‘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…
Play to win
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.