Room 119

by T F Lince

  “Kyle, how did you remember the positions?” Jodie eyed up the board and then him.

  “I took a picture last time I was round your house.” He felt proud of himself as he showed Jodie the picture on his phone. “It’s not just you who this has been bothering, Jodie. I’ve been trying all week to get you an answer.”

  He looked down, a little embarrassed. She tilted her head to the side as she looked at him.

  “That’s so sweet, Kyle.”

  “Sweet?” He raised his tone, trying to regain a foothold in the conversation which was getting a bit too lovey-dovey for his liking. “It’s only because I like chess, Jodie. Sweet!” The last sweet was accompanied by a shake of the head.

  “Chivalrous, then. Or…”

  Kyle cut her off with a ‘quit while you’re ahead’ raise of his eyebrows accompanied by a point of his finger. Besides, he knew it was sweet. He liked Jodie a lot, but didn’t want to say it out loud because then she’d know and he would turn into a gibbering wreck.

  “Right, who’s who, then?” he said as the pause in the conversation was getting too long and he couldn’t hold his ‘quit while you’re ahead’ eyebrows forever.

  “You’re me, and I’m my dad. Oh wait, there’s something I forgot.”

  Jodie ran into the hallway and got her rucksack, taking out the chess timer.

  “How many moves does it normally take you to win?”

  “Erm, I’d say about twenty-five to thirty, maybe forty if white gets ultra-defensive.” Kyle was guessing, but as he’d been trying for a week or so now, he was not far off.

  “I agree. Let’s say thirty moves each, then, and ten seconds a move. That’s five minutes each on the timer.”

  Jodie was good at maths; Kyle had not even started to work it out by the time the chess clock was set.

  “Black and white at five minutes each, a ten-minute game. If your time runs out, you lose. Blitz chess rules, OK?”

  She had her serious head on. She could hear the clown repeating the words over and over in her head.

  “Time and pressure. It’s all about time and pressure.”

  “Ten seconds a move? Jodie, are you sure? That’s not long, especially in the pickle you’re in.” Kyle laughed, wondering how he’d been talked into this. If this was Jodie’s masterplan, her dream must have been a nightmare.

  “You’re right, Kyle, what was I thinking? Let’s go with five seconds a move, two minutes and thirty seconds each, five-minute game. Don’t let your timer run out.”

  “OK, good luck. You’re going to need it, Jodie.”

  They sat down either side of the chessboard and stared at each other, their hands hovering over their timers ready for the first move to trigger the frenzy that was about to ensue.

  “Whose go is it again?” Kyle knew it was his turn. The question was more of a defence mechanism; an attempt to lighten the mood, which had got very edgy. This game felt like it meant more than all the other games they had attempted put together. Kyle’s palms were sweating.

  Jodie wasn’t going to give him a way out. The clown was speaking in her head again.

  “He’s under pressure already. Don’t let him off the hook.”

  Her eyes were glued to the chessboard. She was like a cobra coiled in a basket, ready to strike.

  Kyle had not seen Jodie like this before. It was like she was in a trance; nothing mattered other than this game. This made Kyle sweat even more, but it was his go and this was going to be a mad five minutes. He must play it correctly for Jodie’s sake. There were to be no favours; he must play to win, and if he did win, so be it. But that was the thing – the word ‘if’. Every other game he’d known he would win. That ‘if’ was planting doubt in his mind even before they had started.

  “OK, here we go, Jodie.” Kyle made his first move and immediately plunged the timing paddle to Jodie’s side. The digital display showed two minutes thirty seconds; her timer had started recording history. Jodie responded with only two seconds lost; Kyle did likewise.

  It was frantic, an adrenaline pumping game of fight or flight, not like a normal chess game. No studying, no strategies; they were enemies playing on the edge. Playing by instinct.

  But Jodie had a masterplan and was calmly putting it into action. She was making big sacrifices – rooks and knights were being offered up as lambs. Kyle was winning; he could taste blood. His attacking became more and more erratic, and he was accepting the gifts that Jodie appeared to be bestowing upon him. Why wouldn’t he? He had no time to ask her why she was throwing the game; they were on the clock, the paddle was bouncing from player to player, and the time was evaporating with each turn.

  His chess pieces were circling around Jodie’s like a school of hungry sharks that were taking turns to go in for the kill, Distracted by this, Kyle didn’t notice that one solitary white pawn was making its way up the board, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Jodie’s masterplan was working. Kyle could have taken the pawn numerous times, but he was on the main course now. He had no time for starters and hors d’oeuvres.

  Jodie was ahead on the clock. She was taking no time at all over her moves, setting trap after trap as her own pieces fell down, and fall down they did. She had a knight, a bishop and a rook of her main pieces left; her queen had just fallen, slain by Kyle’s rook. Jodie could have saved her queen a little longer, but instead she managed to get her pawn one more step up the board, and it was the queen that made this possible. She was in on the plan. She died with dignity, trying not to look up at the pawn and give the game away.

  Ahead, the lone pawn could now see the opposing king. The black king, with all the excitement ahead of him, was looking exposed. All of his loyal protectors had been drawn into the feeding frenzy at the opposite end of the board.

  Kyle’s timer was down to seventeen seconds and Jodie still had twenty-three to play with. Jodie knew Kyle’s next choice was pivotal; the game could now go either way. The black knight had a choice of placing Jodie’s king into check, which would more or less be game over, or making sure by diving into the corner and taking the white rook to humiliate the white kingdom and win in style. Jodie was hoping for the latter as she moved her pawn one more step forward – one away from a confrontation with the black king. Kyle was running out of time and this brought pressure on him to end the game. He knew that taking the rook in the corner would make the white king easier to pin down. He did not care about the pawn’s crusade against his king; he opted to take the rook and pressed the paddle down with his timer on twelve seconds. This left him three moves from victory.

  Jodie moved her bishop through the gap left by the knight to the right-hand side of the board, a move that looked like a desperate attempt to save him from impending doom. It was as if the bishop was deserting his white king in his hour of need. Kyle, with twelve seconds on the clock and two moves from victory, knew the pressure was off. He looked at Jodie. She had so nearly done it. He took the first move and pressed the timer with five seconds left to play. One move from victory.

  Jodie smiled back at Kyle. Ten…nine…eight – her timer seemed to be in slow motion.

  “There is always a way, Kyle. When someone has got nowhere to run, it’s better to go down fighting, no matter how futile the fight.”

  She moved her pawn slowly forward so it was diagonally opposite the king. The pawn looked dwarfed by the black king, and the king looked down as though a little kid was tugging at his coat tails. But the pawn was being protected on the diagonal by the apparently fleeing white bishop.

  Five…four…

  “Time and pressure, Kyle. Check…”

  Three…two…

  “…Mate.” She pressed the plunger with one remaining second proudly displaying.

  They both leant back from the board as if they had done twelve rounds in a boxing ring. Kyle looked over to her.

  “Jodie, what the hell has just happened? You are a genius.”

  Jodie cast a gaze back in his direction, catching her brea
th. It felt like she had not taken a breath the whole game.

  “I thought I was winning by a mile. I could pick and choose when I wanted to win, and of all things to get done by a bloody pawn.”

  “You took your eye off the ball, Kyle. You were enjoying the battle and not thinking about the war.” If Sarah had been there, she would have said that Jodie sounded just like her dad. It was as good as any Deanism she had ever heard.

  “So who gave you that tactic? You didn’t think that up all on your own.”

  Jodie smiled.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Kyle.”

  “A promise is a promise. You said…”

  She stopped him in his tracks.

  “You really want to know?”

  Kyle looked at her like a puppy dog who was about to get a treat, with his head slightly to one side and forehead furrowed.

  “OK, turn off the charm, I’ll tell you. A clown visited me in my dream and said it was all about time and pressure.”

  Jodie looked at Kyle, expecting a snide remark about her being a loony or something.

  “A clown? Next time you see him, congratulate him on some great advice.” Kyle started to reset the chessboard.

  “OK, I will. Thanks, Kyle, I really do owe you. If you ever need me, I’ll be there.”

  Jodie got home and put her bike in the garage. “I’m back, Mum,” she announced as she walked in through the kitchen.

  Her head in her hands, Sarah was sitting at the kitchen table, sobbing her heart out.

  “Mum! What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, Jodie, it’s your dad.” Sarah lifted a tear-streaked face and looked at her daughter. “He’s had an accident. Uncle Jack has just phoned – your dad’s in intensive care…”

  Chapter 23 – Dying To Get Home

  Dean was in his room. He’d given up on making sense of it all and was finishing packing his case ready for the short walk to the train station. Another weird weekend in Room 119 – would it be his last? Nothing would surprise Dean now; he had to be ready for anything.

  He closed his case and walked out, having another quick look into the room before closing the door and making his way to reception to hand in his key.

  “Bye, Mrs McCauley, have a nice week.”

  She looked over her glasses at him.

  “Not planning on returning, sir? That ‘bye’ seemed very definite.”

  Dean had a feeling that the decision to return might be out of his hands. He remembered Molly saying that he had seen too much and that nobody who had seen that much had ever been allowed back. He didn’t know where ‘back’ was, but he had a feeling it wasn’t back to Welnetham Hall. He wasn’t scared, more relieved that things were getting a little clearer and coming to a conclusion. He’d had enough cloak and dagger and just wanted to front up to whatever stood in his way.

  “Yes, it may be bye for good, Mrs McCauley. I’ve got a feeling that wherever I am going next, back here may not be written in my stars, as lovely as it is.”

  She took his key and placed it back into the hidden cupboard, which didn’t seem to be hiding as well as it used to, probably because he knew it was there.

  “Did you enjoy the wedding on Friday night, Dean? Did you meet a few old friends?” She looked over her glasses again, knowing this would strike a chord with Dean.

  “Yes, Mrs McCauley, but you knew that already, didn’t you.”

  “We are here to guide you, Dean, but you’re not making it easy. How much do you value your life, and how much are you willing to do about putting it right? How much do you care for Sarah, Jodie, and more importantly, yourself? You hit rock bottom, Dean, but we believe in you. But do you believe in yourself anymore? Well…”

  She left the sentence hanging, allowing it to drift into Dean’s subconscious before marking his leaving time and closing the hotel register.

  “Good day, Dean. I really hope I do see you again. You’ve come this far, so why get off now?”

  Dean had questions queuing up in his mind. Get off what?

  “I would love nothing more than to see Sarah and Jodie. They are my world. I would do anything for them.” He meant this. “I have been an idiot the last couple of years, taking everything for granted, looking after myself, not really acknowledging anyone in my circle, even the ones closest to me. If they still care about me, I’d be amazed, but I am going to keep trying, Mrs McCauley, I promise you that.” He looked into the centre of her eyes, letting his guard down and showing emotions that had been building up for weeks.

  “I’m glad to hear it, and quite frankly, it’s about time. I hope it’s not too late for you, Dean. Take care.”

  Mrs McCauley disappeared behind her curtain, leaving Dean with his thoughts. Not mixed-up jigsaw puzzle thoughts, just thoughts about Jodie and Sarah. When did it all go wrong? When did he become a self-centred prick?

  A tear rolled down Dean’s face. He was going to get back and put things right. Enough holidays in Welnetham Weirdo Hall; back to the real world. Was that what Molly had meant by getting back? Back to looking after those who meant the world to him? Life was not all about Dean; it was about the people around him.

  Dean stepped outside to walk to the station. The rain was just starting, and again the sky seemed to be darker than it should be – it was only 5.30pm. Dean did not do umbrellas; he would rather get wet than suffer the indignity of carrying one. He got his wish; he was getting wet.

  The wind was driving the rain into his face, and he was doing his best to shelter from it. Then out of nowhere he heard a familiar sound – click, click, click. He turned round to see the tall man in black wearing his fedora, marching on with purpose, the silver cane rhythmically beating out its tune on the pavement about fifty metres behind him. Dean sped up. Not again, he thought. He had realised the error of his ways and had a clear picture of how to fix things. It was all worked out in his mind – he knew where ‘back’ was, and he was heading in the right direction. This was the last thing he needed.

  “Give me a break,” he whispered. He didn’t want to join the others on the ferry; he didn’t want to spend the coin Molly had given to him. He sped up some more, the latest speeding up turning into a light jog.

  Dean could see the train station ahead. Although he was running, he didn’t seem to be getting any further away from his pursuer. He knew from the encounter at the fairground that the man had the ability not to lose ground without any effort; he seemed to be able to catch Dean up at will while maintaining his regular gait.

  The train was already in the station. Dean could see the station clock, and there were still fifteen minutes before the train left. Just then, the clock’s minute hand started speeding up; it was behaving like a second hand. Dean turned to look at the man, who had stopped, his bony finger extended, pointing at the clock.

  He wanted Dean to miss the train.

  Dean ran up the stairs of the station. The clock was not his friend right now; the fifteen minutes had turned into two, and they weren’t in the mood for slowing down. As he ran into the station, he turned. The cane was clicking again and the man was closer than ever, reaching the stairs Dean had just negotiated.

  Dean elected not to get into the first carriage as the man would catch him there. He saw the guard in the doorway of the last carriage, beckoning him to go that way. Dean was running awkwardly, his bag weighing him down on one side. The platform clock was under the same spell as the one outside the station, the minute hand visibly moving between 5.59 and 6pm.

  The guard looked at the clock and shrugged. He blew a loud shriek on his whistle – rules are rules. But these did not seem like station rules; these were the rules of life and death.

  Dean threw his case onto the platform as it was slowing him down too much. It burst open, his clothes going everywhere. He was close to the door now; he sprinted with all he had and the guard helped him in. The door closed and the train started to move out of the platform.

  Dean, soaking wet, leaned agains
t the train door in the corridor, panting heavily. The guard was looking at his watch.

  “That was a close one, Dean, but you’re not out of the woods yet.”

  Five carriages away, a tall man had got on and was slowly walking towards them.

  Dean was still out of breath. “What now?” he managed to say in between gulping for air.

  Further down the train, the man was passing carriage four.

  The guard put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “He has to know you’re worth sending back, and you’ve seen so much.”

  “What more can I show him? I’m spent.”

  The guard looked at Dean.

  “We can only guide you, Dean, but if you’re spent and ready to go, you’re as good as dead already.”

  “Dead? Am I dead?”

  The guard put both hands on Dean’s shoulders and peered into his eyes.

  “You don’t look dead to me, Dean, but you are about to meet up with your destiny. You’ll know soon, right enough. How much do you want to be not dead? Have you done enough to convince him? That is the question.”

  The man, complete with hat and stick, was now three carriages away. He wasn’t in a rush. Dean had nowhere to go, and the man knew it.

  “Listen, the last couple of years I’ve sort of lost my way. I want to put things right. I would do anything for Sarah and Jodie; I just want a chance to prove it.”

  The guard took his watch out of his pocket.

  “Excuse me, Dean, I have a train to run.”

  The rain was still beating down. All Dean could see through the windows were rain droplets obscuring the view. It was a miserable day to die.

  The man in black was opening the door to his part of the corridor. This was the end. The man stood at one end of the corridor with Dean in a wet crumpled heap at the other. Dean stood up proudly and faced his nemesis, like they were two gunslingers ready to do battle. If it was the end, there was going to be some dignity about it. Dean wasn’t going to cower in the corner; that’s not the way he was made.

  The train started to slow, and the guard made his way to the door and lowered the window. The tall figure came towards Dean. Dean stood, chest puffed out ready for whatever was next.