Attack of the Cupids by John Dickinson

Jones Kid’
, his eyebrows semaphored.
I didn’t say
which
Jones Kid. And if any of you want to go back and have Mr Windleberry reshape your faces with his fists, all you have to do is speak up now.
    None of the cupids spoke.
    The Angel of Love let out her breath. ‘
That’s go-o-o-od
,’ she said. ‘
You’re such a sweetie, Fug. You did everything I meant for her?
’
    â€˜The full kazooie, like you said.’
    â€˜
Any effects yet?
’
    â€˜Boss – it’s war down here, I tell you.’
    â€˜
Good job!
’ said the angel, suddenly brisk. ‘
OK, Fug, no hanging around now. There’s work to do. Kick arse and get your boys back up here right away.
’
    â€˜Will do, boss.’
    â€˜
War – I like it! You’re a darling, Fug. You’re a sugar-pie.
’
    The connection cut. Gingerly, Fug stood up.He rubbed his buttocks, one of which, courtesy of Windleberry’s toe, was mostly black and the other mostly blue. Both were about half again the size they should be.
    Kick arse?
    Been enough of that already, he thought.
    Sally spent the second half of lunch break in the library. She made sure she sat in the direct line of sight of Mrs Collins, so no one could interfere with her. The library was quiet, except for the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall as it counted the seconds until break ended and the hockey-pitch massacre could begin. She needed something to distract her, so she was working on her extra essay for Mr Kingsley. For that she had to be able to write about another Shakespeare. The one she had chosen was called
Troilus and Cressida
.
    It was, as Mr Kingsley himself had said, a difficult and nasty story, set thousands of years ago when the Greeks were Ancient Greeks and pretty well nobody else was around. The sixth-formers had done it as their school play last year, and they had recruited Sally to be assistant props manager, because when it came to keeping lots of different items in order and making sure the right person had them at the right time shewas a lot more reliable than most sixth-formers (who all wanted to be onstage, anyway). So Sally sort of knew what it was about, without having to read it. Plus, it meant there were spare copies in the library. She had one open on the table in front of her.
    It wasn’t making the essay any easier.
    How thin is the line between laughter and tears?
    There had been a woman who had fallen in love. She had left her husband and gone with her lover to the city of Troy. Her husband had followed with an army to attack the city. By the time the play started the war had been going on for ten years. And it went on going on, for scene after scene, with everybody being nasty and jealous, making speeches and then killing one another. First they killed each other bravely, and then they did it treacherously and cruelly. And when the curtain went down, the war was still going on. But you knew how it was going to end. Pretty well everybody would die. And the whole city would be destroyed.
    Tick, tick, tick
went the clock.
    How thin is the line between laughter and tears?
    Beneath that, her page was still blank. The first sentence was always the hardest. Once she’d got that down, then maybe she could get somewhere.
    There’s nothing to laugh about in Shakespeare’s tragedies.
Would that do?
    Come to think about it, there wasn’t much to laugh at in his so-called comedies either. Girl and boy run away together. Jilted boy goes after them.
    Only, if it’s a tragedy he takes an army with him.
    Blank page. Somewhere down a corridor, someone shrieked. It might have been a happy noise. But it might not have been.
    What choice did these people have? Things never worked the way they wanted. If it was tragedy, they were dead. If it was comedy, they were dopes. They were puppets on strings.
    RRRRIIIIIINNGGGGG!
    The clock had ticked all the way to half past. It was the end of break. Now it was