The Bad Game

by Adam Millard

  Dishes clattered in the sink as Jeanette became flustered. “There are three of us in this party,” she said, somewhat irately. “We stayed in Hemsby all day yesterday. We’re going to head out to some of the coastal towns.” The way she said it—with an underline, almost—suggested Liza would be wasting her time arguing. But Liza was a fifteen year-old girl, and no-one argues better than a fifteen year-old girl.

  She turned and stepped back into the apartment, missing the breeze on her face almost immediately. “You and Dad should go,” she said. “Honestly, Mom, I’m not a kid anymore, and I—”

  “You’re fifteen, Liza,” Jeanette said, not looking up from the plate she was scrubbing so hard, it was as if she was trying to remove the pattern. “We’re not going to leave you behind in some strange town.”

  Liza sighed. “It’s hardly dangerous around here, Mom. When was the last time you heard about someone getting kidnapped or murdered at the seaside?” She thought she was making a good point (when was the last time?) but now she had used the words kidnapped and murdered. Out loud. Her chances of being left to her own devices for the day had decreased significantly.

  Before Jeanette White had a chance to argue, there was a rattle in the lock and then, a second later, the door swung open. Ken White walked through it carrying one of those huge broadsheets, the ones with the myriad supplements which no-one read. As the door closed behind him, he must have sensed the atmosphere. He looked to his daughter first, then across to his wife, who was frantically scrubbing cutlery.

  “What’d I miss?”

  “Your daughter,” said Jeanette, “wants to stay around Hemsby today, while we go off without her.”

  Ken shrugged. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

  Liza smiled; she could always rely on Daddy to talk some sense.

  “What?” Jeanette stopped doing the dishes and scowled at Ken. “You’re quite happy to do that, are you? Leave your daughter in a strange town—”

  “It’s not like she’s a kid anymore,” Ken said, motioning to Liza, who was doing everything in her power to keep the smirk from her face, and failing. “She’s a good girl, and she knows not to go getting herself into situations she can’t get herself out of.”

  Jeanette sighed. Two against one was never fair, and she always seemed to be the one, no matter how hard she tried.

  “Plus, we’ll have a nice day, just the two of us, and we won’t have to put up with Liza’s constant text-messaging and selfies.” He winked at his daughter: no offence intended.

  For the longest time, Jeanette White stood at the sink, suds dripping onto the tiles beneath. When she finally spoke, it wasn’t a clear-cut answer, but Liza knew they were getting somewhere. “And what, pray tell, are you going to be getting up to all by yourself?”

  Liza shrugged. “Bit of sunbathing, might have a paddle, then an ice-cream. Nothing too extreme, you know?”

  “See,” said Ken. “Not one mention of crack cocaine, Nettie.” He grinned mischievously; he also knew how much his wife hated being called Nettie. He was, for want of a better description, pushing his luck.

  Jeanette took another moment to consider things. Liza thought they would still be standing there in that holiday apartment, frozen in time, when Christmas rattled around. It seemed to take forever. “Okay, but you’re to call one of us at lunchtime, and then again this afternoon. If we don’t hear from you, we’ll come straight back, do you understand?”

  “I’ll call you,” Liza said. “Just go and have a nice time, and don’t worry about me. Unless I have a sugar overdose, I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine.”

  Her father screwed his face up; Liza saw it, and quickly added:

  “Nothing to worry about. At all. Swear.”

  Nodding, Ken said, “And on that note, I’m going to read my paper on the balcony. Is it too early for wine?”

  TEN

  Jamie was nervous as he walked along the bustling promenade. He hadn’t touched his breakfast that morning, much to his mother’s discontent, and his legs were sore from running home the previous day, a constant reminder that he was a wanted man and that he should have his wits about him today.

  Would Calum and Lee still be after him? Even though he hadn’t really done anything, other than stand there while Scottie made them look about an inch tall, would they still be pissed off?

  You bet your ass they would, which was why Jamie had come prepared. He didn’t like weapons, not that the Swiss army knife in his back pocket could really be considered a weapon, but it was better to be safe than sorry. If shit was going to go down, he wanted a fighting chance. Perhaps the sight of a gleaming blade would be enough of a deterrence. Maybe it would go the other way entirely, and they would lunge for him, knowing that the worst they were going to get was a tiny stab-wound. After that, well, Jamie didn’t want to think about it.

  When he arrived at Scottie’s Arcade at a little after half eleven, he was surprised to find the place still empty. Not one holidaymaker walked the arcade floor, and Scottie was nowhere to be seen either, though the flashing lights all around and the accompanying music and beeps suggested the place was open for business as usual.

  “Scottie?” Jamie made his way toward the cage at the back of the room, where Scottie usually sat during the day, watching the gamers pushing coin after coin into the machine, waiting to hand out coins in exchange for notes. As a business it was relatively lucrative, if you didn’t mind sitting around doing nothing all day long. “Scottie, are you back there?”

  Jamie knew Scottie’s quarters were just beyond the door at the back of the cage, and his first thought was that the proprietor had had some sort of accident, that he had gone back there—shifting machines?—and had done himself a misdemeanour. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, and Jamie quickly expunged it from his mind. There were a million reasons why Scottie wasn’t out front.

  Jamie just needed one. “Scottie?” A little louder now.

  “Hang on a second!” a voice from beyond the door called. It was Scottie, and as soon as Jamie heard it, he relaxed. To think he had been picturing Scottie lying there, trapped beneath a felled arcade machine, blood pouring from his cracked skull like yolk from an underdone boiled egg. He felt foolish, now, for even considering it; Scottie was big enough and strong enough to juggle those damn machines.

  Around a minute later, the door inside the cage opened and Scottie came through it, dabbing at his nose with a piece of tissue. “Had a fucking nosebleed,” he said. “Can you believe that shit? I haven’t had a nosebleed since I was at school.”

  The sight of the blood-peppered tissue made Jamie nauseous. It was a good job he hadn’t had any breakfast. “It looks like it’s stopped,” he said, motioning to Scottie’s nostrils.

  Scottie ran his nose along the back of his hand and, satisfied Jamie was telling the truth, tossed the bloody tissue into the wastepaper basket to his left. He stepped out of the cage, shaking his head. “Don’t you have anything better to do than hang around here all day?” He hadn’t meant to sound mean; it just came out that way.

  “Not really,” Jamie said. “Summer holidays are always a bust for me.” He noticed some of the new machines opposite, and was a little disappointed with them. More unnecessary violence and very little for the connoisseur of classic arcade games. Scottie looked a little lost this morning, too, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Had something happened? Something more than just a nosebleed? “You okay, Scottie? You look like you’ve seen—”

  “A ghost, yeah,” Scottie interrupted, and there was something in his tone—a certain brusqueness—which Jamie was not used to, and didn’t like one bit. “You’re not the first person to tell me that today.” He stared out through the large window at the front of the arcade, preoccupied with something or nothing. Jamie could see the reflection of his face in the glass, could see that he was gnawing nervously at his bottom lip, as if there was something he wanted to say and didn’t quite know how to say it. He looked on edge, which
put Jamie on edge. He liked Scottie, but not this Scottie. This Scottie was strange… intense.

  “You want to me watch the place for a few hours while you go and get some sleep?” Jamie didn’t know what was wrong with his friend, but he wanted to help. He also wanted to get to grips with the mechanics of the arcade, so that when the time came—if it ever came—he would be accustomed to it.

  Scottie turned from the window; Jamie was pleased to see the proprietor was smiling now. “You really would, wouldn’t you? Without pay and everything.”

  Jamie nodded. “Well, you say without pay, but you did promise me a key for the Pac-Man machine. I’d happily take that as payment.”

  “In that case,” Scottie said, “I trust you to keep an eye on the place while I’m gone.” He moved toward the door. “I’ve got to see someone about something.”

  At first, Jamie thought Scottie was messing with him, but before he knew what was happening, Scottie was outside and marching along the promenade toward the pier, leaving him stood in the arcade doorway with an expression of immense confusion painted across his face.

  “O-kay,” Jamie said, heading back into the arcade. The excitement he felt in that moment was hard to hide. Scottie must really have trusted him to leave him in charge of the arcade, even for a few minutes, and it felt… good.

  This day was shaping up to be a great one. It would take something truly awful to bring Jamie down from the cloud upon which he was currently riding.

  Scanning the empty arcade, Jamie sighed. “Nice.”

  *

  What the fuck are you doing man!?

  Scottie wished he had an answer for that. All he knew was that he couldn’t stand by and do nothing, not if there was a chance that picture of Jake could be retrieved. He didn’t care about the money; Marcus was welcome to keep that, so long as he was honest and handed back the photograph. Call it a reward.

  All I want is that picture, and nothing else matters.

  The promenade was busy with holidaymakers, dog-walkers, and deliverymen. Walking in a straight line was impossible; Scottie drifted in and out of bodies, apologising, anything to get through the masses as quickly as possible. To his left, the beach was already heaving with sunbathers. Canvas sun-shelters had been erected as far as the eye could see. A pair of solemn-looking donkeys carried children back and forth just beyond the small wall separating the beach from the promenade. An ice-cream vendor was doing good trade—judging by the queue trailing back from his van—next to a hippie-looking guy, who appeared to be balancing rocks on top of one another while a rapt audience silently watched.

  Part of Scottie wanted to turn around and head back to the arcade, but he wasn’t thinking straight. Images of that tiny photograph—Jake smiling, despite missing his two front teeth, wearing his favourite striped Thomas the Tank Engine tee-shirt—convinced him that he was doing the right thing, that turning back now would be a mistake. How would he ever see his little boy again if he didn’t take the risk?

  And it was a risk; Scottie knew Marcus wouldn’t take kindly to being accused of larceny. Nobody likes being called a thief, but if Scottie was really careful about how he approached this, there was a chance it wouldn’t spiral out of control.

  At the corner where the pier latched onto the promenade sat the tiny fairground. For many children it was a place where happy memories were made. Despite the advent of theme-parks, designed mainly with adult thrill-seekers in mind, seaside fairgrounds were as popular as ever, and Hemsby’s was no exception. Already children queued to ride the carousel, with its gilt-filigreed horses. Around and around it went, slowly enough for the little children to hold on, the accompanying music—an almost recognisable ditty—sounding as if it was being piped through an early 20th Century Wurlitzer. To the right of the carousel, the Ferris wheel came to a halt and smiling children began to disembark while another set excitedly waited beyond a rope barrier. A tiny candy-floss hut (pink, of course) had yet to open up for trade, though it surely would at some point. The forecast was good, and a good day’s trade was never passed up.

  Just beyond the Ferris wheel was Hemsby Dodgems, and as Scottie made his way toward them, his mouth dried up completely. He smacked his lips together in an attempt to generate saliva, but none was forthcoming. He didn’t know whether it was the heat, the fact that he’d drunk enough alcohol last night to knock out a hippo, or that he was about to confront Marcus Mills.

  There, steering bumping cars into a neat line along one side of the arena, was Barry Mills. He was a good kid, as far as Scottie was concerned. Always polite, always said hello, didn’t spit all over the fucking ground like most kids. No, Scottie had never had a problem with Barry. His father, on the other hand…

  Barry looked up and seem to brighten as he noticed Scottie standing next to the ticket booth. He finished guiding a glittery purple dodgem into line and straightened up. Stretching back, he said, “Really good exercise, though not so good for the old back.” Scottie couldn’t help smiling at the gangly kid, for whom a gym membership would have made a great Christmas present. His arms were slender—almost skeletal—and without definition, and his legs were like strands of overcooked spaghetti in a pair of skinny jeans. There was something spiderlike about Barry Mills, and make no mistake about it.

  “I need to speak with your dad,” Scottie said. There was no point beating around the bush; the sooner this was done, the sooner he could get back to the arcade and relieve Jamie.

  “He’s just gone to fetch us a couple of coffees, mate. Five minutes earlier and you’d have got yourself a free latte.” For some reason this was hilarious to Barry, and he chortled for a few seconds. “You alright, Scottie? You look like you want to punch someone’s lights out.”

  Scottie had been grimacing without realising it. “Oh, no, I’m good,” he lied, arranging his features into something less foreboding. “So what’s business like, Barry? Enjoying the summer holidays?”

  Barry, who was now chewing on a strawberry shoelace, shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s okay, I guess. Dad’s not happy with trade this year, though he never is. We do enough to get by.”

  “That’s all we can ask for,” Scottie said, forcing a smile.

  So trade wasn’t up to scratch for Hemsby Dodgems, huh? A little extra money would be useful, yes? Scottie had to reproach himself; this wasn’t fair on Marcus who, Scottie surmised, had always run an honest business. This little bit of new information, however, gave him a motive, a reason for rifling through Scottie’s neglected wallet.

  “Dad shouldn’t be long now,” Barry said, leaning back against the ticket booth—£3 per dodgem, no children under one metre.

  “I’ll wait,” Scottie said, lighting a cigarette. The arcade was in good hands; he had all the time in the world.

  *

  Jamie did a few laps of the arcade, just in case anything needed doing. He was practically floating. If you’d have told him that morning, when he climbed out of bed, that he would be left in charge of the arcade, he would have laughed and told you to jog on, and yet here he was…

  Big boss man.

  Stooping to pick up a pop bottle cap (Scottie must have missed it earlier, but not Jamie... Jamie was all over that shit like bees on a hive), Jamie straightened up to find himself staring into the screen of a machine he didn’t recognise. Frowning, he glanced up at the title of the game, which seemed to be the only information offered up by the strange-looking machine.

  Gēmuōbā

  To Jamie, it kind of sounded like GAME OVER, and for all he knew that was exactly what it was. Though it wasn’t the sort of name likely to get kids to part with their hard-earned pocket-money. It sounded too challenging; as if you had lost before you had even begun.

  Jamie was intrigued, though. The lack of vinyl decals suggested that the game was archaic, the kind of game he liked to play best. It would, he thought, be a shame not to give it a whirl, find out what it’s all about.

  He stuffed a hand down into his pocket and fished out a fist
ful of change. Nestled amongst a bunch of useless coppers was a single pound coin. “Lucky bastard,” he said, grinning. The majority of the games in the arcade were £1 plays. Some of them, especially the older ones, gave you two games for a quid, and the claw-machines were five goes for a pound, but everyone knew those were a scam; that the claw was programmed to grab only once every twenty or so turns, otherwise everyone would win, and cuddly toy companies would quickly go out of business.

  Though there was nothing telling Jamie how much this particular game was down by the slot, he pushed the pound in and hoped for the best.

  No sooner had the coin dropped than a voice said, “Jimbo, you little fucker!”

  Jamie spun, heart in mouth, and watched paralysed as Calum Rowe and Lee Kurtz moved toward him between the rows of machines. Unlike the previous evening, they were in no rush. They had him exactly where they wanted him. What was he going to do? Barge past them and hope for the best? Run the other way, leading them on a merry chase around the arcade, as if he were Pac-Man and they were Inky and Blinky? There were no power-pills to collect; there was only pain, and plenty of it.

  Behind him, the strange arcade machine began to beep and thrum. Jamie’s game had either already begun, or he was being prompted to hit START. He knew he would never get his pound back from that one, and came to terms with it pretty quickly.

  “I hear you gave my boy the slip last night,” Calum said, motioning to Lee, who was grinding his teeth so loud that Jamie could hear it above the incessant beeping to his rear. “And Lee’s quick, aint’cha, Lee?”

  Lee nodded. “Ain’t no slouch,” he said. “But you… you were like shit off a shovel.”

  “Look, I’m sorry about what—”

  Calum raised a hand, cutting Jamie off without even having to speak. “We’re not gonna fuck with you, not here, not today,” he said. “I like this place, and so does Lee. The last thing we want is a permanent ban, so we’re going to cut you some slack.”