Endgame

by Jeffrey Round

  Easy enough.

  Yes, sir. All is well here, he texted back.

  Edwards slipped his BlackBerry into his pocket and retrieved nine cellophane-wrapped bowls from the fridge. He’d prepared crème caramel earlier in the day, before the first guests arrived, to allow the pudding time to cool. He slid a knife around the edges, turning them onto dessert plates and arranging them on a tray. He noted with satisfaction how each formed a perfect circle of wobbly custard, like a soft belly, dirtied slightly by the burnt caramel dripping down the edges. Delectable.

  He slipped the tray onto a trolley and wheeled it into the dining room. Looking around, he saw that the critic had returned to his seat, but Max and Spike were no longer at their places.

  “Who’s for dessert?” Edwards asked.

  David, the real-estate agent, held up a hand. So did the lawyer, Noni.

  “I don’t eat sugar,” Sami Lee announced reproachfully, as though he might have been trying to poison her.

  “I’ll pass, too,” Verna said. “Got to keep my girlish figure.”

  “I’ll have just a nibble,” Janice said with a guilty look, as though the other women’s refusal made her out to be a pig.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to turn down the offer,” Crispin said. “I’m a diabetic. I can’t eat anything with sugar.

  Edwards held a plate in his direction. “I’m aware of that, sir. And I’ve made a special portion for you, sweetened naturally without sugar.”

  He set the plate down in front of the blind critic.

  “How considerate,” said Crispin. “In that case, I will indulge wholeheartedly.”

  “Me, too,” Pete said. “I don’t know about Spike, but you can probably leave one for Max. He eats anything.” He cackled in a high, unpleasant laugh, like an old woman with a pack-a-day habit.

  “I’ll leave one for each,” Edwards said, setting them on the table for the absent guests and returning to the kitchen.

  Pete looked down at the plate before him. The Voice had been oddly silent all through supper. It hadn’t made him count the forks at dinner or worry over whether there was an odd or even number of glasses on the table. Earlier, though, it had made him count the chess pieces in the drawing room.

  For some reason, the sight of the board had rattled him. That was when the Voice came booming through: Count them! There had been twelve pieces in total — eleven on the board in various states of play, and a final piece sitting off to the side. Pete knew the basics of chess. Harvey had taught him to play when they first met. He was able to recognize that the players were somewhere in the middle game. The endgame was still to come.

  But wait, he remembered. That wasn’t right. The twelfth piece — a white pawn — hadn’t been sitting off to the side of the board at all. It had been lying on its side. He’d been tempted to pick it up and set it upright, but the Voice hadn’t said to do anything besides count them. Pete knew to do precisely what it said and stop there. If it had more to say, it would tell him. When the Voice went silent, he knew well enough to leave it alone.

  Just then a whiff of pot filtered through the open screen door. Spike and Max had helped themselves to the bowl of joints in the parlour. They sat outside on the porch now, just beyond hearing range of the others inside.

  “So is this it, then?” Max asked, watching Spike toke. “Where are the hordes of fans Harvey said would be here to prostrate themselves at our feet?”

  Clearly disappointed, his bravado had slipped down a notch.

  Spike handed him the joint. “Nah — this isn’t it,” he answered, holding in a lungful of smoke. “This is just the first leg. These are the negotiations. The real deal comes once we get it all down on paper.

  “So where’s the camera crew?” Max said. “What about this documentary they’re supposed to be filming of our reunion? I hate that fucking word: reunion.”

  “I guess they’re coming with Harvey. Harvey said he had everything arranged.”

  Max took a long toke. “This better not be another one of his loony stunts,” he said, exhaling at last.

  “It’s not — didn’t you see the piece in Noise?”

  “Yeah, I saw it. But I’ll kill the fucker if he fucks up again.”

  Spike snorted. “I plan to kill him anyway. Once the contracts are signed, I mean.”

  Max scowled. “Right … that.”

  Spike took the joint. “Anyway, we know he’s not reliable. Remember when he had that idea to give away a free Christmas tree with every copy of our third recording, Very Bad Dog?”

  Max laughed. “We had the kids lined up for blocks, but he ran out of trees in fifteen minutes …”

  “… and gave the records away for free when he ran out of trees. The idiot!”

  “Right — and then he tried to deduct the cost from our percentage. As if it was our idea.”

  “True enough,” Spike agreed. “He was a cunt even back then.”

  “And wasn’t it his idea for that joke track, ‘Farting on Demand’? That was just stupid.”

  “Yeah. That was more of his nonsense. It sounded convincing, though.”

  A long silence passed between them while the wind stirred overhead. Darkness was descending over the island.

  “Penny for?” Spike said, catching Max’s pensive look.

  “We had our fun. Whatever happens, they can’t take that away from us.”

  “True. But I want more. I don’t know about you, but I intend to grow old disgracefully.”

  Max shrugged. “So maybe we should just cash in on this offer — finish the record and go home.”

  “I’m all for that. A tour would be nice, but the recording is the real prize as far as I’m concerned. That would prove that we’re back on track. It wouldn’t hurt to have some royalties coming in too.”

  Max’s eyes lit up. “To be back on the charts again — I’d give anything for that.” The scowl returned to his face. “Still, I’m doing nothing without Harvey here. I want to see his blood spilled on that contract before I’ll play a fucking note.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Spike looked carefully over at Max. “Still, I’ve learned to show a little gratitude along the way. How ’bout you?”

  Max shrugged and took another toke. “’Course I have! I learned a thing or two over the years. I’m not a total twat.” He held onto the smoke before exhaling again. “Just mostly.”

  Spike sighed. “You know, I always meant to call you. After the breakup, I mean.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “I stayed pretty pissed about everything for a long time …”

  “We were both angry.”

  “— especially the money thing with Harvey, though we always said we weren’t in it for the money. Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Same reason. Anger. Back then, anyway. It’s mostly just a posture now. Something to keep my mind occupied so I don’t go crazy.”

  Spike listened carefully to Max’s words, the tone of voice. They were pretty much the same things he’d thought himself over the last few years. But could he trust Max? Not likely.

  “So then we’re both a couple of twats,” Spike said at last.

  Max nodded. “Yeah — probably. Though I still think Harvey’s the real villain here.”

  “I agree a hundred percent,” Spike said, nodding. He paused. “Do you ever think about …?”

  “What?”

  Spike shrugged. “You know … that girl.”

  Max took another toke and turned away. “I try not to. It was a long time ago. What good would it do to think about it now?”

  “No remorse then? Nothing?”

  Max scowled. “Nah. No regrets. What’s the point?”

  “You’re right.” Spike took a final toke and ground the roach out under his feet. He stood. “I gotta piss. I’ll see you inside.”


  Max sat looking out at the water for a few minutes, feeling the smoke loosen him up inside. The truth was, he thought about the girl more than he liked to admit. It was as though she lived inside him now, long after her death. He’d dreamed of her several times over the years and woke in a sweat, trying to get away from her before anybody could pin it on him.

  That’s just bullshit, he thought. Fucking ghost story is what it is.

  He was about to go back inside when he heard something crashing in the bushes behind the building. He stood and looked off into the dense brush. Everything lay in deep shadow. The wind stirred in the upper branches like a miniature fury.

  He turned the corner and went to investigate.

  Chapter 10

  When Spike got back to the dining room, he found a plate of wobbly custard at his place at the table. He sat with a goofy grin and picked up a spoon.

  “What the hell’s this? Some kind of goodies for Spike?”

  “We know you still like your sticky, sugary treats, Spike. Don’t deny it,” Janice told him.

  “Hell no. I’m not denying it,” he said, baring his teeth. “I’m going to gobble it all up, just like the Big Bad Wolf. Grrr!”

  Just then David returned and sat. He took a bite of dessert then stopped and looked around the table. “I’ve lost my cellphone,” he said. “If anybody sees it, it’s blue. It’s important, so please let me know.”

  “Do you need to make a call?” Noni asked. “I’ve got mine right here, if you need it.”

  “No, no — it’s just incoming calls I’m worried about. But thanks.”

  “Any time.”

  “Speaking of,” Verna said to the table at large. “Are there phones anywhere in this place? There were none in the rooms.”

  “I noticed that, too,” said Spike. “A bit odd for a grand place like this not to have a phone system.”

  Their eyes swept the room, but there was no trace of a landline.

  “It’s probably wireless,” David said. “A lot of modern places are these days. No fussing about with lines and jacks and whatnot.”

  Max came in through the side door and stood looking over the gathering. He seemed to be counting heads.

  “Are we all here?” he asked.

  “I think so,” Janice said, glancing around. “Why?”

  “Nothing. I just thought I heard someone crashing around in the bushes outside the cabin just now. I looked, but I couldn’t see anyone.” He shrugged. “No biggie.”

  “We saved you a treat,” Sami Lee told him, holding up the bowl of crème caramel. She ran her hands over the chair beside her. “Sit, honey.”

  Sandra came through to collect the last of the plates.

  “Sandra, honey,” Max said, glancing up from a spoonful of pudding. The custard plopped onto the table, though he didn’t notice as he put the empty spoon into his mouth. “Do you know if we happen to be alone on the island or are there other cottages somewhere?”

  She looked at him with a startled expression. “As far as I know, we’re the only ones. I came over this morning with the first load of guests. You’d have to ask Edwards about that.”

  When Edwards entered a few minutes later, Max put the same question to him.

  “I’m fairly sure we’re alone here,” he said, echoing Sandra. “It’s a small island. If there were anybody else around, I think we’d know about it.”

  Max’s face registered curiosity. “How long have you been here?”

  Edwards smiled reassuringly. “Since yesterday,” he said. “I had a quick look around then, though I haven’t been thoroughly over the entire island.” He turned to the group. “Mr. Keill has a special treat for you,” he announced. “If you’d all like to follow me, Sandra will bring coffee in a moment.”

  The sound of chair legs scraping the floor filled the air as everyone rose and followed Edwards to the drawing room. Noni paused at the threshold. He was feeling seasick again. Or else the Kina Lillet had been more powerful than he remembered. He waited till his stomach settled and then headed in.

  A large screen had been placed in front of the stage, with eleven chairs set up before it. The guests sat and waited while Edwards fiddled with the DVD player.

  “So what’s all this about?” Max shouted to Edwards’s bent figure as he knelt to connect the apparatus.

  Edwards looked up. “Actually, I’m not sure. Mr. Keill instructed me to play this DVD after dinner once you’d got comfortable. He was definitely planning on being here for this, because he clearly asked for eleven chairs to be set out and there are only nine of you.”

  “He sent another text message?”

  Edwards shook his head. “Just a note saying to begin the presentation after dessert. Those were his original instructions from the beginning.”

  He turned to Crispin, who sat in the corner of the room. “I’m sorry you won’t be able to see this, sir,” he said.

  Crispin waved an arm in the air. “Not entirely correct,” he said. “Although I am legally blind, I do have minimal vision in my left eye. I can make out shapes and colours, just not very distinctly, I’m afraid. I may have to interrupt once in a while to ask what’s happening on the screen.”

  Just then the screen flickered to life. The title held briefly: Ladykillers — A Tale of Sordidness and Destruction. Max cheered. The others laughed and murmured. The word “STARRING” rolled past as the original band members appeared, one by one, followed by their names. There was a moment of silence when the late Kent Stabber showed up, his face captured in a youthful grimace, though he went uncredited.

  “Poor bastard,” Spike said, shaking his head.

  The scene cut to a live performance at a cavernous club. The grinding of Max’s electric guitar was undercut by the throbbing of Pete’s bass and the late drummer’s energetic rhythms. The camera turned to Spike, hands wrapped around a microphone as he snarled out the barely comprehensible lyrics of a song that seemed to be about police and guns and riots.

  “That’s the Purple Institution,” Spike called out over the sound.

  “Yeah. It was that Christmas Eve concert we played. God, were we young then,” Max said, sounding wistful.

  The music pounded on as Sami Lee suddenly appeared along with her name. She looked much the same then, vampirish and seductive, her face hidden beneath garish makeup.

  “Beautiful, darling!” Max called out to the screen.

  How old is she, anyway? Peter wondered, though he didn’t say it out loud. She must be about a million.

  The song ended as a Ladykillers classic started up: “The Twelve Days of Shagging,” sung to the tune of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Another joke tune Harvey persuaded them to record, though it had caught on quickly in the clubs to everyone’s surprise.

  Spike sang along to his recorded voice: “On the first day of shagging, my true love gave to me a love song full of hate. On the second day of shagging, my true love gave to me two silver bullets, and a love song full of hate. On the third day of shagging, my true love gave to me …”

  The music continued as faces flashed across the screen. Suddenly it was like the old days again: there was Harvey Keill, stoned on something and smiling deliriously, followed by a clip of Crispin LaFey talking to someone off-camera, obviously unaware he was being filmed. Their names appeared in dark script beneath the shots.

  “It’s you, Crispin,” Max called out. “Good old Crispin.”

  “Really?” Crispin seemed a little awestruck to hear this. “What am I doing in this video?”

  “Haven’t a clue,” Spike said. “Still don’t know what the point of it all is.”

  More faces crowded the screen. Next came Janice, a thinner version of her more fleshy counterpart today. The on-screen legend identified her as “Sarah Wynberg.” A shot of Noni Embrem followed, standing in a courtroom. His name, too, flashed onscreen.�
��

  “Where did that come from?” Noni wondered aloud, without expecting an answer. In fact, he was more worried about containing the contents of his bowels, whose gurgling was becoming a little too insistent to ignore.

  A party scene followed. A scrawny young man with a ten-inch Mohawk and safety pins piercing his eyebrows looked out from the screen as he tapped lines of cocaine onto a mirror. The lens zoomed in and he broke into laugher. He spoke to the camera operator, though his words went unrecorded.

  “I think he just told us all to fuck off,” Janice said, laughing.

  David shrank into his seat as the name “Newt Merton” faded in and out on-screen.

  “Newt was our supplier,” Spike said. “That’s the guy who went to prison. I haven’t seen him in years. What’s going on here?”

  But no one had an answer.

  The song continued as a much younger-looking Edwards appeared, serious and unsmiling, his thick black hair gelled and combed straight back.

  “Hey, Edwards! Isn’t that you?” Spike called out.

  “I … yes, it is. What in the world …?” Edwards’s real-life counterpart watched his former self in mute silence before slumping into one of the empty chairs. He sat there, shaking his head in bafflement as his name, “Jack Edwards” appeared.

  Sandra entered the room with a tray of coffee and tea. She’d just begun to pour the first cup when she looked up in time to see her younger self flash across the screen, followed by her name: “Sandra Goodman.” She stifled a gasp, dropping the cup and saucer. It shattered on the tiles. With a murmur of dismay, she crouched and began to pick up the broken pieces.

  The video continued. Another face flashed on screen — that of an effeminate-looking young man — and the name “Werner Temple.” Meanwhile, the song and its lyrics ground on. By the twelfth verse, nearly everyone had joined in:

  “On the twelfth day of shagging, my true love gave to me twelve suicides, eleven stabbers stabbing, ten stranglers strangling, nine wasps a-stinging, eight poisoned needles, seven crystals shining, six bombers diving, five tongues of fire, four oceans to drown in, three evil Jujubes, two silver bullets, and a love song full of hate…!”