Free Gentlemen & Players by Joanne Harris

astonishment in the pit of my stomach. He’d read my mind.
    “I know it’s been tough,” he said. “Your mum and all that—and now that new school. Bet it’s taken some getting used to, eh, kid?”
    I nodded, hardly daring to hope.
    “Them headaches, and all that. Them sick notes. You been having trouble at school? Is that it? Other kids been messing you about?”
    Once more I nodded. Now, I knew, he would turn away. My father despised cowards. Hit first and hit fast was his personal mantra, along with The bigger they are, the harder they fall , and Sticks and stones may break my bones . But this time he didn’t turn away. Instead he looked straight at me and said, “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll sort it. I promise.”
    Now it bloomed, appalling, in my heart. The relief; the hope; the beginnings of joy. My father had guessed. My father had understood. He had promised to sort it. I had a sudden, astonishing vision of him striding up to the gates of Sunnybank Park, my father, eighteen feet tall and splendid in his rage and purpose. I saw him walking up to my principal tormentors and bashing their heads together; running up to Mr. Bray, the Games master, and knocking him down; best and most delightful of all, facing up to Miss McAuleigh, my form teacher, and saying “You can stuff yer bloody school, dearie—we’ve found somewhere else.”
    Dad was still watching me with that happy smile on his face. “You might not think it, kid, but I’ve been through it, just like you. Bullies, bigger lads, they’re always out there, always ready to give it a try. I wasn’t that big when I was a kid, either; I didn’t have many friends at first. Believe it or not, I know how you feel. And I know what to do about it, an‘ all.”
    I can still remember that moment now. That blissful feeling of confidence, of order reestablished. In that instant I was six years old again, a trusting child, secure in the knowledge that Dad Knows Best. “What?” I said, almost inaudibly.
    My father winked. “ Karate lessons .”
    “Karate lessons?”
    “Right. Kung Fu, Bruce Lee, all that? I know a bloke, see him down the pub from time to time. Runs a class on Saturday mornings. Ah, come on, kid,” he said, seeing my expression. “Couple of weeks of karate lessons and you’ll be right as rain. Hit first and hit fast. Don’t take any shit from anyone.”
    I stared at him, unable to speak. I remember the bottle of beer in my hand, its cold sweat; on-screen, Bodie and Doyle were taking shit from no one. Opposite me on the sofa, John Snyde was still watching with gleeful anticipation, as if awaiting my inevitable reaction of pleasure and gratitude.
    So this was his wonderful solution, was it? Karate lessons. From a man down the pub. If my heart had not been breaking, I might have laughed aloud. I could see it now, that Saturday class; two dozen toughs from the council estate, weaned on Street Fighter and Kick Boxer II —with luck I might even run across a few of my principal tormentors from Sunnybank Park, give them the chance to beat me up in an entirely different environment.
    “Well?” said my father. He was still grinning, and without much effort I could still see the boy he’d been; the slow learner; the bully-in-waiting. He was so absurdly pleased with himself, and so very far from the truth, that I felt, not contempt or anger as I’d expected, but a deep, unchildish sorrow.
    “Yeah, okay,” I said at last.
    “Told you I’d figure something, didn’t I, eh?”
    I nodded, tasting bitterness.
    “C’m‘ere, kid, give yer old dad a hug.”
    And I did, still with that taste at the back of my throat, smelling his cigarettes and his sweat and his beery breath and the mothball smell of his woolly sweater; and as I closed my eyes I thought to myself— I am alone .
    Surprisingly enough, it didn’t hurt as much as I’d expected. We went back to The Professionals after that, and for a while I pretended to go to the karate lessons, at