Nymphomation(5)
Game over. Manchester sighs.
Two more losers; another few ounces of money lost to the beast. Another cityful of losers. Daisy and Jaz could only gaze through neon tears of rain as their dominoes went totally cream, used-up and invalid.
Dead bones.
‘Somebody, somewhere,’ called out Tommy Tumbler from the city’s screens, ‘just won themselves ten million lovelies! Remember, my friends, my losers, next week is another game. Another chance to win. Purchase in advance.’
Purchase in advance! sang the blurbs on the street. Play to win!
Jaz switched off the TV in disgust. ‘Fuck that winning shit! Would you like to kiss me now, Daisy, please?’ he asked. ‘Just for some comfort in losing?’
‘With that stink on your breath? I think not.’
‘OK. Fine. What you doing tomorrow night, for instance?’
‘Tomorrow night? Nothing much. Why?’
‘You want to do nothing much with me? I’m going down the Snake Lounge club. DJ Dopejack’s spinning the decks. You know Dopejack? He’s in the second year at your college? Some silly guy on the computers. You up for it?’
‘Jaz, you’re too young to go to a club.’
‘I can get in there. Got contacts.’
‘Next week, maybe.’
‘Next week it is. Definite.’
‘I’m not saying definite. I’m backed up with assignments.’
‘Assignments, shit! Jaz is gone.’
Play to win
Fifty-seven separate punters were now raising a small cheer at having won a half-cast, the five or the three, still pulsing on their dominoes and 100 punies to collect before tomorrow’s midnight. One of these punters was killed for having won so much; it was his second win in the last few weeks, and some loser was too jealous of him. Whilst some more innocent stranger, somewhere else, held tightly on to a living bone; the full and magical five- and-a-three combination.
Chosen combination! Winning hand! Golden hand! Play to win!
Because when you won the big one, you didn’t have to collect the prize; the prize came to collect you. The 10 million lovelies of a domino’s kiss, delivered by Cookie Luck herself. The curvaceous ghost of numbers, coming out of nowhere, coming out of television, to drag you down, screaming with pleasure.
As the blurbflies fluttered through the darkness, singing out loud.
Play to win
Game 41
Domino Day, lucky old Manchester. The next Friday, game forty-one. Native gamblers, stuck superlove crazy to the televiz, goggle-eyed and numberholic as the credits came in colours. Tango the dominoes, forever changing. Pipsville, dig those chances! Bulging air, message heavy. Blurbflies in a swarm, singing streets alive. Madverts. Dream to play! Play to win! Win to dream! All over the city, that wet and slippy evening, surrounded by biscuits and crumble, herds of punters were banging their bones on cafe tables and dashboards, mouse pads and park benches, watching tiny dots pulsate in crooked rhythm.
It’s domino time! Domino time!
Dom, dom, dom, dom, domino time! —Blurbflies
Mister Million has made it happen, the secret boss of bones.
In monasteries, nunneries, football stadiums, birdcages, all- night shopping churches, non-stop brothels, restaurants, cinemas, telephone boxes, bicycles, Rolls-Royces, Pullman carriages and double-decker omnibuses; anywhere there was a switch-on, all the natives were stroking their bones, hoping for a winning kiss.
Why not chance a throw?
You might as well have a go!
With your lucky little domino! —Blurbflies
As little kids ran through the downpour, clutching their domino dolls, pulling strings to activate voice boxes, and learning how to play. Learn to win! Learn to win! The city brought to stillness and desperation.
The tousled, ragged blonde called Daisy Love. Take a look at her this time, once again stuck tight to the black-and-white portable in her bedsit, clinging fast to a treasured domino. Trying her best to ignore the scents of Chicken Tikka Masala and Lamb and Spinach Balti, drifting upwards from the curry house. A loneliness of spice and air. A tiny handful of luck.
A little sin is hardly much fun,
You might as well play conundrum.
Dom, dom, dom, dom, domino time!
Domino time! Domino time! —Blurbflies
How could a young girl possibly resist such urgings?
Learn to win
Daisy was born in Droylsden, Manchester, in 1980. Changing schools at the age of five, she missed some important lessons. By the time she settled, the other kids could already add up, never mind subtracting. Daisy could only guess at the answers, not knowing the underlying structure. The new teacher had no time for such inaccuracies. Punishment was in hand.
Daisy asked her father to help her, knowing he was good at numbers. He said no, that she could learn for herself, or not at all. She went to her mother, who knew nothing at all about numbers. Her mother was good at cooking and she placed two jam pies on the kitchen table, asking Daisy to count them.