All things in his life fell into place, like an expert play at the bones, a network of connections, or else a convoluted complex equation, whose many variables finally add up to zero. Until that day, in 1979, when Hackle told them that the maze was coming alive. Down in the cellar, where the dark numbers twist and turn. Blank, blank, vanishing.
Poor old Georgie.
‘Poor old Georgie,’ James Love muttered to himself, shaking the memories away. He looked at his watch, an hour had passed. The police car was nowhere to be seen. Just to make sure, he waited another thirty minutes.
A lonely blurb landed at his feet. It started to sing.
Play to win. Play to win.
Very well.
There was a phone box on the corner. From there he rang Max Hackle’s number. It cost him one nanopuny.
Play to win
Jazir called in at the Golden Samosa on his way back from Cheetham Hill. He banged on Daisy’s door for ten minutes, calling her name. No answer. His father was working the rice downstairs, and was most surprised to see his son come rushing into the kitchen. Tonight I was expecting you, not so soon.’ Stirring the mixture. ‘Sunday afternoon, very quiet.’
‘Father, have you seen Daisy?’
‘Who?’
‘The lodger!’
‘I wish I had. She is owing me rent.’
‘Do you have a key?’
‘A key?’
To the flat. Please! I think something’s happened to her.’
‘What is happening?’
‘Something bad.’
‘No more scandals, I am hoping?’
The key?’
‘Oh, yes. Somewhere…’
He didn’t know why he checked the flat, just that he had to. He was hoping against hope, I suppose. Hoping she was hiding in there, perhaps with Celia in storage until the coast was clear. That would be brilliant. That would be a miracle.
But nothing, just lots of workbooks, creamed-out bones in careful piles, her clothes, folded neatly. No mess, no struggle, no Daisy. He wrote her a quick note and left it on her desk.
His father had followed him in. Jazir asked if he could keep the keys for a while, just so he could keep checking.
‘If you must. Will my son be working tonight?’
Yes, his son would be working tonight. Already out of the door.
‘Good, because I said you’d be here.’
Jazir stopped on the stairs. ‘What?’
‘The woman—’
‘Woman? What woman?’
‘Asking for Jazir or Daisy.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Name? She was a beggar woman. Do they have names?’
‘Father…’
‘You’re knowing I don’t like beggars in my establishment. Especially not asking for free curries as promised by somebody.’
Jazir wanted to embrace him, but couldn’t. It just wasn’t done. He did it anyway.
‘Get off me! What is wrong with you now? First nakedness out of windows, now offering free curries to all and sundries—’
‘Tonight, I’m gonna work my pants off!’
Next stop, West Didsbury. He was trying his best to follow the rules of cool, don’t set yourself on fire, but after waiting five minutes for a bus, decided that fire was worth something after all. He flagged a taxi, because what were punies against Daisy’s well-being? Every red light, every zebra crossing stoked his anger. He didn’t stop until Sweet Benny opened the door to him.
‘Where is he?’
‘Joe?’
‘Hackle! That bastard! Where is he?’
‘He’s entertaining—’
Jazir pushed Benny aside. ‘Not any more, he isn’t.’
Joe met him in the hallway. ‘Calm down, boy.’
‘I want Hackle.’
‘He has a visitor. Is there a problem?’
‘The problem?’ Jazir caught his breath. ‘The problem is this fucking game…’ He opened the nearest door. ‘Where is he?’
‘In his study. I don’t think he’d appreciate—’
‘I don’t fucking care anymore. Just let me at him.’
‘Is it to do with Daisy?’
‘Yeah. Daisy. They’ve got her! Is this his study—’
‘Ah, Jazir.’ Hackle rose to meet him. ‘We were just talking about you…’
Jazir rushed into the room, ignoring the other man present. He went face-up, close to Hackle. ‘The bones have got Daisy, and I’m blaming you, Hackle! You dragged her into this stupid scheme. What now, eh? What move shall we make next? Shall we all kill ourselves, and get it over with?’
‘Please. You’re giving me a headache. Have you met Daisy’s father, by the way…’
Play to win
Daisy was on her twenty-ninth game of solo bones when Inspector Crawl came into the cell. She ignored him, of course, and continued playing one tile against another. Her father’s special set of numbers; so well played over so many years, the dots had almost vanished.