Black Butterfly Read Online Free PDF Page A

easy–the only pottable red was effectively hidden behind the green ball. I ran my hand up and down my cue, confident that I’d soon be at the table. Miss ffawthawte ducked down to retrieve one of the rests from beneath the baize, slotted her cue into the X at its tip and, with a sound like snapping teeth, swerved the white ball brilliantly around the green, sending the red whispering into the top right pocket.
    I cleared my throat. She was good. She was very good.
    ‘You see, Mr Box,’ she murmured, never taking her eyes off the table, ‘it’s all a matter of angles. It’s a beautiful game. A perfect game. If one can get the geometry right…’ she stretched across the table and sent down another black ‘…there’s no reason at all why one shouldn’t win. Every time.’
    I pulled absently at my ear-lobe, fascinated by this spirited female. ‘Certainly, certainly. But it’s not all science, Miss ffawthawte. I still say there’s the matter of luck.’
    She didn’t answer, merely returned to the table and sent yet another red to its grave. I moved the score counter again. At this rate, I wasn’t going to get any kind of a look-in. Another black, another red. The balls zoomed towards the pockets as though magnetically attracted. The points mounted inexorably.
    ‘Speaking of angles’ I said at last, as she whacked the black into the top right pocket. ‘What’s yours?’
    She brushed a coil of hair from her eyes but didn’t look up from her cueing. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘You seem a very capable young woman to be mouldering away in a Scout camp,’ I said quietly. ‘What’s in it for you?’
    The cue shushed between her fingers. The white smacked into the red but it made an ugly noise.
    The ball hit the cushion and bounced off.
    I held my breath as the red sailed towards the bottom left pocket. Melissa ffawthawte didn’t move, gripping her cue like a javelin. The ball rolled towards the open jaws of the pocket and she smiled. Then it glanced against the cushion, wobbled–and stopped dead.
    The girl looked at it in abject disbelief.
    ‘Oh, shame,’ I said. ‘Sounded like a mis-cue. Here .’ I picked up the cube of blue chalk from the table and threw it over to her. ‘You probably need this.’
    She caught the cube, glared at it as though it were a burning coal, then hurled it back at me. The chalk bounced off my black linen, leaving a blue smear. I stooped to pick it up. ‘Suit yourself.’ After brushing it over the tip of my own cue, I stuffed the block into my trouser pocket and readied myself for my first shot of the match.
    The girl stepped back from the table, glowering. Her gaze flickered over the view of the baize. Seventy-two points scored. A possible seventy-five points on the table. Could I claw my way back?
    ‘Wish me luck,’ I said happily, bending over the table and, with tremendous care, lining up the shot. I sent the white gently towards the nearest pottable red. There was a soft clock and it disappeared into the pocket. I moved swiftly round to work out the angle on the black. It shone like an olive under the lamplight.
    This was a pretty easy shot, but those can be traps for the unwary so I took my time, sliding the cue back and forth, back and forth, between my thumb and finger, before neatly pocketing the ball. Melissa ffawthawte never took her eyes off me. I sent down another two reds, another two blacks.
    I played steadily, unflashily. More reds sank. More blacks.
    The girl remained silent, no sign of emotion other than the impatient rotation of the cue in her hand.
    I knocked down a difficult red–and then an awkward ricochet got me into trouble.
    I paused and hugged the cue to my chest, chewing my lip thoughtfully. I’d clawed my way to forty-one points against her seventy-two. I could still win.
    The black ball was close to the top left-hand pocket, the blue not far away. However, the white had settled so close to the pink–I shaded my eyes and peered down at it to