‘Interesting. Does that tally with our findings, Officer Baloney?’
‘No it doesn’t. Officer Sutch. Our findings indicate he’s working with a young girl.’
‘That’s a shame, because there’s a reward for information leading to their capture.’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said the beggar. ‘He had this little kid with him, now I come to think of it. Rude little bleeder she was. Can I have my reward now?’
‘Well, we need to know where they are?’
‘That’s easy, isn’t it? They’re living on Alma Street. Seen them hanging round there, haven’t I? Fucking dump, they deserve it.’
‘I see. Would you have the number?’
‘Numbers? I can’t even write me own name, never mind adding up.’
‘You’ve been very helpful. Of course, you’ll let the authorities know you’ve got your hole back.’
‘I can’t be arsed. You can do that.’
‘A puny says you will.’
‘A puny says I probably will. Two says I will, most definitely.’
‘You can add up fine, Mr Sauce. Two it is.’
Jazir threw the coins down into the pit. The beggar caught them both, one in each hand. ‘What about my reward?’ asked the juggler.
‘You just got it. Let’s go, Officer Baloney.’
‘I’m gonna report you two.’
‘That is your right. You have our names. Sutch, Baloney.’
‘Hey! Wait! Fucking bastards! Come back here!’
Harry the Sauce was barely out of his hole before the two officials had vanished into the crush.
‘We’ll need a map,’ said Daisy.
‘Already got one.’
Jazir waved his arms in the air. A blurb landed on one of them.
Walking out of the consumer stretch, into limbo zones, into half-empty streets. ‘What’s Joe going to do with Celia, if we find her?’ Daisy asked.
‘Take a DNA sample, get it analysed. It’s got to be genetic, being a lucky bleeder. Something you’re born with. That’s why we need Benny on our side.’
‘Why couldn’t the AnnoDoms do the same, on the earlier cases?’
‘I think they did. I’ve no doubt about it. They only need a drop of blood, you know that. Maybe they haven’t found anything yet.’
‘They didn’t have to kill them for a drop of blood.’
‘Why not? This is my view of the situation: first they identify a potential cheat, and take them in for testing. They test them, they kill them, they dump them. Perfect cover, with the jealousy they’ve infected us all with. Game play; take out the opposition and you can’t fail to win. Remember, the dominoes will be desperate to know what this winning spirit is. If the government finds out that the games aren’t total chance, goodbye to the national bones. That’s their bottom line. The company is the game, we’re just the players. They can’t afford to have these lucky bleeders wandering about, free to play. It’s like if the boot in Monopoly kept landing on the best streets, on purpose! So, they die. Simple. Expert play, actually.’
‘As long as they don’t get found out.’
‘That’s where we come in.’
‘You find this easy, don’t you?’ asked Daisy.
‘What?’
‘Thinking like the dominoes.’
‘I feel for them.’
‘You what?’
‘I mean…I feel like I…like I know them.’
‘You sound like an advert.’
‘Oh yeah. Play to win, baby!’
Alma Street was a desert of bricks, broken windows, boarded-up doors, collapsing roofs, misspelled graffiti, paved with dead bones. No blurbs flew. There was no point, and Jazir let his loose out of kindness. ‘Where do we start?’ Jazir asked.
Daisy pointed to the house at No. 27. Jazir saw the ‘PLAY TO WIN’ message and nodded.
Door open. Deserted. Recent occupation: half cups of tea, tomato sauce on plates, a camping stove. A note, handwritten, a child’s hand. ‘EDDIE, GONE TO FIND YOU. CELIA.’
‘OK, reconstruction mode,’ said Jazir. ‘You start.’
‘Let’s see…’ said Daisy. ‘They were here last night, and found out they’d won.’
‘How?’
Daisy looked around, saw the radio and turned it on. Tommy Tumbler’s voice asking if they’d bought this week’s chances yet. Turned off.
‘Eddie sets out to collect the winnings,’ she continued.
‘Straight away?’
‘No. He’d wait. He’d let the first rush collect. I’d say he left after midnight.’
‘Not this morning?’
‘I think he’d prefer the dark.’
‘He leaves Celia here, alone?’
‘He has to decide: take her with him, and risk her being stolen—this is property he’s thinking of, right? His best ever chance—or let her stay here, a safe haven.’
‘Only for so long.’
‘That’s fine. He’s coming straight back.’
‘But he doesn’t.’
‘No. Either he’s cheating on her, or—’
‘He’s been kidnapped.’
‘Or killed.’
‘This is great, isn’t it?’ asked Jazir, suddenly.
‘Yes.’
‘Talking like this. Makes me want to—’
‘Let’s get on.’
‘Right. OK, Eddie doesn’t turn up. What would Celia do then?’
Daisy thought for a moment. ‘If I was her, I’d wait till morning, definitely. Then I’d go check if Eddie picked up the money.’
‘Of course he’d pick it up. And as soon as he does, the bones are on to him. He’s no fixed abode. This is the only way they can find him. And isn’t he gonna throw them off the scent. Completely normal, nothing like the first two. They’ll be thinking he’s working with someone else. He’s a front man. You know what that means? Celia’s in trouble.’
‘But they don’t know who Celia is.’
‘Maybe they tortured Eddie.’
‘This is getting stupid. What are we talking about? Murder? Torture?’
‘Humour me. What would you do then?’
Daisy started pacing the room. ‘I’d look around the centre for a bit. All the old haunts. Ask around the other beggars. Stuff like that.’
‘OK. So we go back to town?’
‘You can, Jaz. I’m staying here.’
‘You’re staying here?’
‘She’s going to come back. She’s not going to find him. She’ll come back here. It’s safe. And there’s the chance he might have just been delayed. She can’t take the chance of him turning up. That’s why she left the note.’
I’ll stay with you.’
‘No need.’
‘You’ll be alone.’
‘It’s safe. Who knows where we are? Anyway, I’m used to it. And you’ll be working tonight, won’t you?’
‘Waiting on? That’s not work.’
Tell your father that. You were late last night.’
‘This is my work. I’ll ring him. Tell him I’m studying.’
‘Like you were last night? No. It’s a Saturday night. It’s curry night. Anyway, finding Celia is my job. Yours is breaking open a bone.’
‘It’s nice to work together.’ He came a little closer. ‘Maybe I should stay a little while, just to…’ He put his arms around her. ‘Just to…see if…’
‘Go!’
A hearty five-course meal did wonders for the suit’s stomach, if nothing for his afternoon duties. He slept for an hour or so in his private office. Maybe that second bottle of wine was a mistake. Still, it was all on expenses. Waste not, want not. Ah, what the fuck! The whole day had been a waste of time from beginning to end.
It was those kids that spoiled it for me. Threw me off course, didn’t they? I’ve a good mind to…
In fact, I will.
The suit then called a good friend (and guzzling partner) of his, an Inspector Crawl of the Manchester Police Department.
Tramps
were scum, and all this official hole business was just a clean-up operation: keep them off the street, keep them in a hole, under control. That was the party line and the suit didn’t expect much interest from Crawl, but as soon as their names were mentioned the inspector went into launch sequence.
‘What were those names again?’ he demanded.
‘Irwell, Edward. Hobart, Celia. That’s what I got from the blurb anyway.’
‘That’s them! That’s him, I mean. The AnnoDoms had us arrest him last night, for cheating at the game. Fucking tramp scumbag, wouldn’t talk, would he. Tried everything. I even broke the law a few times. Nothing doing. Zilcho. Blank as the Joker’s nipples. And get this, the guy had a ton of punies on him. Only won a half-cast hadn’t he. The third time, as well, and he claims he’s not cheating. Took it off him, of course. Police fund. Needy cause.’
‘You should’ve let him go. Crawl. Let the people take care of him.’
‘Wanted to, didn’t I? Instead I had to ferry him over to the House of Chances this afternoon. They’re gonna stick some probes in him, or something.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
‘Doesn’t it? So who were these kids after him?’
‘Don’t know. Blurb couldn’t tell me.’
‘They’re on to something, whatever it is. Cheetham Hill, you say. Give us the hole’s address. H.P. Sauce? I know that bastard. Pulled him up a few times, begging without a hole. He’ll talk. Maybe I’ll check it out tonight, if no murders come in. Be nice to get in the domdom’s good book.’
‘Aye. Whoever let those boneheads into Manchester, they want probing.’
‘It was your lot, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s what I mean. And I’m sitting on the thick end.’
‘Ouch!’
The inspector went back to shuffling some papers around his desk. Mainly though, he spent the hours fondling his choices. How he loved to watch those little numbers throb. Special rate for the cops. Nice. How he loved the thought of getting kissed by Lady Luck. He was on until midnight. Graveyard watch. Years to go. Maybe he should get some burgers in. Special rate for the cops. Very nice. But the phone rang before he could lift it.
Hope this isn’t serious.
It was. It was the Company. Annie Domidum. Edward Irwell (NFA) had been probed and found innocent. He was most probably working with an accomplice…
Jazir left Daisy a few punies (emergency fund) but she had no intention of spending them. Celia might come back at any moment, or Eddie for that matter, and she couldn’t risk not being here for them. She made do with a tin of astrobeans, barely warm because the camping stove sputtered to a halt halfway through. After that, later on, only stone-cold pseudo-soup. Occasionally she would stand on the doorstep, looking up and down the street. No sign, no life. Nothing doing. Doing nothing. What could she do? Nothing to do to pass the time. No books with her. The only paper she could find was the scrap that Celia had written her message to Eddie on. And the pencil. That would do. On the back of the paper she performed some high-level quadraction equations. Her way of being calm.
Nightfall. Candlelight. Waves of shadow, shapes in the corners.
She tried the radio for company, but no matter how often she tuned the dial, only the AD channel could be heard. Tommy Tumbler’s stupid voice and the occasional Frank Scenario ballad for credibility, but mostly just adverts for life enhancement through the copious purchase of this week’s dominoes!
Time to lie down. A sofa covered with a musty blanket. Celia’s imagined body wrapped in the same shape, the night just gone.
She thought about Hackle. What he was after, and why. All he needed was proof positive that the AnnoDomino Co. was killing people, or else an analysis of Celia’s DNA that revealed the winning genes. He could publish the findings and the game would be shut down. Easy. But she knew, by now, that wouldn’t satisfy him. He wants to win, that’s the game. It’s personal, isn’t it? He wants to win the double-six, become the new god of numbers. Something happened between him and this Malthorpe guy, way back. Hackle wants a proper revenge. He’s not letting on half of what happened. He’s using us, but do I care? No. Not really.
She thought about her father and his role in all this. His refusal to help her. His warnings. There is no help. It kills.
The eleven o’clock news (‘brought to you courtesy of the Big Whoomphy—the meat on the bones!’) brought little of comfort. The Domino Co. had always reported the jealousy murders, with names, maybe to cover their traces if the bones should ever tumble and fall. This week it admitted that two people had been killed and that it was doing everything in its power to stop the damage. No mention of Eddie Irwell in the list of ultimate losers. Was this good or bad? Were they lying about his demise, or just cutting their losses? Maybe they’d actually come to their senses; killing their own players, no matter how good, was no way to win the bigger battle.
What was that? A noise? Outside?
Daisy pulled herself out of spiralling thoughts, turned off the radio and listened hard. Nothing, now…
There! There it was again. The door was being pushed open.
‘Who’s that?’ Daisy’s voice echoed in the candlelight.
No answer.
‘Celia?’
Flickering shadows.
‘Eddie? Edward Irwell? That you?’
‘Not quite.’
A blurbfly came out of the darkness. A man stepped through the shadows its flight had generated. The man was big, fat even, tied into a crumpled jacket and stretched casual slacks. The blurb was painted with a luminous letter W. Two more Ws burned in the darkness.
Jazir had a hard time of it Saturday night. He got some orders for curries mixed up, nearly dropped a plateful of Chicken Korma over a woman, gave the wrong change for a ten-spot puny. His father gave him an earful, told him to get in line. His two brothers sniggered through the whole episode, sharing half a smile between them.
Two hours still to go before closing, the place jammed to the flock walls with spicehounds. Working the tables like a slave for no wages. It was the family business after all. Yes sir, no sir, two Madras, four Korma, one Dhansak, six poppadoms, two naan, one chapati, four pilau rice, straight away, kind sir! (And fuck you too!)
The thought of Daisy was pressing on him. The last thing on his mind was the game. Funny then, in the midst of this feeling, he gets a major insight.
It was when he was in the kitchen, sorting a twelve-headed order. Just for luck, he took a mouthful of Thunderloo hot sauce, and got some on his hands. Did the order, needed a piss. Forgot the precautions. Five minutes later his dick was smarting with hot knives. Bloody chillies! Seeping through the skin.
That was it. Just that thought, standing awkward, trying to adjust his trousers.
Fuck! It’s seeping through! That’s it. Porous membrane. So obvious.
At midnight he checked at Daisy’s door. No answer. OK, he’d go tomorrow, first bus out. He had some other work to do that night. Some thinking, anyway.
Lying in bed, gentle Masala blurb crawling over his chest, biting his skin playfully. Jazir hardly noticed it was there, nor the two that flickered around his room, nor the one resting on the window ledge. His mind, instead, was filled with a large rotating image of a single domino. He’d gone to bed clutching his week’s purchase, two of them, tickling his palm with random life.
The genetics of chance.
It’s a porous membrane, nothing to do with who buys the domino. Witness Eddie buying them for Celia. There was only one way the lucky bleeders could affect the bones, and that was by holding them. Something happened, something to do with the fact that everybody held their dominoes tight, all through the week. Osmosis. Something was coming out of Celia, through the skin, and seeping into the bone. Or else the other way—bone to girl. A pheromone? Maybe. But if something could get in, even if it was only a message, then he could get in there as well. If he just knew the coding, the chemicals, the smell, the sweat, the nervous vibrations, whatever it was t
hat made the bone come good. Maybe it wasn’t genetic?
They really needed to find this Celia.
In the past he’d assumed, like everyone, that the bones were made up of some simple random number chip, a power source, some kind of transmitting device locked to the AnnoDomino frequency. Now he wasn’t so sure. Not since finding out how the blurbs were functioning. This was beyond technology.
Organic engineering. Grow your own. Grow your own dream.
But how were the dominoes connected to each other, and to the House of Chances? Were they like the blurbs, half alive with something, communicating through some new process? Maybe they were filled with the same stuff as the blurbs. The grease, the gloop, the vaz. If he could only get one open!
Sleep brought dreams. Dreams brought an answer. The image from his computer, his screen. Like the screen was his brain, and a window was opening, and a window inside that one, and a window inside that, and a window and a window and a window. Smaller, smaller, smaller, all the way to infinity. A bone on each screen. A bone on each bone. Numbers upon numbers. Fractal dreams.
Miss Sayer’s face appearing to him, thousands of times. Grab the wings!
Tumbling through space, he woke up smiling, crunching on sugar.
At least a dozen blurbs were hovering above his bed, under Masala’s command. They wanted escape, he could feel it. Escape from the bones.
Jazir got up, went to the window and looked out. The darkness out there. The blurbs had followed him to the window. And a million more fluttered over Manchester, increasing daily. He could see some of them, glittering wings through the night air.
Jazir stepped up on the sill, and crouched there on his haunches. The blurbs took off for some distant place. He could follow them, surely he could. Play a part. He looked down. It wasn’t too far a drop, first-floor window, but he wasn’t thinking about that. He smeared some vaz all over his naked body. It glistened. He wiped some on his tongue, swallowed. It glistened. Inside and out.
‘There’s only one fucking domino, you bastards!’
He took off.
Sunday morning was a breakfast of doom. His mother was highly ashamed. She wouldn’t speak to him. His sister was ordered from the room. His brothers giggled from the stairs. His father was mood-swinging between glaring silences and ranting apoplexy.