The guards hurriedly went around picking up stones before bringing out two low tables and putting them on the stages. Then they set out ten six inch throwing knives on each of the tables.

“In our second semi-final,” said the ringmaster, “the rebels will take turns throwing knives at each other. Please bring forward Bea Johnson and Lena Kovács.”

Bea and Lena were led onto the stages, and Lena gingerly stepped around the pool of blood in front of her wooden block, a grim reminder of the fate that might await her in a few minutes time. When the girls’ feet were secured, the ringmaster stood between them and tossed a coin.

“Heads or tails?” he asked Lena. Lena called ‘heads’, but to my dismay, lost the toss.

“Bea to throw first!” said the ringmaster, sidling back to his seat. “Your fifteen minutes start now!”

Bea picked up a knife and turned it over in her hand, testing the weight. Then she stared intently at Lena, who was looking very uncomfortable.

When Bea threw her first knife, Lena instinctively turned away as far as she was able, her hands going up to protect her face. She needn’t have bothered, as the knife went low and wide, skating across the stage before dropping off the side.

While Bea stood and berated herself for throwing away her first mover advantage, Lena turned back in relief, and after composing herself, took up a knife from her table.

“Please let her be the better shot,” said my wife under her breath.

Lena’s first throw was better, but not by much. The knife grazed Bea’s lower left leg and she gritted her teeth at the sting.

“First blood,” I said to my wife, watching it ooze from the cut. “But now they both have an idea of how the knives handle. It could get nasty from here.”

Bea’s second knife lodged itself in Lena’s upper left leg and there was a collective ‘ooh!’ from the audience. Bea smiled as Lena fought the urge to pull the knife out.

Good girl, I thought.

Lena’s next knife embedded itself in Bea’s side just above her waist and she gasped as she turned back to face Lena. She quickly threw another knife, but the pain distracted her enough that her aim was off and the knife slammed into the block of wood below Lena’s feet.

Lena sensed Bea’s weakness and took full advantage. She drew back her next knife over her head, and pretended to throw it. Bea turned back to face Lena, thinking that the knife had missed her, and that’s when Lena’s knife slammed into her stomach, just below her ribcage.

The audience cheered and my son shouted, “Yeah! Finish her!”

Bea’s eyes went wide in shock, and she grabbed at the knife’s handle and breathed heavily for a while before picking up her next knife.

Lena must have known that her feint could only work once, as she quickly picked up another knife and held it behind her back, waiting for Bea’s next move.

Bea’s next knife would have hit Lena’s body, but Lena had gained confidence and was watching her like a hawk. She easily dodged to one side, watching the knife fly past, before instantly returning fire with her knife, which struck Bea in the neck.

Lena watched as Bea resisted the impulse to remove the knife. There was fear in her eyes as she realised she was about to die.

“You must do it, Bea!” pleaded Lena. “I can’t throw again to ease your passing, I’m sorry.”

Bea looked at Lena with tears in her eyes as she grasped the knife and pulled. Blood flowed freely from her wound and she fell backwards, coughing up blood and gasping for air as the back of her head hit the stage. Her agony went on for two minutes as she writhed awkwardly, her trapped feet not allowing her to lie fully flat on the stage.

“Please give a round of applause for our second finalist, Lena Kovács!” exclaimed the ringmaster as the audience roared their approval.

“Yes!” I shouted, raising my fist in the air.