Endgame

Endgame

The schoolyard was dead quiet. It was the time of day when all the teachers and day boys had gone home and the boarders had just left for the pubs. London was leaving the bristling rush hour behind and entering the teeming evening hours. I pulled up the collar of my jacket as I walked, and set out at a fast pace, my footsteps tapping into the silence.

The English block loomed unsettlingly into my vision, and through the dark I could already see that there was a lone light stretching out through the railings from one of the basement windows. The game had already started.


Avoiding the camera at the main entrance, a veiled black sphere set directly over the front door, I took a right out towards the courtyard and the city. Victoria Street had all the bustle of a Friday night, with arrays of dim lights grasping through the dense, polluted air like vermilion tendrils. I came out into the courtyard, and took a left. A familiar sensation quivered through my veins as I walked as adrenalin shot through my body like a bullet.


  As I approached our entrance, I stole a furtive glance over my shoulder. There was nothing behind me, except the wind whistling over the pavement. I turned left again at the traffic lights, and a few moments later, I stopped. I clambered over black railings, and dropped down onto the rigid floor of the basement, with a dull thud that jarred my knees. There was a plain brown door in front of me, with a green and white plastic sticker saying 'Fire Exit Keep Locked'. I rapped on it four times, stinging my frigid knuckles. From inside, I heard the screech of chair, and then footsteps coming up to the door. I trod from foot to foot outside, trying to avoid the cold.


"Who is it?" Said a gruff voice from behind the door.
"Alex". There was a grunt followed by a short metallic sound, and then the door swung open, revealing a boy and a dimly lit school corridor behind him. He looked like a miniature businessman, tall and skinny with grey hair that was neat and to the point. The other winner. He flicked up his head as a greeting.

"Been playing long?" I asked, the eagerness palpable in my voice.
"'Bout half an hour, what took you so long?" Was the brusque reply.
"Detention."
"What for?"
"Skipping squash. Who's winning?"
"Nice. I'm up about a thirty, Kevin and John are stuck forty each, and Felix has luckboxed his way to fifty quid. Got dealt pocket Aces when Kevin had Queens, and then cracked Johns Kings." A smile flitted across my face. By now, we had reached the end of the corridor, and came to a plain white door at the other side of the building. I could hear the rhythmic click of the chips, and the sweeping, whispering sound of the cards from outside. Andrew opened the door.


  Three boys sat hunched around a table, in a bare white room. In front of each of them were colorful stacks of chips, in green, red, white and black, constructed into various egotistical formations. They all greeted me mechanically, and I sat down next to Felix, a short rich kid, with a round face, watery blue eyes and a gambling problem.

"Doing well mate!" I commented, greedily looking at his tower of black chips, worth ten pounds each.
"Oh yeah." He answered arrogantly, after exhaling on his cigarette.
"Fucker cracked my kings.." John piped up pretty quickly, the frustration vivid in his face, "And landed a cooler on Kev." Kev swore under his breath and rolled his eyes in agreement.


John was a North London boy through and through. He was fairly stocky, with sharp features and curly auburn hair, a paradigm for a future lawyer. He picked up the cards, and started to deal. Everyone shifted forward in their seats, as their eyes lit up like candles on a birthday cake.


Andrew winked at me, as we both shared the delectable thought of Felix, a lot of money, and a poker game.

***

It was eleven o'clock at night. Kevin and John had scarpered, after they were both cleaned out. Around the table, sat myself, Andrew and Felix. The room was distorted by smoke circling through the stagnant air. Felix had gone through two packs already. He always smoked faster when he was losing.


"You fucking lucky prics!" He zealously swore at us, berating us for his own failures. He stabbed out his cigarette on the table, burning a black mark.
"Hey!" Shouted Andrew, visibly agitated "What the fuck are you doing? The cleaners are gonna notice that you twat." Felix contorted slightly as Andrew glared at him with inscrutable eyes. He opened his mouth for a second, paused, and closed it again.


"Screw you guys, I'm leaving." He muttered. He shot up out of his chair, as if it had struck him, grabbed his jacket and fags, and strode out the door, frenzily trying to light up another cigarette. Both of us knew that it was no good trying to stop him. He would be back for more anyway.
"Idiot. What the hell are we gonna do about that stain?"

"Better clean it up."

Andrew sighed as he and I counted up the chips together, the soft plastic noises cutting through the silence. The whole building was utterly silent, and neither of us wanted to speak any more after Felix's blowup. I always relished this part of the game; the reflective, fragile ambience of the game’s afterlife.


After a moment, Andrew’s voice cut through the eerie atmosphere, "Good game mate."
"Cheers." I replied briskly, slightly agitated that he had broken the silence.
"Listen, you mind if I take off, I've got a history essay due in for yesterday." I wanted him to leave, and it was more of a statement than anything else. So laughing, I replied,
"No problem, I'll pack it up tonight, and sort out the burn. You in for tomorrow?" He flashed a quick smile of his thanks.
"Every day at this rate, mate" He cynically retorted as he set out through the door. I paused for a few minutes, then began to pack up the chips and cards, feeling satisfied after a profitable session. I hid the case in the room, inside a laundry basket that we knew was never moved. I shrugged on my jacket, and after switching off the light headed out of the room.


As I walked down the corridor, I suddenly heard a voice from upstairs. It was terse, and muffled, speaking rapidly like machine gun fire. Then another voice came, which I could barely hear. It was feathery, and was bleating something in protest. I immediately stopped. My whole body had seized up, and I stood like a taut piece of rope in the deserted corridor. 'Who the hell is that?' I thought. I started slowly to creep along the corridor out towards the basement door, slowrolling my shoes across the carpet, when I heard the first voice again, this time much louder, and out of control.


"She was my fucking wife!" It shouted. This was followed by a long silence; the whole building felt as if it were stone. The other voice, imbued with cruelty, muttered a fast retort that was inaudible for me. Then in a blurred, surreal instant, I heard a harsh scrape of metal, a pathetic yelp of terror, and then a hard, fast thud, followed by a low crumpling sound.

Fear snatched my mind from me like a thief, and made my emotions explode like fireworks in my head. I ran towards the door, my footsteps stabbing through the muffled quiet like knife blades, and crashed into the door with the force of a bull. The cool night air splashed over my face like a tonic, and for an erstwhile moment, I paused in the basement, dragging my emotions back into my own control. To my intense horror, I heard the tap of expensive shoes stuttering down the basement staircase. Once again, fear, adrenalin and sweat grasped my body as I leapt onto the railings and scrambled over them like a madman. Without sparing a glance, I flew down the deserted pavement, my heart hitting my chest as if it was a hammer. I heard light footfalls behind me as they tore in my wake.


Skidding along the concrete pavement as if it were greased, I wheeled around to my right, and burst out across sanctuary as my legs coalesced into a blur, driving me across the hard ground. Arriving at a meandering, steel river of traffic, I whirled through the hordes of bright headlamps and stiff bumpers. I didn’t dare to look back. Adrenalin continued to course through my brain like heroin after I reached the other side of the road, and I mindlessly darted like an arrow into St. James’s Park tube station. Melding into the turmoil of the tube station, I stepped through the metal barriers, and just got on to the departing train. As I sat down on an empty seat, in a deserted carriage, the fervor of my emotions ebbed away from me, and my whole body heaved with the effort of recuperation. 


It was only after several minutes, that amidst the smooth white walls, familiar metal hand poles and brown checkered seats of the tube that were such an integral part of my daily life, that the true repercussions of what I had unwittingly blundered into dawned upon me. At the very least, I was a witness to battery; at the worst, cold-blooded murder.


As this firmly entrenched itself in my mind, the terse muffled voice floated unbidden into my mind. To my immediate astonishment, it struck a chord with my memory. I grasped at who the voice might belong to, as if trying to snatch a coil of smoke; however I could not fathom to what face it belonged. Exhausted, mentally and physically, I sunk into the seat, and let the tube boisterously rattle on towards Notting Hill.

***