by Adam Millard
He pushed the green button with his right palm and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. The green screen faded to black, and white text—digital, almost illegible—began to scroll up the screen, like the opening credits to most 1980s movies.
“I can’t… read…” he trailed off, squinting at the indecipherable text as it crawled up the screen. “Is that… Japanese?”
It was certainly a foreign language, though not like any Scottie had seen before.
“Fucking wonderful!” he said, incredulous that the distributors would have sent out a Japanese game—with Japanese fucking instructions—and expected kids to play it. Scottie knew that the kids who frequented his arcade wouldn’t bother, not if they couldn’t understand what the hell it was they were supposed to be doing. You don’t go playing Super Mario if you’re a blind person, do you? This amounted to the same thing.
Unless the game was so intrinsically simple that any old fool could pick it up. Scottie knew the kids these days were happy spending hours—and in-app purchase money—on colourful and simplistic games. Candy Crush, Flappy Bird, fucking Bubble Bobble. There was life, yet, in minimalism, so long as the thing was addictive as hell.
“Let’s find out,” Scottie said. He pulled a pound coin from his trouser pocket, pushed it into the slot down by his knees, and hit the red button, which took him back to the MAIN MENU. He nudged the joystick up to START GAME. If this was some sort of puzzle, like those Do-Sukos (Su-Dokus?) it was going straight back outside, and to hell with the strange gap in his arcade. Kids didn’t have the fortitude for something like that. Jamie Garrett, maybe, but normal kids wouldn’t give it the time of day.
Not enough tits and bloodshed.
On the screen, a series of random dots began dancing around, expanding into differently coloured shapes. It was almost psychedelic. As the shapes moved about the display, a four-tone tune repeated itself over and over again.
Beeeep-beep-beeeep-thrum…
It wasn’t music; it was barely a sound. It set Scottie’s teeth on edge, and made it even more difficult to focus on the odd assortment of shapes slithering across the screen. If there was a game element, Scottie didn’t know what it was.
“Fucking Jap instructions, that’s why,” he said.
In the top corner, in tiny white text, a percentage bar appeared to be moving toward a hundred. Scottie was currently sitting pretty on eight percent. He didn’t have the patience to stick around and see what happened when he reached the maximum, and yet…
He couldn’t take his eyes from the shapes, couldn’t hear anything except for that terrible series of tuneless digital notes. It was as if he was being hypnotised, drawn in by something he couldn’t quite grasp. The percentage bar was up to fifteen now. Maybe he would see what happened when it reached one hundred after all.
Adjusting his feet—his legs felt strangely jellied, as if he had just finished a long run—Scottie blacked out everything except for the display in front of him. He could see nothing either side of it. A strange coppery taste now filled his mouth. Had he bit his lip? His tongue?
Beeeep-beep-beeeep-thrum…
More dots, more mysterious shapes, some of them colours which Scottie didn’t recognise. These weren’t reds or greens, blues or yellows; they were… new, and Scottie couldn’t comprehend how such a thing was possible. He wasn’t the sharpest tool on the drawer, but he thought he knew enough to be able to name the colours of the rainbow. These ones, however, were from no rainbow he had seen before, and he knew that there was no name for them.
Beeeep-beep-beeeep-thrum…
Teeth rattling, blood upon his tongue, Scottie willed himself to blink, couldn’t remember doing so since the game began, how long ago?
Twenty-three percent.
Wasn’t there something I should be doing? He knew that there was, that the arcade wasn’t going to ready itself for opening, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He was mesmerised, pulled in like a magnet, and he would see this game through to the (bitter?) end.
Beeeep-beep-beeeep-thrum…
Forty-two percent.
Stars, now, all over the display, merging into one another as if… as if devouring. Now there was just one big star—a pentagram—and it was spinning in the centre of the screen. Its edges, its corners, became a blur. The thing was moving so quickly that a solid square was all that was visible, but Scottie knew the pentagram was still there.
Knock-knock…
Fifty-one percent.
Scottie’s stomach growled, as if threatening to empty itself right there and then into his pants. He would stand there with faeces dripping down his trouser-leg, because this game had him. This game owned him.
Knock-knock…
Sixty percent.
Scottie blinked. Slurping up the bloody drool hanging from his bottom lip, he forced his head away from the machine and the spinning star at the centre of its screen, and that was when he saw her, standing just beyond the arcade window. Angela Michaels, the barmaid from The Lacon Arms, and she was smiling and waving something around. For a few seconds Scottie could do nothing about it. He watched Angela—am I having a stroke?—and smacked his lips together, hating the bitter coppery taste on his tongue. To his left, the game continued to beep and thrum, but Scottie refused to look at it. It took every ounce of will he had to put one foot in front of the other and walk away from it, but after a slow start, he managed just that.
A stroke? Wouldn’t that just be fucking typical? he thought as he set about unbolting the door.
EIGHT
Scottie turned the wallet over in his hand, examining it. He checked the contents and was unsurprised by its barrenness. “Looks like someone got to it before you did,” he said, sighing. It wasn’t Angela’s fault; she had gone above and beyond just to return the wallet to him this morning. Scottie had no real attachment to the wallet—brown leather, nothing special—but the money that had been in it last night, and the few credit-cards he possessed which he would now have to cancel… that was a different story.
“You must’ve left it on the bar,” Angela said. “I didn’t see it until about nine, but I knew it was yours. Someone had hidden it underneath one of our menus, and it wasn’t until I picked the menu up that—”
“Thanks, Angela.” He searched the wallet one last time, just in case he’d missed something. No, it was completely empty. They’d even taken his picture of Jake. That was worse than losing the money and the cards put together. Money could be made; that picture had been his final link to Jake. Now he would have to track down his ex-wife, wherever the hell she was, and plead with her for another photograph, and that was just a pain in the ass.
“Are you okay?” Angela frowned, leaning in and examining Scottie’s face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Maybe I have. I can’t remember… “I’m fine,” Scottie lied. “I think.”
“Is that blood?” Angela’s fingers came up to his lips, hovered there for a moment, as if either waiting for approval or deciding whether touching someone else’s blood was such a good idea. “Shit, Scottie, you bite your lip?”
Scottie shrugged and wiped his mouth on his forearm; Angela dropped her hand, though the concern remained. “I must have done,” he said. “It’s been a helluva morning so far. I’ve only just managed to shake my hangover.”
Angela brightened, and for the first time that day those dimples made a welcome appearance. “I’m not surprised. You need to take it easy on yourself. You’re not—”
“As young as I used to be?” Scottie said, though it was without malice. She was telling the truth.
“I was going to say ‘doing your health any favours’, but yours is much better.” She smiled. “Anyway, you got out just in time last night. It all kicked off after you left.”
“Really?” Scottie liked to keep abreast of the local news, and this was gold-dust to him.
“You know Marcus Mills, don’t you?”
Scottie grinned and nodded. He knew Marcus M
ills, all right. Everyone did. The guy was a maniac of the highest order, and it wasn’t because he looked tough; it was because he was tough. “What did he do?”
Angela shook her head and sighed. “I don’t know what happened, but he was sitting at the bar one minute, and the next he was laying into some holidaymaker. Doing some real damage, as well, until Ted managed to pull him off.”
Scottie knew Ted Porter, the landlord of The Lacon Arms, and Ted was no slouch himself. Six-foot-nothing with a bushy red beard, Ted was the kind of guy you usually saw out hunting or fishing. He had that wild look about him, and one thing he didn’t tolerate was fighting in The Arms. ‘That’s what the fucking car-park is for,’ he had once joked, though at the time, Scottie knew he meant it. If you’ve got a problem, you take that shit and squash it outside, not in his pub, where kids were allowed.
“Is he barred now?” Scottie hoped not. Marcus Mills owed him at least three drinks, and the chances of him getting them were severely reduced if the prick wasn’t allowed to set foot in the only pub in Hemsby worth drinking in.
“Nah. Ted took him outside and had a word with him.”
Scottie knew what that meant. Ted had had the very same word with him not so long back. Sort your life out, mate. You can’t come causing trouble for a man in his place of business. It’s not right. I like you, you’re a good man, but this can’t keep happening, and if it happens again… I don’t want to, but you’ll leave me no choice…
“A final warning, huh?” Scottie said, though there was no such thing as a final warning when it came to The Lacon Arms. There were only warnings, which meant nothing to those who lived in Hemsby and those who frequented the pub on a daily basis. You could probably kill a guy in there—so long as you were a native—and Ted would take you outside for the infamous ‘talk’, before allowing you back in the next day. Fuck, you sure did make a mess of that guy’s throat with your knife last night. Took Deirdre three hours this morning to get the stains out of the carpet, you little scamp, you.
“You sure you’re okay?” Angela was inspecting his face again, her own expression one of concern.
“Yeah!” Scottie said, perhaps a touch too fervently. “I, well…” He turned to the machine and rubbed at his bald pate. Through gritted teeth he said, “I don’t know… maybe I need to see a doctor, or something. I was playing that machine a moment ago and it sent me a bit funny.”
Angela frowned. “I knew something was wrong, though you’ve got a bit more colour in your cheeks now.”
Scottie wasn’t listening. His eyes were focused upon an invisible point in the distance. Something had just occurred to him, something which he’d almost missed completely.
“Scottie?” Angela waved a hand in front of his face—an annoying thing to do at the best of times, and Scottie tried not to react.
“I just thought of something. You said Marcus Mills was in last night?”
“Yeah, but not for long.”
“Doesn’t matter. And you said he was sitting at the bar?”
“What are you…?” It must have dawned on Angela what Scottie was getting at, for her eyebrows lifted and her lips parted slightly. “You think he might have something to do with your empty wallet?”
Did he think that? Marcus was a rogue and tough guy, but a common thief? “I don’t know,” Scottie said. What he did know was that he would do anything to get that two-inch square picture of Jake back. To hell with the money, and fuck the credit-cards. He’d write them off in a God-given second if it meant being able to see his son’s face whenever he pleased.
As if remembering something which hadn’t previously occurred to her, Angela said, “He was sitting on the same stool as you were. I mean, I’m not suggesting he found your wallet and emptied it out before going to town on some poor bastard for something and nothing, but…”
Great, Scottie thought. Now I’ve got to go see Marcus Mills. How would he even broach the subject? Hey Marcus, I heard you got into a bit of a fight last night. Say, before all that, you didn’t find my wallet on the bar and strip it clean, did you?
“Anyway, I’d best be off,” Angela said. “I told Deirdre I’d only be five minutes. She thinks I’m out buying lemon Pledge.”
“Ah, the old lemon Pledge trick,” Scottie said. “You’re in a bit early, though, aren’t you?”
Angela frowned—almost grimaced—and said, “Not really. It’s nearly eleven. We open in ten minutes.”
“Get the fu—” Scottie glanced down at his watch.
It was. It was almost eleven. He should have been open an hour ago, and yet it had been nine only…
He stared toward the arcade machine; the nonsensical game he had apparently been playing for over an hour?
“You’re doing that ghost face thing again,” Angela said. “Are you sure you don’t need a priest?” It was meant as a joke, but Scottie would have given his right arm for an explanation in that moment. Was he losing his mind? Maybe he’d had an alcohol-induced blackout, the kind that knocks you out of reality and leaves you standing there, drooling and confused. He had heard of such things, though he’d never considered himself a prime candidate for one.
He made a promise to himself that he would take it easy on the booze tonight, that there were far more important things (his health?) than oblivion.
“Okay, I should get going,” Angela said, unconvincingly. She moved toward the doors, past a row of newly-replenished claw-machines. Scottie dazedly followed.
When they reached the doors, Scottie said, “Look, I want to thank you for bringing my wallet back to me, even if it is a little light.”
Angela smiled. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
“Not your fault.” Scottie took out a pack of cigarettes and ushered Angela outside into the morning heat. He lit his cigarette, blew a plume of smoke upwards, and said, “Hope your day goes well, and I might see you tonight.” It was a harmless statement, one which he could retract at any given point during the day. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to be binging right now, not with what had just happened, not after leaving his wallet sitting on the bar for all and sundry to help themselves—which they apparently had.
“That’d be cool,” Angela said. “Have a good one.” With that, she turned and walked along the promenade in the direction of the pub. She didn’t look back.
“That’d be cool?” Scottie repeated. Before he had time to blow Angela’s words out of all proportion, a voice reminded him that, You’re old enough to be her father, you letch.
He finished his cigarette and went back inside to open the arcade, almost an hour late.
NINE
“Make sure you put enough sun-cream on today,” Jeanette White told her daughter. “It’s meant to be really warm, and you know how easily you burn because—”
Liza White rolled her eyes. “Because I have red hair,” she said. “Yes, I know. Us pasty gingers have to avoid the sun at all costs.” Despite her obvious sarcasm, Liza took a bottle of sun-cream from her handbag and squeezed a large blob out into her palm. As she rubbed it into her arms and neck, she said, “Where’s Dad?”
“Gone to fetch his paper,” Jeanette said. “You know what he’s like. Can’t miss out on current affairs, just because we’re on holiday.”
“Can you…?” Liza handed the sun-cream bottle to her mother, who had been in the process of plucking her eyebrows. She clicked her tongue, put the tweezers down, and took the bottle. “Make sure you get behind my ears. They’re starting to get a bit sore. I’m not used to this heat. Do you think it’ll go brown or just peel straight off?”
Jeanette massaged the cream into her daughter’s shoulders. “It’ll peel off like porridge skin,” she laughed.
“Mom!” Liza hated being so pale, couldn’t stand the colour of her hair, even though her mom had told her, on hundreds of separate occasions, that she wished she had hair like it. Her father’s genes were to blame; he, too, had red hair, though it wasn’t quite as intense as Liza’s, and he didn’t seem to bu
rn as easily as her, either. She had certainly drawn the short straw somewhere along the way.
“It’s not going to peel,” Jeanette said as she rubbed pea-sized globules of sun-cream into her daughter’s ears. “I’m just messing with you.”
“Well,” said Liza. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Since when did you get so sensitive?” Jeanette closed the cap on the sun-cream bottle and handed it back to her daughter. “Is this a teenage thing? Do we need to have ‘the talk’?” She grinned.
“Ew, ew, ew,” Liza said, though she was smiling now. “I never want ‘the talk’. Stacey Coyne’s mom gave her the talk last year and she hasn’t been the same since.” Stacey was a girl in Liza’s class at St. Beresford’s, and it was true: she had arrived at school one morning, pallid and quiet, all because her mother had sat her down and given her ‘the talk’. At fifteen, girls know pretty much everything there is to know about their bodies, about sex, about giving birth. What they don’t know is just how awkward it is when ‘the talk’ is forced upon them, spilling like sordid hogwash from a parent’s mouth. It’s worse—more embarrassing even—than hearing them having sex.
Liza pushed herself up from her mom and dad’s bed and walked across the holiday apartment toward the balcony. As far as accommodation went it was more than comfortable, even if she was resigned to a sofa-bed which had to be folded away of a morning so that they could move around the apartment without tripping.
“What do you want to do today?” Jeanette asked. She was now at the small kitchenette, washing the breakfast dishes. “I was thinking that we could drive down the coast a little bit. We could stop at a few of the smaller towns? You love going in charity shops, and those places are full of them.”
Liza slid the door across and stepped out onto the balcony. It was a beautiful morning, already warm but with a pleasant breeze. “I might just hang around Hemsby today,” she said.
