'You play chess then?' I ask.
'I haven't played for years.'
'Me neither.' I run my finger over a queen. Sitting on her throne with a palm clasped to her cheek, she seems to be thoroughly fed up. 'My dad taught me to play.'
'So did mine,' he explains. 'My adoptive dad. That's the set I learned on.' He leans back. 'It's a replica of the Lewis Chessmen. Medieval. I love the faces.'
A miserable chess set. Perfect for a miserable conversation. Carefully, I lift the board from the shelf and carry it over to the coffee table, discovering that it's a damn sight heavier that it looks. Repositioning the board near the corner of the table, I take a seat on the floor, crossing my legs and rearranging the shirt to cover my crotch. And then I motion for him to join me.
'What going on?' he asks.
'I want to play.'
'Now?'
'Yes, now. Come on.'
He eyes me suspiciously, forces out a lungful of air and slides onto the floor, crossing his own legs and staring at the set.
'This is mad.'
'Then it should be right up your alley.' I smile sweetly. 'Here's the deal. If you can beat me at chess, I'll move in.'
He looks up from the board to my face. 'I don't understand.'
'It's simple. If you beat me, I'll move in with immediate effect. If I beat you, I'm going back to Camden.'
His forehead wrinkles.
'Tonight,' I add for good measure.
'Don't be ridiculous.'
'Don't call me ridiculous. You're the man who lured a woman to his flat and locked her in.'
'Touché,' he mutters, inspecting the pieces. 'So, I'm guessing there's something more to this.'
'Of course there is. Every time you move, you have to tell me something about yourself.'
'Such as?'
'I'll prompt you.'
He rolls his eyes, lets his head fall back and stares at the ceiling. 'So, the challenge is to beat you as quickly as possible?'
'Exactly.'
He fixes his eyes on me. 'And if I don't take it on, you're going home anyway?'
'Yep.' I flash him a look of pure determination. 'And I mean it.'
'I bet you do.' Running a finger across his chin, he slips into thought, weighing up the challenge perhaps, calculating the risks, assessing his capabilities. 'Okay,' he says at last. 'I'll go along with it. Just don't renege on the deal. I beat you, you move in.'
'I'm a woman of my word.' I tidy up the pieces. When I'm finished, I find him smiling at me. 'I'm serious about this, Dan. You need to talk. If you don't play by the rules, I will leave.'
'Fair enough,' he counters. 'But I think you ought to know something.' He pauses for effect. 'I was the school chess champion.'
And I'm thoroughly buggered.
But at least I'll get something out of him before he beats me into a cocked hat. Picking up two opposing pawns, I put my hands behind my back, shuffling the pieces before presenting him with closed fists, a pawn hidden in each. He taps my left wrist. Unfurling my fingers, I reveal a brown pawn. Knowing that I've got the upper hand, I punch the air, turn the board and manoeuvre the brown pieces towards Dan. I rub my hands together and make my first move, my usual move, shoving a pawn forwards, two spaces, opening up my queen.
'So,' I venture, suddenly all too conscious that I'm about to force him into talking about things he'd much rather forget. 'The first prompt. Tell me about your real dad.'
His shoulders tense. He stares at the board, and I have no idea whether he's rifling through memories or simply thinking about the next move. I'm expecting him to put a premature end to the game when he finally begins to speak … slowly, quietly, his voice almost a whisper.
'I never knew him. He left before I was born.' He reaches out, eyes still fixed on the pieces, and mirrors my action, moving his pawn out to meet mine. And then, without any further prompting, he carries on. 'I know his name. That's it. I have no wish to meet him. Your go.'
Resting his right elbow on his knee, his chin against his hand, he presses his lips against his knuckles. I can hear his breathing now: a little faster than normal, each breath catching on itself, faltering slightly.
'Maybe this isn't such a good idea.'
He pins me down with the swirls of blue.
'It's a fine idea,' he says. 'I'm about to beat you at chess, and you're about to move in. Take your turn.'
Half aware that I'm no longer in control, I scan the board. And then, with no idea what I'm doing, I pick up a knight, bringing it out to threaten his pawn.
Registering the move, he settles his eyes on me and waits for the next prompt. I give it to him.
'Your sisters.'
He studies the pieces before he begins to talk again.
'Layla was born when I was two. Sophie a couple of years later.'
Barely registering the second name, I stare at him open-mouthed, but he doesn't seem to notice: he's mulling over the next move. Layla. So, that's who the card was from: not some ex-submissive, but his sister. With one mystery solved, I should begin to relax, but I can't. A new set of questions are already jostling their way into my head. Why would he rip up a birthday card from his sister, and why would he exclude her from his life?
'Is that it?' I ask.
'There's not much to know. I didn't have a lot to do with them. I wasn't allowed.' He squints at the chessboard. 'Layla was … ' He drifts into silence. Reaching out to move a knight, he changes his mind and retreats. 'She was more sympathetic. Sophie didn't give a shit. She was a daddy's girl.'
'Don't you want them in your life?'
He opens his mouth, closes it again.
'But they're your family.'
'It's not … ' He hesitates. 'It's not that I don't want anything to do with them. It just can't happen.'
'Why not?'
Making a decision, he leans forwards, bringing out one of his own knights, ready to take mine if I capture his pawn.
'It's complicated. Your move.'
And now I'd really like to finish with the game. My brain's all over the place and I can barely concentrate on the miserable Medieval chess pieces. I'd rather focus on the miserable man right next to me. But this was my stupid idea and I just need to get on with it. As shadows dance in the corners of the room, I pick up a bishop and take him diagonally across the board until he's level with my pawn.
'Your step-father.'
He forces out a quiet breath.
'A drunk and a thug.' He reaches out again, his fingers unsteady, retreats again, balling his hand into a fist.
I'm not about to push him further and, as it happens, I don't have to. Still focussed on the board, he carries on, speaking quickly, his tone flat and lifeless.
'I don't remember a time when he wasn't around. I irritated him because I wasn't his. I was a nuisance. Baggage. He was always shouting at me, smacking me, reminding me what a useless piece of shit I was, that sort of thing. The older I got, the worse it got, especially when he'd been down the pub.'
He shifts a pawn, opening up his king, and I watch him silently as he works at his bottom lip with a thumb, staring resolutely at the board. Come what may, he's clearly determined to meet the challenge. Playing by my silly rules, he's going to make absolutely sure that I don't leave. I pick up my second knight and move it into play.
'But he wasn't like that with your sisters?' I ask uncertainly.
'No.' He runs a hand through his hair. 'I was the handy target. Every last bit of frustration he had, he took it out on me.' He brings out a bishop, sweeping across the board and moving it into position next to my knight. He'll take it if I don't defend myself. 'Your turn.'
'But what about your mum?' I move the knight out of the way, using it to capture a pawn in the process. I'm one up, but that was a seriously bad decision. I've just cleared the way for him to take my queen. 'Why didn't she try to stop it?'
'Because she was weak. Because she was afraid of him, or afraid of losing him. I don't know. All I know is that she turned a blind eye.' Finally, he looks up. 'She drank a lot. She was worse than useless. She didn't care. I have no feelings for her.'
Although the words are flowing now, his eyes seem to have darkened with memory. I can practically see the pain.
'We should stop.'
He shakes his head. 'I want to finish.'
'But … '
'You need this, Maya. And I'll give you anything you need.' He picks up his bishop and takes my queen. 'Now ask a question.'
I fumble through my head, searching for something to ask, but it's impossible. His words have set my heart into overdrive, and suddenly I'm overwhelmed by what he's doing for me.
'I can't think of one.'
'Then allow me. How did I cope with all this shit? That's what you want to know, isn't it?'
I nod.
'I spent a lot of time at the beach, hung out in the woods. When I had to be at home, I stayed in my bedroom … when I had a bedroom.'
'And when you didn't?' I slide my bishop across the board, taking a second pawn and much to my surprise, putting his king into check.
'I was eight. He gave my bedroom to Sophie. I had a mattress in the outhouse, a duvet, a pile of clothes.'
'Check.'
He pushes his king forwards.
'I didn't have many clothes and I grew out of them quickly. They weren't washed that often.'
I stare at him, in awe of the fact that he's talking freely now, no prompts needed. His shoulders seem to have relaxed, as if he's unburdening himself little by little.