‘Stop apologizing!’ Joe Crocus shot out a hand, caught the blurb in mid-flight, squeezed at it until the exoskeleton cracked and the insides ran free. But there was nothing in there, no gloop, only some papier-mâché and a few bits and pieces; a disk and a toy engine and a motherboard.
‘Master! What have you done? You have killed my Scooter…’
‘You bought a fake! Wait! Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘Benny! The ritual…’
Out. Southern Cemetery, the refuge. He always came here to escape the master’s wrath. One of these days, for sure…
No matter. He wandered for a time or so, just enjoying the marbled names, the birthdays and deathdays, and the intense glow of the domino factory in the distance. Why was everything always in the distance?
He took out Daisy’s handkerchief, looked at the stain of blood on it, sniffed at it. He smiled. Did he really want to go dancing that night? Sure he did.
Play to win
Saturday evening, Platt Fields. Amid these bare trees and along this boating lake, surrounded by screaming kids, Daisy wandered. And as the sky grew darker with the threat of renewed rain, she found herself thinking about the beggar girl. Celia? Was that her name? And the rain fell, at last, in thin dregs.
A pair of blurbs were fighting in mid-flight in the chilly air. It was a vicious mating ritual, the crunch of mandibles, because Daisy knew that blurbs passed on their messages by biting the lover. A domino fly with a curry fly; what mutated advert would these two produce? Chicken Tikka Bones? Domino Madras?
No job. No punies for leisure. Only the shrivelled-up student sponsorship. Only mathematics. An assignment to complete for Monday morning, but no desire to finish it. The numbers suddenly went cold, too difficult. The cut on her arm. And it was her birthday, for crying out loud, with not a single present – the downfall of being hooked on loneliness. Some ducks quacked, a flap of owl dusted the air, the trees shivered their wet branches. Daisy reached into her pocket for her handkerchief, to wipe away the tears, you understand, but found no welcoming cloth. She had bequeathed it to Sweet Benny. It had her blood on it. ‘Something to remember you by.’ Shit! He could do a DNA analysis from that. And digging deeper, just for comfort, her fingers knocked against something hard and warm. Puzzled to pieces, she pulled out the intruder. It was a domino bone, one half of which was a dead and creamy one-spot; the other half a still black and vibrant five-pip. Pulsing with a winning half-life.
Daisy knew where she had to go.
One hour later found her banging on a door in Droylsden, North-west Manchester. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ says her father. ‘What you after?’
‘You called me.’
‘Did I? You’d better come in, I suppose.’
A dark-lit house, fuelled by only an anorexic gas fire. No bulbs aglowing, no cheery pictures, no rainbows. Only the single element. A couch in the living room, covered with dusty blankets. Father’s bed. A saucepan beside the couch, filled with urine. His toilet. Vomit stains on the floor, amid the fallen wine bottles, the dregs and the numerous creamy bones.
Dead bones. Dead father.
‘So, you’re still a gambler?’ asked Daisy.
‘I want escape, just as much as any old sod.’
‘How old are you now?’
‘You don’t know, Daughter?’
‘Late fifties, I suppose. No. I’ve forgotten.’
‘That’s funny, so have I.’
‘This place stinks!’
‘That’s life, Daisy.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘You were brought up here.’
‘Brought down, more like. How did you get my number?’
‘Through the regular channels, of course.’
‘You called the university? They don’t give out personal details.’
‘Not even to a lonely father?’
‘Now they’ll know you’re not dead.’
‘And how that hurts. I couldn’t believe it when the secretary told me I was officially deceased. I told her I was half alive, at the very least. I had to go higher. I had a nice little chat with your Professor Hackle.’
‘He wouldn’t talk to you.’
‘Oh, we go way back, Maximus and I. We went to school together.’
This was news to Daisy, and she had no reply to it.
‘I want another match,’ her father continued. ‘That’s why I rang. I want you to win. That’s all I live for. Let us play.’ He tipped a set of twenty-eight dominoes onto a dirty table, clattering. ‘Choose your bones.’
‘Play to win?’ said Daisy.
‘You bet your life. And happy birthday, by the way.’
So, he’d remembered. But no presents.