Freak Collision (Rita Skeeter, Doris Purkiss, PG)
Title: Freak Collision
Author: La Onza
Rating: PG
Length: 1300
Summary: She imagined herself in the crowd, cheering, everyone cheering, but as he flew over their outstretched hands Fabius looked down at her.
More spring cleaning! This is for last May's challenge, Wizard of the month, for which I claimed Fabius Watkins.
Little Norton, 1975
Doris Purkiss sat in the dingy café attached to the Little Norton station, hunched over a cooling cup of tea. On the cracked formica in front of her lay a section of yesterday's Prophet, which she had folded very small, so as to fit in her cardigan pocket. She had smoothed it so often that the creases were knife-thin and the ink smudged, but she knew what it said. There was to be an exhibition match in Montrose.
She wasn’t allowed to apparate anymore, and she didn’t have money for a ticket; she barely had enough for the tea. Surely there was some way…She imagined herself in the crowd, cheering, everyone cheering, but as he flew over their outstretched hands Fabius looked down at her.
But it was no good. She tried to imagine him smiling, but she could only see that awful cold look in his eyes, that anger and revulsion that she had seen on that dreadful day. Tears begin to spill down her cheeks, and she swiped at them with her sleeve, grateful that she was the café’s only patron.
Or so she had thought. Just as her nose began to run, a hand with long, lacquered nails thrust a paper serviette at her, which she seized gratefully. Doris looked up as the woman slid into the seat opposite her. She froze.
“Hello, Doris,” the smart young woman said in her surprisingly deep voice, “Remember me?”
A hot flush creeped up Doris’s neck to her face, and she swiped at her nose harshly. “Yes,” she mumbled, looking away from her rival’s big-toothed smile. Rita, she knew. Her name was Rita.
“Doris, I’m so glad I ran into you,” the woman went on in her clipped confident manner. “I’m afraid you may have an entirely wrong idea about Fabius and myself. Things were rather confused that day we …met. Dear Fabius and I are just friends, I promise you.”
Doris looked back at her, wary but unable to keep down a swelling bubble of hope. And unable to forget those cold angry eyes of his.
“He looked so angry…” she whispered.
“Oh, he was,” Rita agreed cheerfully. “Absolutely outraged. At Glynnis, darling. At my esteemed colleague Glynnis, stalking us all with her pet photographer like that.”
“She wrote that you were engaged,” Doris said. “I knew it was a lie.”
“She’s a disgrace to the profession,” Rita said. “She’ll be stuck at that rag for the rest of her life.” She tapped a nail against Doris’s little square of newspaper. “I see you’re reading about the match tomorrow. For the benefit of the Society for the Reformation of Hags, well, they should start with Glynnis, I say.”
Doris smiled tentatively. “You really don’t love him?” she asked.
Rita’s hard bright eyes met hers levelly. “Not a bit,” she said.
She scooped up her large handbag and Doris thought, with a mixture of relief and regret, that she was preparing to leave. Instead, she snapped it open and fished out her own section of newspaper, not creased as crisply as Doris’s. “Have you seen this?” she asked as she unfolded it. “I’m afraid Old Glyn is up to her tricks again.”
Doris stared queasily at the hateful tabloid with its coloured header. That rag, Rita had called it.
"I don't read that paper," she said hotly. "It's trash."
“There’s a photo,” Rita said. “No reading required, really.”
She didn’t want to look, but somehow she found herself pulling the paper across the table. And there he was, her darling, her Fabius…and the girl looked so young.
“No!” she said. “No, don’t!”
“Well, to be fair, you haven’t been around much lately, have you?” Rita said. “He’s bound to think you’ve gone off him. What’s a man to do?”
Doris stared at her. “They told me to stay away,” she tried to explain. “They said…they threatened me.” And he looked at me with those eyes, she thought.
“He thinks you don’t care for him anymore,” Rita said kindly, “but you do, don’t you?”
She reached across the table and gave Doris’s arm a curt little pat. In her anxiety Doris drew her hand away and began to fiddle with one of her hair elastics, twining the little cloth flower around the tip of her finger until it grew numb. Rita’s eyes followed the movement.
“You always wear those, don’t you?” she said. “I have a positively brilliant idea. Come to the match tomorrow. Fabius will be surrounded by his people, of course. The ones who were so unfriendly before, no doubt. But you know which broom is his, don’t you?”
“The Nimbus 1500 with the customized handle,” Doris said automatically, “but…”
“If you left one of your little hair ornaments on that oversized handle, he’d know you were thinking of him,” Rita said with a wink. “It might even bring him luck. Here.” She slid an envelope across the table. “So good to see you again.” And with that, she snapped her bag shut, stood, gave a perfunctory glance around, and was gone with a crack.
Doris picked up the envelope. Inside was a train ticket to Montrose, and a pass to the benefit match. Her heart beat hard. Her eyes fell to the tabloid. Fabius grinned his beloved cocky happy grin, and she smiled back. But he was looking at the young girl, smiling at her, as he hadn’t smiled at Doris, no, he had seemed almost a different man…
Her breath stopped, and her hand shot out to turn the paper over, to hide the hateful photo. She sat for a moment, utterly still, and breathed again.
An advertisement took up most of the back page of the tabloid. A beautiful young man smiled out, looking deeply into her eyes. His lips moved as he leaned forward, his black hair falling rakishly into his eyes.
"Come on now, Doris," he was saying. She was certain of it. She stared at him, transfixed. As if he knew he had her attention at last, he winked. She had to giggle.
“Naughty!” she said. But not really. He was a gentleman at heart, you could see it in his eyes. Kind. Perhaps a bit sad. She tore her eyes away from him long enough to look at the text beneath the picture.
The Hobgoblins, tonite only!
* * * * * * * * * * *
The Prophet ran her story on the front page, of course. No other reporter could have given the tragedy such a human dimension - the young lout of prodigious natural ability, propelled by his talents into the highest echelons of stardom, unable to cope with the many temptations that society laid in the path of its heroes. It took a deft touch, but she got the balance just right - no sordid details, the public’s grief was too fresh for that, but just a few hints of wild living, and the need to compensate with performance charms and enhancement potions. Just enough to make sense of the accident.
It was a good story, if not half as good as the one the public never saw. Rita was a practical woman, not given to minding what was past mending, but it pained her to destroy those paragraphs, so chilling, yet strangely poignant. She regretted them far more than she did Fabius - he would have wanted to go out at the top of his game, after all.
Watkins, Fabius
(1940 - 1975)
Legendary Captain and Chaser for the Montrose Magpies who died in a freak collision with helicopter.
Author: La Onza
Rating: PG
Length: 1300
Summary: She imagined herself in the crowd, cheering, everyone cheering, but as he flew over their outstretched hands Fabius looked down at her.
More spring cleaning! This is for last May's challenge, Wizard of the month, for which I claimed Fabius Watkins.
Little Norton, 1975
Doris Purkiss sat in the dingy café attached to the Little Norton station, hunched over a cooling cup of tea. On the cracked formica in front of her lay a section of yesterday's Prophet, which she had folded very small, so as to fit in her cardigan pocket. She had smoothed it so often that the creases were knife-thin and the ink smudged, but she knew what it said. There was to be an exhibition match in Montrose.
She wasn’t allowed to apparate anymore, and she didn’t have money for a ticket; she barely had enough for the tea. Surely there was some way…She imagined herself in the crowd, cheering, everyone cheering, but as he flew over their outstretched hands Fabius looked down at her.
But it was no good. She tried to imagine him smiling, but she could only see that awful cold look in his eyes, that anger and revulsion that she had seen on that dreadful day. Tears begin to spill down her cheeks, and she swiped at them with her sleeve, grateful that she was the café’s only patron.
Or so she had thought. Just as her nose began to run, a hand with long, lacquered nails thrust a paper serviette at her, which she seized gratefully. Doris looked up as the woman slid into the seat opposite her. She froze.
“Hello, Doris,” the smart young woman said in her surprisingly deep voice, “Remember me?”
A hot flush creeped up Doris’s neck to her face, and she swiped at her nose harshly. “Yes,” she mumbled, looking away from her rival’s big-toothed smile. Rita, she knew. Her name was Rita.
“Doris, I’m so glad I ran into you,” the woman went on in her clipped confident manner. “I’m afraid you may have an entirely wrong idea about Fabius and myself. Things were rather confused that day we …met. Dear Fabius and I are just friends, I promise you.”
Doris looked back at her, wary but unable to keep down a swelling bubble of hope. And unable to forget those cold angry eyes of his.
“He looked so angry…” she whispered.
“Oh, he was,” Rita agreed cheerfully. “Absolutely outraged. At Glynnis, darling. At my esteemed colleague Glynnis, stalking us all with her pet photographer like that.”
“She wrote that you were engaged,” Doris said. “I knew it was a lie.”
“She’s a disgrace to the profession,” Rita said. “She’ll be stuck at that rag for the rest of her life.” She tapped a nail against Doris’s little square of newspaper. “I see you’re reading about the match tomorrow. For the benefit of the Society for the Reformation of Hags, well, they should start with Glynnis, I say.”
Doris smiled tentatively. “You really don’t love him?” she asked.
Rita’s hard bright eyes met hers levelly. “Not a bit,” she said.
She scooped up her large handbag and Doris thought, with a mixture of relief and regret, that she was preparing to leave. Instead, she snapped it open and fished out her own section of newspaper, not creased as crisply as Doris’s. “Have you seen this?” she asked as she unfolded it. “I’m afraid Old Glyn is up to her tricks again.”
Doris stared queasily at the hateful tabloid with its coloured header. That rag, Rita had called it.
"I don't read that paper," she said hotly. "It's trash."
“There’s a photo,” Rita said. “No reading required, really.”
She didn’t want to look, but somehow she found herself pulling the paper across the table. And there he was, her darling, her Fabius…and the girl looked so young.
“No!” she said. “No, don’t!”
“Well, to be fair, you haven’t been around much lately, have you?” Rita said. “He’s bound to think you’ve gone off him. What’s a man to do?”
Doris stared at her. “They told me to stay away,” she tried to explain. “They said…they threatened me.” And he looked at me with those eyes, she thought.
“He thinks you don’t care for him anymore,” Rita said kindly, “but you do, don’t you?”
She reached across the table and gave Doris’s arm a curt little pat. In her anxiety Doris drew her hand away and began to fiddle with one of her hair elastics, twining the little cloth flower around the tip of her finger until it grew numb. Rita’s eyes followed the movement.
“You always wear those, don’t you?” she said. “I have a positively brilliant idea. Come to the match tomorrow. Fabius will be surrounded by his people, of course. The ones who were so unfriendly before, no doubt. But you know which broom is his, don’t you?”
“The Nimbus 1500 with the customized handle,” Doris said automatically, “but…”
“If you left one of your little hair ornaments on that oversized handle, he’d know you were thinking of him,” Rita said with a wink. “It might even bring him luck. Here.” She slid an envelope across the table. “So good to see you again.” And with that, she snapped her bag shut, stood, gave a perfunctory glance around, and was gone with a crack.
Doris picked up the envelope. Inside was a train ticket to Montrose, and a pass to the benefit match. Her heart beat hard. Her eyes fell to the tabloid. Fabius grinned his beloved cocky happy grin, and she smiled back. But he was looking at the young girl, smiling at her, as he hadn’t smiled at Doris, no, he had seemed almost a different man…
Her breath stopped, and her hand shot out to turn the paper over, to hide the hateful photo. She sat for a moment, utterly still, and breathed again.
An advertisement took up most of the back page of the tabloid. A beautiful young man smiled out, looking deeply into her eyes. His lips moved as he leaned forward, his black hair falling rakishly into his eyes.
"Come on now, Doris," he was saying. She was certain of it. She stared at him, transfixed. As if he knew he had her attention at last, he winked. She had to giggle.
“Naughty!” she said. But not really. He was a gentleman at heart, you could see it in his eyes. Kind. Perhaps a bit sad. She tore her eyes away from him long enough to look at the text beneath the picture.
The Hobgoblins, tonite only!
* * * * * * * * * * *
The Prophet ran her story on the front page, of course. No other reporter could have given the tragedy such a human dimension - the young lout of prodigious natural ability, propelled by his talents into the highest echelons of stardom, unable to cope with the many temptations that society laid in the path of its heroes. It took a deft touch, but she got the balance just right - no sordid details, the public’s grief was too fresh for that, but just a few hints of wild living, and the need to compensate with performance charms and enhancement potions. Just enough to make sense of the accident.
It was a good story, if not half as good as the one the public never saw. Rita was a practical woman, not given to minding what was past mending, but it pained her to destroy those paragraphs, so chilling, yet strangely poignant. She regretted them far more than she did Fabius - he would have wanted to go out at the top of his game, after all.
Watkins, Fabius
(1940 - 1975)
Legendary Captain and Chaser for the Montrose Magpies who died in a freak collision with helicopter.