The Dwain Thrapston Tragedy

Dwain Thrapston was a rugby man.

He had been a rugby man since the age of seven, when his father had taken him to watch a local match and a particularly large prop forward had accidentally given him a sandwich. From that moment onwards, Dwain knew what he wanted from life.

Rugby.

He played rugby, watched rugby, read about rugby and occasionally dreamed about rugby. He had once attempted to explain the offside rule to a parking meter, although the meter had remained unconvinced.

Every Saturday, without exception, Dwain attended matches at his beloved rugby club. He had supported them for thirty-two years, through relegations, promotions, financial crisis involving a disastrous investment in ostrich farming.

Dwain also had a girlfriend called Penelope.

Penelope was a patient woman who had long accepted that she occupied second place in Dwain's affections, somewhere between rugby and the television programme Rugby Special.

She owned a cat called Malcolm and a bright red Ferrari.

The Ferrari had belonged to her grandmother, who had enjoyed a distinguished career in the circus until her untimely death during a human cannonball performance in Cleethorpes.

The official report described the incident as an unfortunate miscalculation of trajectory.

Penelope rarely spoke about it.

Malcolm, meanwhile, was a cat of limited ambition who spent most of his waking hours staring at the bin.

A Saturday of considerable importance

The morning of the cup final dawned bright and clear.

Dwain had been awake since half past four.

His beloved rugby club had reached the final for the first time in twenty-seven years, and he had spent the previous evening carefully preparing for the occasion.

His shirt was ironed. His scarf was folded. His lucky underpants, which had not been washed since a particularly memorable victory in 2019, were waiting on the radiator.

Kick-off was at three o'clock.

Dwain intended to arrive at the ground at one.

At precisely eight minutes past eight, Penelope entered the kitchen.

"Dwain, darling, I need you to do two things for me today."

Dwain looked up from his breakfast.

"What sort of things?"

"Malcolm has an appointment at the vet, and the Ferrari needs its MOT."

Dwain stared at her.

"The final's today."

"I know."

"The cup final."

"Yes, Dwain."

"The biggest match in the history of the club."

"Malcolm has been scratching his left ear."

Dwain considered this information.

"Can't he scratch the other one?"

Penelope ignored him.

"The vet's at ten, and the garage is expecting the Ferrari at eleven-thirty. You'll have plenty of time."

Dwain glanced at his watch.

He began calculating.

Veterinary appointment: thirty minutes. Drive to garage: twenty minutes. MOT drop-off: ten minutes. Bus to rugby ground: forty minutes.

It was possible.

Not ideal, certainly, but possible.

"All right," he said.

Penelope kissed him on the forehead.

"You're wonderful."

Dwain suspected this was an exaggeration.

The veterinary proposition

At nine fifty-eight, Dwain arrived at the veterinary surgery carrying Malcolm in a plastic travel box.

Malcolm was furious.

The receptionist was a cheerful woman with unusually large spectacles and a badge that read SANDRA — FELINE DEVELOPMENT CONSULTANT.

"Good morning!" she announced. "And who's this handsome gentleman?"

"Malcolm."

"Oh, he's gorgeous! How old is he?"

"Seven."

"Seven years?"

"I should imagine so."

Sandra leaned across the counter.

"Has Malcolm ever expressed dissatisfaction with his height?"

Dwain blinked.

"His what?"

"His height."

"Not that I'm aware of."

Sandra produced a colourful brochure.

"Well, you're in luck! We've just started stocking the revolutionary new Feline Elevation System."

She opened the brochure to reveal a photograph of a ginger cat wearing four tiny platform shoes.

"These remarkable shoes will make your cat exactly seven centimetres taller."

Dwain examined the photograph.

"Why?"

Sandra looked surprised.

"Well, height is very important to cats."

"Is it?"

"Absolutely. Taller cats enjoy improved confidence, greater visibility and enhanced access to kitchen worktops."

"Malcolm can already get on the kitchen worktop."

"Imagine what he could achieve with another seven centimetres."

Dwain glanced at his watch.

Ten seventeen.

"How much are they?"

"One hundred and forty-nine pounds ninety-nine."

"For shoes?"

"Four shoes, Mr Thrapston. Cats generally require four."

Dwain looked down at Malcolm.

Malcolm looked back at Dwain with an expression of profound contempt.

"Would they make him run faster?" Dwain asked.

Sandra considered this.

"Possibly."

"Could he play rugby in them?"

"I'm afraid we haven't conducted clinical trials."

Dwain sighed.

"Look, I've got to get to a cup final."

Sandra brightened.

"Oh! We do them in club colours!"

For the next eleven minutes, Sandra explained the various benefits of elevated feline footwear, including improved posture, increased social standing and the ability to see over low garden walls.

By the time the veterinary surgeon had examined Malcolm's ear and prescribed some drops, it was ten fifty-three.

Dwain declined the shoes.

Sandra seemed genuinely disappointed.

"You're denying Malcolm the opportunity to become the cat he was meant to be."

Dwain picked up the travel box.

"He's already a cat."

"Yes," Sandra replied quietly. "But he could be a taller one."

The musical exhaust

At eleven twenty-nine, Dwain pulled the Ferrari into the garage forecourt.

The mechanic emerged from beneath a battered Ford Fiesta.

He was a broad man with enormous hands and a moustache that appeared to suggest he owned a motorcycle.

"Morning," he said. "Lovely motor."

"Thanks. It's here for the MOT."

"Right you are. Name's Keith."

"Dwain."

Keith walked slowly around the Ferrari.

"Now then, Dwain. Before we get started, have you considered upgrading your exhaust system?"

Dwain glanced at his watch.

"I haven't really got time."

Keith smiled.

"Ah, but this isn't an ordinary exhaust."

He led Dwain towards a large display cabinet.

Inside was a gleaming arrangement of chrome pipes, electronic components and something that resembled a trumpet.

"This," Keith announced proudly, "is the Tarantinophonic 3000."

"The what?"

"A revolutionary exhaust system capable of playing music from every Quentin Tarantino film ever made."

Dwain stared at the apparatus.

"Through the exhaust?"

"Through the exhaust."

"While you're driving?"

"While you're driving."

Keith pressed a button.

A nearby demonstration vehicle began emitting a rather distorted rendition of Misirlou.

The sound was extraordinary.

It resembled a brass band being pushed down a flight of stairs.

"That's Pulp Fiction," Keith explained.

"I know."

"Very popular with the younger drivers."

Dwain checked his watch.

Eleven forty-one.

"Can it play anything else?"

"Certainly. Reservoir Dogs, Kill Bill, Django Unchained, Jackie Brown. The lot."

"Does it make the car go faster?"

"No."

"Use less petrol?"

"No."

"Improve the handling?"

"Not in the slightest."

Dwain frowned.

"Then what's the point?"

Keith looked offended.

"What's the point of music, Dwain?"

Dwain had no immediate answer.

Keith leaned closer.

"Imagine pulling up outside a restaurant in this magnificent Ferrari, and your exhaust starts playing Little Green Bag."

Dwain imagined it.

He wasn't entirely certain that Penelope would approve.

"How much?"

"Three thousand eight hundred pounds, fitted."

"Good grief."

"Or we can do the basic package for two thousand nine hundred."

"What's the difference?"

"The basic package doesn't include The Hateful Eight."

Dwain considered the proposition for approximately four seconds.

"No, thank you."

Keith shrugged.

"Your loss. You'll never know the joy of reversing into a supermarket parking space to the soundtrack of Kill Bill."

Dwain handed over the keys.

"Just the MOT, please. I've got a rugby match to get to."

Keith looked at his watch.

"Best get a move on, then."

Dwain froze.

"What time is it?"

"Twelve fourteen."

Dwain made a noise not normally associated with the human throat.

He ran.

The journey

The number 47 bus was already pulling away when Dwain reached the stop.

"WAIT!"

He waved both arms.

The driver glanced in his mirror.

For one terrible moment, Dwain thought he was going to carry on.

Then the bus stopped.

Dwain climbed aboard, sweating heavily.

"Rugby ground," he gasped.

"Three pounds eighty."

Dwain fumbled in his pocket.

His fingers found a packet of mints, two screws, a veterinary receipt and a photograph of Malcolm taken during a particularly difficult Christmas.

Eventually, he located his bank card.

The driver watched without enthusiasm.

"Big match today?" he asked.

Dwain nodded.

"Final."

"Ah."

The driver printed the ticket.

"Not much of a rugby man myself."

Dwain stared at him.

The driver shrugged.

"Prefer badminton."

Dwain took his ticket and sat down.

The journey was intolerable.

Every traffic light was red.

Every pedestrian crossing appeared to have been activated by somebody with nowhere particularly important to go.

At one point, the bus stopped for six minutes while an elderly gentleman attempted to board carrying a grandfather clock.

The clock was eventually refused passage on the grounds that it constituted an obstruction.

The elderly gentleman protested that it had been on buses before.

Dwain checked his watch.

One forty-eight.

He could still make it.

At two fifteen, the bus encountered roadworks.

At two twenty-seven, a delivery van blocked the road.

At two thirty-six, a woman asked the driver whether the bus went to Doncaster.

It did not.

She appeared reluctant to accept this.

Dwain began sweating again.

At two forty-six, the rugby stadium finally came into view.

He pressed the bell.

The bus stopped.

Dwain leapt from his seat, stumbled down the steps and emerged into the afternoon sunshine.

He could hear the crowd.

Thousands of voices.

The glorious roar of anticipation.

He looked at his watch.

Two fifty-one.

Nine minutes.

Nine beautiful minutes.

The tragedy

Dwain ran.

Across the car park, past the burger van, around a parked ambulance and between two enormous men dressed as rugby balls.

His lungs burned.

His legs ached.

His lucky underpants had begun to cause considerable discomfort.

But none of it mattered.

The stadium entrance was ahead.

He could see the turnstiles.

He could hear the announcer introducing the teams.

He was going to make it.

After everything — the cat, the shoes, the Ferrari, the exhaust, the bus, the grandfather clock — he was actually going to make it.

Dwain smiled.

He took one final, triumphant stride.

A cannonball struck him in the chest.

He died instantly.

The match kicked off at three.

THE END.