“Because … I’m so sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to shout.” Sinclair’s posture transformed. He was an abject thing. “So sorry, Father. I… don’t feel well.”
Father Griffith turned to face him. “I am playing this game,” he said evenly, “to become immortal. Like you. But you don’t think you will become immortal, do you?”
Sinclair said nothing.
“You are dying, Sinclair Davis.”
Sinclair flinched.
“Ask me,” Father Griffith prompted.
Sinclair swallowed hard.
“Ask me.”
“I don’t want to die,” he said quickly. “Please, help me.”
“Leave the game. That’s what the senator did. He realized he was losing and would die quickly, and he left.”
Sinclair shook his head with exasperation. “That won’t help! I have to win so I don’t die soon.”
“Do you think you will win the next game?”
“No. Well … not … unless …”
Father Griffith turned back to the roses.
“Unless you let me take your Life Points,” Sinclair blurted out. He waited for the priest to speak. “Well, aren’t you going to say anything?”
“No.”
“No, you’re not going to say anything? Or no, you won’t give me any of your Life Points?” Sinclair demanded.
“No.” Father Griffith turned slowly to face him. “I will not give you any of my Life Points. You are dying, and you should leave this game.”
“That’s it? Just no? How can you? You’re a priest for God’s sake! You’re supposed to give your life for people. Isn’t that what Jesus did?” Sinclair’s voice rose shrilly.
“No.” Father Griffith repeated gently, shaking his head. “He gave His life so we would have a chance. So we would all have a chance… Everyone.
“Everyone in this game had a chance. You, me, the judge – who also lost today – and Daniel Cross. Everyone. Do you understand, Mr. Davis?”
“Actually, no, I don’t. I think that’s just bullshit for you wanting to take my life.”
“It doesn’t really matter what you think. My responsibility is not to save your life.”
“So you’re not going to give me your life?”
“No.”
“I can’t believe it! What kind of priest are you?”
“Roland, darling, you have to come. Diarmid’s all in a tizzy about the LifeBank–” Cat cried breathlessly as though she’d been running. She and Bruce stood by the flowerbed. “Bruce and I have gotten ours, and Storm’s in there now. You have to come right away.” She slipped an arm through the priest’s and pulled him along with her firmly.
“Hello Davis,” Bruce said cheerfully, pacing along the flowerbed. “Are you going back to the city?”
“None of your business!” Sinclair hissed, stalking away.
Bruce turned his attention to the wilting roses.
What is here? He looked along the rows carefully, starting with the one closest to him. The vibrancy of the living was mixed up with the crumpled, darkened dying.
Along the last row, almost resting against the wall, a soft, drooping thing in cream and pink. Trimmed with light.
Bruce rocked back on his heels and smiled. He was satisfied. He had found it.
Silver Dawn. Here. Very interesting.
“Do you know catfish?” Cat asked Father Griffith as they walked arm in arm.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Catfish, darling. It’s an awful fish. Completely tasteless.”
Father Griffith was puzzled. “Yes?”
“If you have to eat it, you must perform all sorts of contortions on the poor fish. It just doesn’t taste of anything by itself.”
“Like potatoes, perhaps?” Father Griffith ventured.
“Not at all!” Cat retorted. “I’m not talking about potatoes. I was trying to make a point.”
“Oh. Please, go on …”
“Well catfish are what we call bottom-feeders you see. Scavengers.”
“Mrs. Trahan–” Father Griffith interrupted.
“Yes, darling? Please call me Cat, Roland.”
“It’s a lovely day, don’t you think?” The air was warm and fresh in the shade of the trees.
“Yes,” Cat sighed contentedly.
“Let’s enjoy it,” said Father Griffith.
24
“You now have 96 Life Points,” Peter told Storm. It was satisfactory. The glass wall slid aside to let him out, and he strode past Cat and Father Griffith.
“Have a nice ride, dear,” Cat called after him.
“Thanks. See you tonight, Cat,” Storm waved. “Bye, Father.”
“He likes to ride his bike – his big old motorbike – after a game. In fact he rides it every afternoon,” Cat explained to Father Griffith. “He has 96 Life Points, you know,” she added conversationally.
“How many do you have – Cat?” The word felt uncomfortably familiar.
“87,” she replied with obvious pride. “Don’t worry,” she patted his arm with her free hand, “You and Bruce are very close, with 83 each. So now we’re almost the same age, but I am still a few years younger!”
Father Griffith laughed. A seventy year-old woman two weeks ago, and now? She’s right, she is younger than me. Doesn’t look it. Yet…
“And much, much younger than Sinclair,” she continued. “And even the judge. That doesn’t matter really–” she paused. “Judge Other seems altogether ageless in a way. It must be her judicial bearing…”
“Sinclair Davis should not play anymore,” Father Griffith said gravely.
“Why ever not?” Cat asked, her eyes wide.
“Mrs. Trahan, the man is dying!”
“So?” Cat shrugged. “What did he think would happen to him if he lost? Don’t tell me he didn’t realize what he was getting himself into.”
Father Griffith did not respond. They had arrived at the glass building. Inside, Peter and Sinclair were talking.
“You’re not going to do anything about it, are you?” she asked sharply.
“Me? It has nothing to do with me, Madam. I am simply pointing out the obvious.”
“Exactly.” Cat nodded vigorously, looking at the two figures standing face to face. “I wonder what they are talking about?” she said. Her voice held a quiet tension.
“How about fifteen million?”
Peter shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so, Mr. Davis. As I told you, LiGa doesn’t sell Life Points.”
Sinclair glanced outside. “They’re almost here,” he said urgently. “Come on man, I’ve offered you fifteen million for a lousy ten or fifteen Life Points!”
“Yes, but the point is, Mr. Davis, whose Life Points are you hoping to buy? LiGa doesn’t store Life Points. The only supply we have is that which is currently in the LifeBank.”
“The priest’s,” Sinclair said quickly. “He won’t mind. I swear. He told me he doesn’t want me to die. He’s a priest. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was here just so he could help out struggling players. He probably thinks it will give him some sort of extra points to get into heaven.”
Peter smiled without expression. Just an impersonal, polite smile.
“Is your friend coming to pick you up again?”
Father Griffith nodded absentmindedly, his eyes fixed on the two figures beyond the glass.
“He seems like a very nice young man,” Cat continued, her hand tightening on her companion’s arm.
“Hmm. Yes. He’s a good friend,” Father Griffith replied mechanically, his eyes on the duo beyond the glass.
“Ok, so, Peter, when you go into the LifeBank with the priest, tell him he is ten Life Points less than the one third he put in.” The others have taken some of my Life Points already. “No, no.” he shook his head, calculating. “That’s not right. He should receive fifteen fewer…” Even that’s not really enough for me, but the priest’s Life Points are the only ones left in the LifeBank. I think he’ll go
along with what Peter says so long as he can get some of his Life Points back. He’s sort of crazy I think – looking at those roses all the time. Very quiet. I’m sure the Vatican sent him here because he’s good at following orders. Follow my orders now, priest! Then during the next game, maybe I can convince Peter to let me buy some of the others’ Life Points… What did I agree to pay? What an idiot! Does he really think I’m going to give him fifteen million dollars for a handful of Life Points? It’s not in writing, is it?
“Come on, Roland. Let’s see what they’re up to.” Cat led purposefully towards the glass entrance.
As the glass slid, Peter approached.
“Welcome, Father Griffith, Mrs. Trahan. Father, I was waiting for you. Follow me.”
Behind Peter, Sinclair paced.
“I’ve delivered Father Griffith to you, Peter–” Cat disengaged her arm from that of the priest. As Father Griffith followed Peter, she walked towards Sinclair.
“You’re still here, darling?” Her voice lilted; a bright smile crinkled her eyes.
Sinclair ignored her. He was staring at the opaque room.
“You don’t have much time, do you?”
“What do you mean?” he snapped.
“Only three hours before the transfer,” Cat continued softly. “I’d get home if I were you. You wouldn’t want to be kept in traffic, I should think. Must be awful to lose all that time on the road…”
Shut up, old woman. Sinclair shrugged impatiently. “Why don’t you go take a nap?” he retorted.
“I don’t need to, dear.”
Bitch. Why won’t she leave me alone? “Leave me alone.”
“No, dear.” Matching her actions to her words, Cat took a seat at a nearby table.
Sinclair shook his head in frustration and paced.
“Are you worried about something, darling?”
The glass slid.
“Enjoy the rest of the weekend, Father,” Peter said. “See you next week.”
Father Griffith strode forward. “Well good bye, Mrs. Trahan–”
“Darling!” Cat cried reproachfully, rising from her seat. “It’s Cat.”
The priest inclined his head. “Yes, Cat. See you next week,” he smiled. The smile faded as he glanced towards Sinclair, who was staring intently at Peter.
“Are you leaving, Cat?” the priest asked.
Cat shrugged. “Yes, I thought we would all leave together. All the players, I mean. No offense, darling,” she turned to Peter.
“Everyone has to leave now,” Peter said.
“I’d like a word with you, Peter,” Sinclair said slyly.
Peter shook his head. “No, Mr. Davis. Everyone must leave now.”
“But – I have a question!”
“What is your question, Mr. Davis?”
“It’s about one of the scores… I’d like to ask you in private.”
Peter smiled. “What about the scores, Mr. Davis? You didn’t mention anything before.”
“I forgot. Come on, man!” Did he do it or not? I want to wipe that smug smile off his face. Did he do it?
The glass at the entrance slid aside as two of the gray men entered.
“Please escort our guests to their cars,” Peter waved to the newcomers.
“Peter!” Sinclair cried out.
“You too, Mr. Davis. I don’t believe you have any questions about the scoring. Please leave now.”
“I’m waiting for my ride,” Sinclair continued. What did you do with my Life Points? Where are my Life Points? My life! “Peter…”
“Sir, your driver is here,” one of the gray men volunteered.
“Peter…”
“It’s time to go,” Cat said gently as she reached out to touch Sinclair’s arm. Stumbling, he jerked away from her. Two gray men moved towards him.
“We’re leaving,” Cat said, linking her arm through Sinclair’s, ignoring his attempts to shrug her off. The three players walked outside.
“Well darlings, see you both next week, I hope?” Cat chirruped disengaging herself from the reluctant Sinclair.
Father Griffith cast a sideways glance at Sinclair. “See you next week, Cat.”
Before them a bullet-gray Bentley rumbled to life.
“Hey Roland,” Tom Morton waved as Sinclair wavered past him towards the Bentley.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem. Who’s that?” Tom asked, nodding towards the man sprawled in the back seat of the Bentley purring out of the parking lot.
“Sinclair Davis,” Father Griffith replied gravely.
“The hedge fund guy…” Tom nodded to himself as he started the car. “How did it go?” he asked cautiously.
“Don’t worry, Tom. I won,” Father Griffith patted his friend on the shoulder.
“Good,” Tom said with evident relief. “I’m glad, Roland. It was hard seeing you…like that.” As they drove away, Tom continued to ask about Sinclair. “How old is he?”
“I don’t know,” Father Griffith replied. “He was 38 at the beginning of the tournament a few weeks ago…. Right now? I don’t know. In three hours, he will be older still.”
“He didn’t look old exactly …” Tom mused.
“Not old exactly,” Father Griffith repeated quietly. Not old. Dying. “I looked like that last week.”
Tom Morton paused. “Not exactly,” he said.
I know what he feels, Father Griffith thought, looking at the gray car before them. At least, I know the beginning of what he feels.
“I think I saw Daniel Cross leaving… He’s the one with the Ferrari, right?”
“Yes.” True, Danny is still driving. That doesn’t seem safe. At least Sinclair has a driver now…
“I also saw a woman,” Tom continued. “Was that the judge? She looked determined. Very serious.”
“Yes,” Father Griffith nodded automatically. “That was Judge Other. She lost today. She might have become immortal, but instead she lost a third of her life. Hadn’t you seen her before?”
Tom shook his head. “I’d only seen the other woman. The governor?” He looked at his companion uncertainly.
Father Griffith nodded and explained that she was the former governor – Catherine Trahan. Cat, who has not lost a game.
“She was the one who was walking with you and Sinclair Davis?”
“Yes.”
“She’s … how old is she?”
Before them, the Bentley took the curves of the road gently.
Home, thought Sinclair. To sleep. He felt in his pocket for a small bottle of pills. Perhaps this time he would not wake up. Rushing along the road. Why the rush? Slow down the trees outside the window. Here inside the car I am resting. Steady. Not moving.
“She’s seventy.” Going on thirty, thought Father Griffith.
“Well, she looks very good for her age!”
“Yes, she continues to glow …”
“So the judge could have become immortal if she’d won this game…” Tom mused. “I suppose that’s a bit of luck for you, Roland?” he said with a cheerful smile, “If she’d become immortal, the game would have ended wouldn’t it?”
“Yes.” You know it; you know I was in that position at the second game. You know I lost – like the judge. “Lucky.”
“I don’t mean lucky of course,” Tom said hurriedly. “The important thing is that you did well, Roland.”
Father Griffith’s face remained impassive.
“At least you won’t have to have breakfast with Father Norwood at the crack of dawn, right?” Tom quipped.
“Right.” He looked at Tom. “Did you tell him?” he asked quietly.
“Tell him what?” Tom looked at his friend innocently.
“That I was … troubled?”
“I had to!” Tom cried. “You have no idea how worried I was about you. How worried we all were. We had to do something.”
We are all replaceable… Father Griffith recalled.
What about you, Tom? Would you take
my place? Could you? “Of course, you did, Tom. I understand.”
“I’m glad you’re over that, whatever it was …” Tom sighed. “What was it, by the way? Was it just the transfer?”
In the back of the Bentley, Sinclair clutched a bottle of pills. I will sleep through the transfer, he decided. Even if I don’t wake up at the other end. That might be a good thing, anyway …
No! He forced himself to sit up. No, he would not give up! There were other options, anyway. LiGa wasn’t the end. He had options. He had a plan. He could hedge any bet…
“I don’t know,” Father Griffith replied. “It was probably just the transfer. It’s hard when you’re not expecting it. Or rather, when it’s your first time you don’t know what to expect.”
What will happen? The judge wondered. What will happen to me? And she sped to her sanctuary, barely obeying the rules of traffic. It is real, this thing. It works. Both ways. I have seen Sinclair Davis. I do not want to be like Sinclair Davis.
To lose one third of one’s life is too much!
“Where do you want to go, Roland?” Father Tom asked.
“I don’t know,” Father Griffith replied automatically. “Can we drive for a while?”
“Yes. Do you want to talk?”
“Not now…”
“Let me know if you want to…”
Cat looked after the retreating cars. What a shame Storm has already left, she thought. What I really need now is a nice long ride on the back of a motorbike! What should I do with myself instead? She sighed with exasperation. It is much too dull here. I do so miss New Orleans… Yes, indeed I do! And yet, when I was there, what did I do? There was not a lot I could do, was there? A frail seventy-year-old body isn’t a fun place to hang about. She stretched her arms in front of her, rolled up her sleeves, and waggled her hands. Her fingers moved easily and without pain, outside the cage of arthritis, of old age.
One more game. That’s all I need. I need to win one more game. She took in a deep breath. And then … as they say, Life will be my oyster. Cat laughed. Life: soft and slippery, garnished with a bit of hot sauce, and chased down with a Cajun two-step.
All courtesy of LiGa.
But I must win one more game!
The red Ferrari slid on. Atlantic City? Danny shook his right hand. Feel nothing. Where to now? Inside, feel numb, hollow. I want to feel good! Where can I go to feel good? Atlantic City. There was nowhere else.
LiGa Page 25