The Bad Game

by Adam Millard

And Jamie did, and what he saw would haunt his dreams for years to come. A girl’s body lay twisted at the foot of the Ferris wheel. One leg jutted incongruously up, as if pointing to the moon above. Blood and viscera (had she burst, this girl?) was carried away on the rainwater. Jamie thought he would be sick, but somehow he managed to compose himself.

  People barged past, trying to get away from the body. No one, it seemed, cared that this girl had exploded all over the fairground. No one was trying to help, though Jamie guessed it would be a complete waste of time. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put this poor girl back together.

  Up on the Ferris wheel, the riders were panicking, for they were stuck up there, and no one seemed to be letting them off. Liza glanced up at the swinging gondolas, at the terrified faces she could discern through the rain, staring back down at her, pleadingly.

  “What the hell is that?” Liza said.

  Jamie looked up, saw what she was pointing at, and yet his brain couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. A boy, standing on the edge of one of the gondolas. He had somehow managed to unlock the bar, was teetering so close to death that Jamie could barely watch.

  “What’s he doing?” Liza sounded scared. It was all she could do to get the words out.

  “I don’t know,” Jamie said, but he did. He knew what was going to happen before it did. The boy was going to kill himself, and they were going to witness it in full HD. “Don’t look, Liza,” he urged, turning the girl away. “Don’t look.”

  But Jamie looked as the boy leapt from the gondola; he saw the dark pits of the boy’s eyes as he hurtled toward the ground. Just like Barry’s, he thought at roughly the same time the boy came apart at the base of the Ferris wheel.

  Then came the howls, tearing through the night on all sides.

  And Jamie knew then that something was very wrong in Hemsby.

  “Run,” he said.

  “Wha—”

  “RUN!”

  *

  Scottie was surprised to find The Lacon Arms closed for business when he arrived, though the lights were on inside, and through the window he could see Angela Michaels. She was on the wrong side of the bar, flanked by a pair of what looked like workmen. For a moment, Scottie thought the place had been closed for renovation. But wouldn’t there have been some warning? Angela hadn’t mentioned anything earlier that day when she’d dropped off his wallet. She had even talked about seeing him later, which suggested that the pub’s closure was the result of something more precipitous. Maybe they had discovered asbestos. Was that even a thing anymore? Scottie didn’t know. What he did know was that he was desperate for a drink.

  He banged three times on the glass.

  Angela, startled, turned to see who was hammering at the window. The workmen seemed on edge, too, despite their burly frames. With all eyes on him, Scottie waved and motioned to the locked door. The workmen turned to Angela, apparently seeking approval. When she nodded, one of the workmen—hadn’t bandannas gone out of fashion?—put his pint down on the bar and walked across the pub toward the door.

  “That’s right,” Scottie muttered as the sound of sliding bolts and turning keys came from the other side of the door. “Getting piss-soaked out here.”

  “Alright?” the bandanna-wearing workman said as he eased the door open. He stepped aside, allowing Scottie entry to the pub. This wasn’t how he had planned the night. There should have been people here, sitting at tables; people to question, to interrogate about his photograph of Jake. As it stood, his plans were out of the window. Best thing to do was settle at the bar—if it was open—and neck a few whiskies before heading back to the arcade.

  As Scottie moved across the pub, he said, “Hey, Angela.” Bandanna was bolting the door once again. The other one, leaning against the bar with a half-empty pint-glass in his hand, shook his head, as if to say, She’s had a bit of a shocker actually, mate.

  “Angela?” Scottie said, sidling up next to her at the bar. She was drinking vodka, by the looks (and smell) of it. She’d also been crying. Dark make-up which had once been immaculate on her eyes was now smudged across her cheeks. “Angela, what’s up?”

  “She was attacked,” Hard-Hat said. Scottie didn’t know the guy. He had a strange nose. Lopsided, as if he had been punched a lot.

  “Attacked by who? What do you mean, ‘attacked’?” Scottie said. Bandanna returned to the bar and picked up his pint.

  “Couple of chav pricks decided to try their luck in here this afternoon,” Hard-Hat said. “Angela here asked them to leave. They didn’t want to. We got into a scuffle with them and they knew they were beaten, but not before your girl here cracked her head a good one.”

  “Drugs, we reckon,” Bandanna opined. “These pair looked as if they’d been on something.”

  “Who were they, Angela?” Scottie said. He no longer yearned for a drink; what he wanted was information. “Did you know them?”

  Angela shook her head. “No…I…one of them looked familiar… the fat one.”

  “The other one was pretty slim,” said Bandanna, wiping away a beer-froth moustache. “You could see his ribs. Like a fucking xylophone, he was.”

  Scottie immediately knew who was responsible. “Those little bastards,” he said.

  “You know them?” Hard-Hat said.

  “I think so,” Scottie said, pulling up a stool. “Calum Rowe and Lee Kurtz. Couple of local lads, like to act tough around each other, you know? Make life difficult for smaller kids. I didn’t think they were capable of something like this, though.” To Angela he said, “This is serious. Those idiots are in a shit-load of trouble for this.”

  “Yeah, well,” Angela said, “if the police show up tomorrow morning, I’ll be sure to send ‘em your way for the details.”

  Scottie nodded. He wasn’t a grass, but those two arseholes had had this coming to them for a while now. A couple of years in a young offender’s institute would do them the power of good. Either that or set them up for a life of incarceration.

  “Not opening tonight, then?” Scottie said, his thirst returning.

  “Ted and Deirdre said they might open up a bit later on, but I’m not working. If you want a drink, Scottie, you’ll have to make it yourself.”

  “Fine by me,” Scottie said. He was up off the stool and around the other side of the bar in less than ten seconds flat. When the workmen put their order in (“While you’re there, mate, a couple more Stellas would be great.”) Scottie grinned and told them he wasn’t paid enough and that they would be better off serving themselves.

  “This isn’t an open bar,” Angela said as both workmen reached for the draught tap. “Those are your last ones, lads. Sure you’ve got wives and children to get home to.”

  “Not me,” Bandanna said. “Got a lovely little bedsit on the edge of town, though, if ever you fancy a tour.”

  Angela groaned. “Sounds a blast, but unfortunately I’m off the market.”

  Scottie sipped at his whiskey, savouring the burn in both his throat and stomach. Off the market? Was Angela seeing someone, or had she simply had enough of men altogether? Old enough to be her father, you pervy bastard, Scottie reminded himself, not that the girl would ever be interested in a beat-up old fox like him.

  “Shame,” Bandanna said. “I’ve got Freeview. You would’ve liked it.”

  Just then, a loud blast sounded out on the street. For a moment, the pub shook. Glasses clinked together and darts fell from the dartboard and buried themselves—Pit! Pit! Pit!—in the oche carpet.

  Scottie was on his feet and running toward the window. “What the hell was that?”

  “Sounded like an explosion,” Bandanna said, unhelpfully. “Here, you don’t think it’s that ISIS, do ya? They said they was gonna attack the tourist hotspots.”

  “I doubt they meant fucking Hemsby,” Hard-Hat said.

  Scottie couldn’t see much from the window, but he could hear plenty. There was screaming out there, howling, more loud bangs, car alar
ms. “Something’s going on,” he said. “Angela, who else is in the pub?”

  “That’ll be me and the missus,” Ted Porter said as he appeared in the doorway leading up to the residential section of the pub. “What the fuck is going on out there? Sounds like World War III just broke out.”

  Behind Ted, Deirdre Porter shuffled along in a pair of bunny-rabbit slippers. It would have been comical in other circumstances, but no one laughed now. “You pair still here?” she said to the workmen. “I hope you paid for those ones.”

  Angela clambered to her feet, easing the stool back as she did. Scottie watched her move across the room. She was a little unsteady, but he figured she was made of strong stuff and wouldn’t have appreciated unnecessary interference. When she reached Scottie at the window, she said, “Anything?”

  Scottie dry-swallowed. “I can’t see a thing. But listen… do you hear that?”

  Angela turned her head to one side; her ear was only an inch or so away from the window. She could hear lots of screaming, glass smashing, horns honking, and a terrible wailing off in the distance. “What is that?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” Scottie sighed. “I suggest we—”

  Another blast rocked the pub, and this time bottles fell from shelves and smashed on the already-sticky floor behind the bar. Ted Porter almost went over, and would have if not for the fruit machine. Deirdre screeched and grabbed onto her own hair with clawed hands, as if that might somehow save her. At the bar, the workmen exchanged a look which said, We’re going to die. Are you ready? I’m not fucking ready.

  Angela turned to Scottie, as if he had an answer to what was going on out there. He didn’t.

  “Turn the lights off,” Scottie said.

  “What?” Ted Porter was leaning against the fruit machine clutching his heart. Scottie wasn’t sure if the landlord had a history of heart problems, but he certainly fit the bill for an early dirt-bath.

  Outside people were now screaming and running past the pub. Some were stopping, hammering on the door in an attempt to get in. “Turn off the lights,” Scottie repeated.

  Deirdre rushed across the room, her fluffy bunny slippers whispering on the carpet as she went. The hammering on the door intensified, and then was gone completely. Whoever had been out there trying to gain entry had realised it was fruitless and moved on.

  Flicking the switch on the wall next to the peanut machine, Deirdre cast the pub into darkness. The fruit machine lights blinked, intermittently illuminating Ted Porter’s terrified face, but the rest of the room was pitch.

  “Scottie, I—”

  “Everyone be quiet,” Scottie interrupted, cutting Angela’s words off. He stared off through the window, watching as people bolted past. Men, women, some carrying young children, all running away from some as-yet unseen enemy. The scene reminded Scottie of something he had watched about the events of 9/11. People running away from the toppling buildings, covered in dust and debris. If this was a terrorist attack, and those were terrorist bombs going off in the distance, it would be all over the news by now. Scottie considered the television screen hanging in the corner of the pub, thought about asking Ted to switch it on. At least that way they could keep up to speed with what was happening. The light from the TV would be a bad thing, though, revealing them, betraying them to whoever… or whatever was out there.

  “Oh my God!” Angela suddenly cried. She had seen something unfold across the street. A boy—no older than twelve—had dragged a woman to the ground and was tearing at the back of her head, pulling out clumps of hair and scalp and… was that grey matter?

  “I’ll be damned,” Scottie said.

  “What’s happening, Scottie?” Angela whined.

  Scottie watched as the boy clawed at the woman. She had fallen still now, only moving with each brutal swipe of the child’s hands. “I don’t know,” he said. “Something… something…”

  “Terrorists,” Bandanna said matter-of-factly.

  Three young chav girls with massive hooped earrings and faces full of make-up leapt upon an old woman just beyond the pub window. The old woman’s screams shook the glass in its frame, and then only the sound of the snarling chavs could be heard as they tore the old dear apart with their teeth. “Not terrorists,” Scottie said.

  Then what? It would, he thought, be better if they had someone to blame for this, some insidious caliphate to first condemn and then hunt down to make sure they paid for their horrific acts of terror.

  Someone tried the door once again. It rattled in its frame, and there was an awful screeching sound as something—bloodied hands?—slid down it on the outside. Angela latched on to Scottie’s arm, imploring him to protect her should anything come through that door.

  “We need to barricade,” Scottie said. “That door’s strong, but you get three or four people all pushing against it…” He trailed off. Everyone in the room knew what he was saying.

  In the dark they gathered tables and chairs. Over on the other side of the pub, the two workmen tried to figure out if there was any way the pool table would fit through the archway. It was a nice idea, though ultimately a flawed one. Even if the pool table fit, there was no way they could shift it the thirty feet or so to the front door.

  “The fruit machine,” Scottie whispered. “Unplug it, Ted.”

  Ted and Deirdre now stood behind the bar looking terrified. Even in the dark their trepidation was visible. Ted left his wife and set about unplugging the ‘fruitie’. “You think this’ll keep them out?” he said. “It’s on wheels, so I don’t know how much good it will do.”

  Outside, howls and screams filled the night. In the distance, sirens wailed. The cavalry was coming. Scottie just hoped they were prepared for what they found when they arrived.

  “Scottie?” Angela said, her voice wavering. She was still at the window, staring out in horror.

  Scottie helped Ted move the fruit machine across the pub, leaving it in front of the door. “Yeah?” He made his way across to Angela at the window.

  “Isn’t that the kid who hangs out at the arcade all day?” She pointed. “And those are two are the bastards who attacked me earlier!”

  On the other side of the road, standing atop an industrial bin in a slight recess, Jamie kicked at a pair of shirtless aggressors. The girl—Liza—was with him, behind him, and they were both trapped, obstructed by the Laurel and Hardy of small-town crime, Calum Rowe and Lee Kurtz. “Fuck!” Scottie said. “Fuck!”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Piss off!” Jamie cried, kicking out at Calum Rowe’s head once again. This time he connected, and the fat boy’s neck twisted unnaturally over on itself. For a moment, Jamie thought he had broken the fucker—hoped he had—but a second later, Calum straightened his head once again, snarled inhumanly, and continued to grasp desperately at Jamie’s feet.

  This couldn’t be happening. What was happening? The whole town had gone mad! No, not the whole town. Just the kids. The kids had all lost their fucking minds, all except for Jamie and Liza, apparently.

  “Jamie!” Liza cried from behind. Lee Kurtz was trying to get to her, already had one knee up on the bin.

  “Fuck the fuck off!” Jamie said, swinging his leg around and planting it squarely in Lee’s skeletal face. There was a crunch, and then a moan as Lee toppled back, off the bin and onto the rain-drenched ground below.

  This is insane! Jamie thought. It had to be some kind of bad dream, a nightmare from which he would wake soon.

  Four years ago, he had sat in front of his TV, watching the riots unfold in the streets of Birmingham, London, Manchester; pretty much everywhere there were young people. Looters streamed through the towns carrying huge electrical items; some of them had even planned ahead and were pushing shopping trolleys filled to the brim with pilfered goods. Footage had been captured of hundreds of gang members launching rocks and fireworks at approaching riot police, and was broadcast pretty much nonstop for an entire week, alongside interviews with dismayed shop owners pleading wit
h the rioters to cease their unreasonable behaviour before nothing of the cities remained.

  This, Jamie thought, is nothing like that.

  Calum Rowe latched on to Jamie’s leg and pulled him down. Jamie had time to wonder if this was it—the moment his life flashed before his eyes. It didn’t. Calum Rowe’s face flashed before his eyes. A demonic face, with sunken black pits for eyes and chin dripping with treacly drool. Calum snarled, and that was when Jamie saw the teeth. Needle-sharp they were, as if they had been filed.

  Jamie heard Liza scream, but he couldn’t see her. As Calum’s head jerked forward, teeth bared and eyes wide, Jamie grabbed it and held it back. His hand slipped down the beast’s slick skin and settled upon an ear, which instantly tore away as if it was made of marshmallow.

  The head snapped forward again, and Jamie knew he didn’t stand a chance, not there, on his back, on the bin. He threw himself to the side as hard as he could. Hitting the ground was going to hurt, but not as much as having his face ripped off by those demonic teeth.

  Thump!

  The wind whooshed out of him in an instant. He opened his eyes to find a rat staring back at him from beneath the bin. What’s happening, mate? Quickly, Jamie pushed himself up onto his knees—his jeans were already soaked through—and then his feet. Calum lurched toward him, away from the bin, away from Lee Kurtz, who was still trying to get to Liza in the background.

  You could make a run for it, you know, a voice in Jamie’s head said. And it was true. He was backing out of the alleyway, the assailants between him and a brick wall (and Liza, dancing fitfully atop the bin!). He could run, and he could live to fight another day, but could he live with himself for doing it?

  He thought about his mother. Was she at home, watching this mess on the TV? Was this even on the TV? If it was like the great riots of 2011, it would be plastered all over the news 24/7 for the foreseeable future. Maybe not just yet, though. The BBC wouldn’t send their cameramen out into this shit, not when they had hundreds of willing cameramen equipped with smart-phones already doing their job for them.