He watched as she removed his knight and then he swooped.
‘Mchfesa,’ she said.
Mikael could guess what that meant.
He set up again, and she opened as she had before, but again it was to no avail.
‘I am good at this!’ she said.
‘You are.’ Mikael smiled. ‘But I’m better.’ He wasn’t pulling rank. ‘I’ve played a lot.’ And, as naturally as breathing, he told her a bit about his time on the streets and how chess had saved his sanity.
He didn’t want pity, and he didn’t get it from Layla.
‘I have played a lot too,’ she said. ‘I would be out of my mind otherwise. Before I had my students, chess was the best company I had.’
Mikael looked up. ‘Have you ever heard the saying, “at the end of the day the pawn and the king go back in the same box”?’
‘No.’
She thought about it for a moment too long.
‘Checkmate.’ He smiled. ‘You are too easily distracted. You need focus.’
‘I will beat you one day,’ she warned, and then he saw her jaw clamp down, because no matter how they hid from the world and got lost in their own they were constantly reminded that the clock was counting down on them.
But instead of dwelling on that Layla focused on the game. She opened differently and awaited his response.
‘I’m thirsty, Mikael.’
‘Then get a drink.’
She didn’t. She moved into attack again and again, and suddenly they were game on.
‘I’m very thirsty, Mikael.’
‘Good,’ he said, refusing to allow her to distract him. ‘Shall I get up and run a tap?’
She shot him a look and stood up. Usually nothing distracted Mikael, yet as she returned and repositioned herself a very ripe nipple might have done. Had he had his time again he would not have made the move that he did. Not that his face told her that, and he hoped she wouldn’t see the opening he had given her, but as he watched her fork him with her knight he realised she had.
‘Your phone is ringing,’ Layla pointed out as she sacrificed her queen.
‘So?’
He let it go to voicemail as they played on, and soon her pawn had crossed the board and Layla had reclaimed her queen.
She smiled at him, but it wasn’t returned for his phone was ringing again.
‘What the hell does Demyan want?’ Mikael’s voice was irritated.
‘How do you know it is Demyan?’ she asked as he stood.
‘He has his own ringtone.’
‘That’s sweet!’ she said, and watched as he took the call.
The vague irritation in his expression disappeared and his face snapped to impassivity. She had a growing sense of unease as Mikael spoke in length to Demyan in Russian.