by Adam Millard
Scottie moved around the room, switching machines off as he went, tendrils of smoke trailing behind him. Jamie watched him work, mesmerised. One day he wanted to work for Scottie, to be the one whose responsibility it was to convert notes to coins, to empty the machines of the day’s takings, to shut everything off at the end of the day. To others it was a deadbeat job, the kind of thing you take on to fill a slow summer or to pay for university, but for Jamie, working at Scottie’s would be the dream job. In those quiet hours, between two and four in the afternoon, he would step out from behind the steel cage (he had no idea why the cage was even there; people don’t hold up seaside arcades) and play the machines. He would never be bored, never be unhappy… he would have Pac-Man and Space Invaders, Asteroids and Defender, Galaga and Donkey Kong. He would play them all. The classics, and only the classics. He had no time for Grand Theft Auto or House of the Dead. If he was in charge, those machines would go, for they were taking up good space. Guitar Hero and Dance, Dance, Revolution out… Q*Bert and Paperboy in. Would it affect the arcade’s popularity? Jamie doubted it. People loved the classics.
That’s why they were classics.
“Give me a hand with this machine, will you, Jamie?” Scottie flicked the cherry from the end of his cigarette and slipped the butt into his back pocket.
“Mortal Kombat 3?” Jamie said, reading the name of the machine aloud. “Can’t say I’ve ever played it.”
Scottie laughed. “You wouldn’t have. It was released after 1990.”
Jamie walked over to the machine that Scottie was nudging with his huge shoulder. He could have probably moved it on his own; Jamie weighed around nine stone wringing wet. If anything he was just going to get in the way. “So what’s happened to this one?”
“Grab it at the back,” Scottie said. Jamie did what he was told, stepping over its loose cable. “I’ve got a delivery of new games coming in first thing. This one, and three others, have to make way.” He pulled the machine away from the wall a few inches, enough for him to move around to its rear and get a firm grip using the handles up near the top. “Okay, we need to tilt it back onto the wheels.”
Jamie huffed. He was already sweating, even though he had done nothing yet. “You’re not getting rid of any of the classics, are you?” He sounded genuinely concerned. His voice cracked a little as he spoke. The thought of Scottie’s Arcade without Pac-Man or Frogger was unbearable.
Scottie heaved the machine back forty-five degrees. “I’ve got it,” he said. Jamie stepped aside, because he didn’t have any of it. As Scottie wheeled the machine across the arcade, down past the duel standing motorcycles that were integral to Road Rage, he said, “Don’t you worry about your games; they’ll still be there when we open in the morning.”
Jamie’s relief was palpable. For a moment there, his heart had picked up the pace.
“This one’s got to go out the back. The delivery guy will be taking them with him when he brings the replacements.”
Following close behind, and holding the doors open as Scottie manoeuvred the cumbersome machine outside, Jamie felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
A purpose. A reason for existing. Right now he was of use to someone, even if it was simply holding the door open as Scottie did the lion’s share of the work.
Out went Mortal Kombat 3, followed shortly after by Rambo, Jurassic Park, and Neon FM, which was a strange rhythm game in which the player has to pound the five multi-coloured pads in time with the music. Jamie didn’t like those music games; it gave kids false confidence. God forbid they should pick up a real instrument straight after and, lo and behold, not know what the fuck they were doing.
With the four redundant machines at the rear of the arcade—where the driver would see them when he arrived at five a.m., according to Scottie—Jamie and the proprietor headed back inside to finish their cans.
Lighting up the second cigarette and surveying the somewhat emptier arcade morosely, Scottie said, “So what’s in store for Jamie tonight? A night on the tiles? Bowling?”
Jamie almost spat his cider across the room. “Ha! Chance would be a fine thing.” He was feeling the effects of the booze, though hopefully his words weren’t as slurred as they sounded in his own head. “Mom’ll be back from my grannie’s in a few hours, and I’ll have to listen to how the old dear had a nasty fall last week or how she gave my inheritance to a bunch of telephone scammers.” There was genuine scorn in Jamie’s voice, and Scottie picked up on it.
“Not a fan of your grannie, I take it?” He blew a perfect smoke ring, and then followed that up with two more. Jamie couldn’t help thinking how cool Scottie was. Even more than that: how cool he would be to work for.
“Nah, she’s cool. It’s just… nothing ever changes, you know? Everything is always the same. The stories are boring. This whole… life… it’s getting to me.”
A smile crept onto Scottie’s face. “Wow. This got serious pretty quick. You’ve only had one can.” He sucked hard on his cigarette; Jamie was tempted to ask for one, but managed to convince himself it was a bad idea. “Not enjoying the Hemsby life, huh?”
That was an understatement. Apart from the arcade, Jamie felt lost. Most kids would love to grow up at the seaside, to spend their days listening to the sound of the ocean, breathing in that salty sea air, listening to the gulls as they swooped overhead in search of an abandoned packet of chips. Most kids came, spent a weekend or a week playing in the sea or mooching around the arcade or gift shops, then went home to their real lives. At the end of their holiday, those kids didn’t want to leave, but Jamie was certain that, given another fortnight or so, they would soon change their minds.
“Nothing ever happens around here,” Jamie said, staring down at a piece of bubble-gum which had been trodden into the floor. How long had that pink residue been there? About as long as I’ve been here, Jamie thought. “I got all excited last week because the Red Arrows did a flyover. Do you know how sad and pathetic your life has to be that you shoot your load over a coordinated stunt display?”
“Don’t be so cynical,” Scottie said, though he looked as if he was about to erupt with laughter. “I was there for that display. It was fucking outstanding.”
“Yeah, but…” Jamie trailed off. Was he being cynical? Was this how a fifteen year old boy with his entire life ahead of him should have been talking? “It doesn’t matter. I think this cider’s made me depressed.” He glanced down at the half-finished can in his hand. He wasn’t enjoying it. It was simply there.
Like I’m simply here.
“This place isn’t so bad,” Scottie said, motioning to the arcade. “You know you’ll always be able to come here, and if you’re really good, I might even have a key for the Pac-Man machine.” He let that one sit for a few seconds before adding, “Free games for the rest of your very long and very exciting life?”
Jamie couldn’t help but smile. He’d already forgotten all about his little run-in with Calum and Lee, though it would come back to haunt him a few hours later. For now, though, he felt… okay.
“Right,” Scottie said, snatching the unfinished cider can from Jamie’s hand. “You’d better get yourself home so I can lock up. You might not have anything better to do, but I’ve got a date with Breaking Bad and a bottle of whiskey.”
Jamie nodded and headed for the door. “Thanks, Scottie,” he said across his shoulder. “Maybe next time I’ll take you up on one of those cancer sticks, yeah?”
“What makes you think I’ll offer again?” Scottie said, finishing Jamie’s cider and crushing the can between his huge palms.
Jamie unbolted the door and pulled it open. “See you tomorrow?” It was a stupid thing to say; of course he would see Scottie tomorrow. They both knew it.
“Yup,” said Scottie. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth before you get all up in your mom’s face.”
Jamie didn’t hear the last part. He was already walking along the promenade, away from Scottie’s Arcade and into a whole hea
p of trouble.
TWO
Although it was late in the afternoon, the sun beat down with potent ferocity. By the time Jamie reached Jo-Jo’s Ice Cream Parlour—three scoops for two quid, sprinkles an extra 50p—sweat was dripping down his back, darkening his Ramones tee-shirt in patches. Staring out across the seafront, Jamie could make out tiny figures as they cavorted playfully in the breaking waves. Here and there dogs rushed about, chasing Frisbees and balls; a helicopter hovered off in the distance, low enough to ripple the water below, but Jamie saw no struggling swimmer beneath the chopper, no ladder or winch dangling down. The helicopter was merely observing. Perhaps a new pilot was being shown the ropes. Either way there was nothing to see out there, and Jamie turned his attention back to the pedestrianised road in front of him.
The promenade was as always quiet at this time of day. Jamie liked it. You couldn’t move for people at noon, crowding in and around the many parlours and gift-shops, searching for the best price on a bucket-and-spade for their whining children, or the least dangerous BB guns for their older spawn. This time of day was reserved for dog-walkers and couples.
“Hey, Jamie,” said a voice. Jamie turned and there, standing next to a basket of beach-balls, was Barry Mills. Gangly and awkward-looking—like a giraffe without the markings—Barry was a year older than Jamie, and also a foot or so taller. His Manchester United vest seemed to drip from him, and the shorts he was wearing came just above his knobbly pale knees. It wasn’t a good look for him, but Jamie wasn’t sure what would be…
“’Sup, Barry,” Jamie said. He didn’t want to stop and talk, not in this heat, but it was rude to carry on walking, and so found himself leaning into the mesh basket containing the beach-balls.
Barry held up a small plastic bag, which appeared to be filled with coins. “Dad sent me to get some change. I’m trying to drag it out, to be honest. It’s boring as fuck over there.”
Jamie could picture Marcus Mills, pacing back and forth amongst his dodgems awaiting his son’s return. “Not long to go now,” Jamie said, staring down at his watch. It was 4:20 p.m., and Jamie knew Marcus always closed things down at around teatime for a few hours, when it was really quiet.
“Don’t suppose you want to come and keep me company for a bit?” Barry sounded optimistic; his face dropped when Jamie answered with a firm shake of the head.
“Really busy tonight, mate,” Jamie said, almost feeling guilty for rebuffing the poor sod. Barry was a good kid—though not what Jamie would call a ‘friend’—and he was in the exact same predicament as Jamie.
Trapped.
Stuck in Hemsby for the rest of his life, if he wasn’t careful. Though they didn’t speak about it, they were both aware of this shared dilemma. Maybe one day they would leave together, to hell with their parents, off to greener pastures, wherever the fuck they were. Maybe then Jamie would accept Barry as a friend—a mate, a pal, a proper nice geezer—and not just think of him as the ungainly weird kid whose dad worked the dodgems.
“If you’re not doing anything tomorrow,” Jamie said, still awash with guilt, “Scottie’s got some new machines coming in. I’ll be in there most of the day. You should come by and let me whip your arse at a few games.”
Barry smiled. “That’d be cool,” he said. “I’ll let Dad know; he’s not as exact with my breaks as he used to be.”
“Cool.” Jamie stared off down the promenade in a not-so-subtle attempt to drop the hint he had to leave, but that quickly changed when a middle-aged couple emerged from the gift-shop behind Barry, and following them was a young girl—perhaps sixteen, long red hair, freckles running across the bridge of her nose. She was, Jamie thought, beautiful, and probably a tourist, here for the week and then gone forever. As her parents led the way down the promenade, she walked after them, turning occasionally, aware that she was being watched. Eventually she smiled, but then she turned again, shaking her head and turning her attention to the pink mobile phone in her hand.
“Did that girl just smile at you?” Barry asked, throwing the small bag of change from one open hand to the other.
She did, Jamie thought. She did, and she was beautiful! “I think she was just worried we were going to steal her purse.”
“Nah, she totally gave you the love eye,” said Barry. “I don’t know how you do it, man. You should have a girlfriend by now.”
Jamie frowned. “Not interested, mate,” he said, though he was… he just hadn’t been presented with the option yet. “She might have been smiling at you, anyway. You’re the one holding a bag of money.”
Barry looked down at the huge bag of change he was holding; his face changed, as if he was only now seeing it for the first time.
“I’d better be off,” Jamie said, peeling his tee-shirt away from his body. “I’ll probably see you tomorrow then, yeah?” He took a few steps away from Barry, just in case the kid wanted to start a separate conversation. Luckily he didn’t.
“Yeah, I’ll pop into Scottie’s when I get the chance.” He tossed the change bag up into the air and snatched it back down again, looking rather proud of his reflexes. To Jamie he looked like an idiot with a bag of change.
“Cool.” Jamie turned and began to walk away, slow enough for Barry not to feel bad but quick enough—and without glancing back—to make him realise there would be no extension to this little tête-à-tête.
Once he reached the end of the promenade, Jamie whistled through his teeth and looked back to find that Barry was gone. Probably sprinting back to Marcus at full-pelt so that his old man didn’t think he’d done a runner with the takings. Barry was one of the good kids, but he was terrified of his father, and with good reason. Jamie had once watched Marcus Mills beat the shit out of three guys for damaging one of his bumper cars; just dragged them out of there and gone to town on them right on the sand, as if it was nothing. In the end those three lads—couldn’t have been younger than twenty—managed to limp away, shaking their heads in disbelief, holding their wounds, no doubt to prevent them from breaking open and their insides spilling out onto the sand, like so many jellyfish corpses.
Jamie reached the BEACH CAFÉ, which was its actual name. Not very inventive, but it did what it said on the tin. Its owners—Pat and Dick Gurley—had been running the place for as long as Jamie could remember, and as he walked past the outdoor seating area, filled with mainly geriatric holidaymakers, Jamie saw Spanner lying at the café’s entrance.
Spanner was Pat and Dick’s Jack Russell, and Jamie had the poor thing pegged at around twenty years old. Probably not, but it sure did look it. Spanner had been there, mooching for leftovers between the tables, pissing up pushchairs and other dogs, for about as long as Pat and Dick, and Jamie often wondered how the creature had survived for so long on a diet of fish, chips, and ice-cream. Maybe it was the sea air. People often used that excuse to explain why their nonagenarian mother was still very much alive and kicking. It would certainly explain why his own grandmother wasn’t worm food just yet.
Grannie Dale lived about a half-hour drive away, spending her last years—not if that magical sea-air had anything to do with it—in a holiday home in Hopton. Thinking about her now, Jamie felt a sudden pang of guilt. He should have gone to see her, should have at least made the effort. His mom was pissed off with him about it; he could tell by the way she had stormed out of there earlier that morning. I’ll pay for that one over dinner tonight, he thought, anticipating the barrage of abuse from his mother, followed by stories of Grannie Dale’s latest falls and telemarketing scam adventures. Just thinking about it made him slow his pace.
“Oi, faggot!”
At first Jamie didn’t think anything of it. Some uncouth little shit calling out to their buddy, and nothing more. He didn’t even turn around, and then ten feet later—
“Jimbo, you cockhead!”
Heart in throat, legs turned to spaghetti, Jamie dry-swallowed and sucked in great lungfuls of sea-air, as if enough of it would make him immortal, the way it seemed to
with old people. One glance across his shoulder told him everything he needed to know: Calum Rowe and Lee Kurtz were marching after him, and they didn’t look as if they wanted to discuss the weather, which in that moment appeared to plummet to below freezing.
Options, Jamie thought. What are my options?
Stop walking, take a kicking, go home covered in blood and bruises and have to explain the mess to his mom? Not really an option; he was already in his mother’s bad books, and showing up with clothes torn to shreds, pissing blood and spitting out teeth, was the kind of thing that would push her over the edge. Sure, she would clean him up, take him to the hospital—if necessary—but she wouldn’t be happy about it.
Option two?
Run like a fucking maniac, try to lose the degenerates somewhere between here and home, show up with nary a sight of blood or torn garment, and apologise to Mom for being such a dick, and could he please go see Grannie Dale next week to make up for it… or perhaps the week after that, or the one after—
“Slow down, Jimbo!” Calum said, already breathless, which boded well for Jamie. “We just want to talk about what happened back there at Scottie’s.”
“Yeah, ain’t so big when you don’t have your bodyguard around, huh?” Lee added. Unfortunately—unlike his fat friend—he wasn’t breathless, and Jamie wondered if Lee would continue to chase him without Calum in tow.
The duo were twenty feet away from him when Jamie started to sprint; thirty feet before they realised what was happening. Jamie heard a cry of, “Get him, Lee!” from the rear, which pretty much answered his question from a moment ago. This was a straight race, a bolt for the finish line.
Jamie just hoped he had enough in the tank to make it.
