercing the fleshy pad beneath my thumb.
“You folly?” he said. “S’just a flesh wound.”
“That’s how you lose.”
You’re not playing, are you, I thought. We carried on. I was angrier this time and he knew it.
It was just me and him. I started jabbing harder, more forcefully, but he was too practised, too quick.
My pride had been hurt. I needed to make a wound for a wound. The game had now extended beyond striking the other fist. Now, the whole body was in play. We pranced back and forth, dodging contact with ragged swipes of chrome.
A warm trickle of blood was streaming down my wrist. It wasn’t gushing. It was just a gash, but enough to catch Jerome’s eye.
I got him. In the hand. While he was flinching I got him again, by the knee.
“Ah, you fucking bitch! You stabbed me.”
“That’s the point, innit? You a batty boy?”
It was just a graze.
“It’s not even deep.”
This was getting boring. I put down the knife, stepped back and examined my wound. It was deeper that I thought. The rest of my hand felt tender to touch.
Jerome seemed agitated, but tried not to show it. He wiped both knives on the grass and put them back into his pocket.
“Call it quits, yeah?”
“Whatever. Next time, bring a better knife.”
I went home and told Mum some cock and bull story about cutting myself on the fence. I ended up having to get stitches.
I decided there and then I wouldn’t be play fighting again – it was annoying and inconvenient. We had only been mucking about, but if that had been a serious situation I’d have been in trouble.
But I was grateful to Jerome for teaching an important lesson. Next time, I learned, I’d better bring a bigger knife.
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