by Adam Millard
Jack didn’t hate his job. He made good money delivering slot- and arcade-machines to amusement centres across the country. He had a great pension, and was only five years shy of cashing it in. You could say what you like about the gaming industry, but over the years it had treated Jack Beeton just fine.
He took a drag on his cigarette—which was down to his thumb and forefinger now—and flicked it out through the half-open window. In his side-mirror he saw the sparks as the roll-up bounced along the motorway before disappearing forever.
On the radio, Rod Stewart sang about sailing, and Jack sang along with Rod, because Rod knew what he was talking about.
The dim green clock on the dashboard told Jack it was almost three a.m., and the sign a little over a mile back had informed him that he was less than fifty miles from Hemsby. He was making great time indeed; at this rate, he would have rubbed out his wank by five, be fast asleep by ten past. He knew Scottie’s Arcade well, had been delivering machines to the guy for almost two decades, and Scottie always left the yard open so that Jack could drop off the machines and disappear. It was an arrangement which suited them both fine. Jack could get away, either park up in a layby for a few Z’s or head back to the depot, and Scottie could sleep in till late and not have to get up at a godforsaken hour in the morning to unbolt the back gate.
Win-win.
Jack liked Scottie, too. He was, as Jack’s own dad used to say, a solid geezer. Drank a helluva lot, no matter what time of day it was, but Jack couldn’t blame him for that. Hanging around an arcade filled with spotty, greasy haired kids all fucking day, a guy needed something extra to get him through.
Rod Stewart gave way to Roy Orbison, and once again Jack sang along, this time with gusto, for it was a song about driving all night, and if Jack knew anything about anything, he knew about careening through the night in an articulated lorry, dreaming while he drove the long straight road ahead, huh huh…
He was so busy singing that he didn’t see the car behind, frantically flashing its lights, and even if he had done, there was no way he would have stopped, not out here, not at this time of night. Too many of his friends had fallen for that one. You pull over to the side of the road, and before you know it you’ve got a knife against your throat and five arseholes are unloading you.
But that was fine, because Jack hadn’t seen the frantic flasher up his rear. He didn’t see the sonofabitch in the souped-up Ford Fiesta until it bolted past on Jack’s left at eighty, then pulled directly in front of the artic, hazard lights blazing, slowing down to seventy, then sixty, then…
“What the fuck ya doin’, ya prick?” Jack said. If it came to it, he had a wrench down by his feet—a big wrench it was, too—and he was pretty sure any officer of the law would believe him when he claimed self-defence. He tried to rob my load, officer! What the fuck was I s’pose to do?
Jack slammed his hand down on the steering-wheel, and the horn beeped unbroken for a few seconds. It made no difference whatsoever. The car in front continued to dawdle. On the fucking motorway! Jack was about to hit the horn again when a hand emerged from the driver’s side window of the Fiesta, signaling Jack to pull onto the hard shoulder.
“Wha—fucking not a chance, ya prick!” From what he could see there was only one person in the car—the driver—and Jack was almost certain he could handle one lunatic with his giant wrench, but still…
Jack shifted slowly over into the slow lane; he half-expected the Fiesta to follow suit, so when it casually dropped back, level with the artic, Jack was even more confused. He glowered out through the half-open window, trying to look as menacing as he possibly could. He couldn’t outrun this twat, not in his articulated lorry. If this prick wanted trouble—was determined to get some—then Jack would have no choice but to oblige.
That was when Jack saw the driver of the Fiesta, and immediately relaxed. It wasn’t a burly hijacker, after all, but a small black woman. She was hunched over the steering-wheel, hands at a perfect ten-to-two, as if she was on her way to some late-night church.
All of a sudden Jack felt silly. To think he had almost reached for the wrench.
In the Fiesta alongside him, the woman continued to motion to the hard shoulder, her hands returning to the steering-wheel after every panicked gesture, lest she crash into the central reservation.
Fuck it, Jack thought. Something was clearly wrong; this woman was desperate to get him to stop. Maybe there was something wrong with her car, something which required immediate attention, something she had no idea how to fix. But Jack looked like he knew a thing or two about vehicles and the maintenance thereof. Yeah, that’s what she needed. A man’s touch…
Steering the artic over to the hard shoulder—the rattle of road markings beneath the tyres almost shook his fillings loose—Jack slowed the truck to twenty, then ten, and was unsurprised when the Fiesta fell in behind. Apart from the two vehicles, the motorway was silent and deserted. Too early in the morning for commuters, too late for those heading home from parties or the night-shift.
Just the two of us, Jack thought, and despite the seemingly innocuous appearance of the woman in the Fiesta, a shiver ran the length of his spine. With the truck now stopped and rumbling like an anxious tiger, Jack wound the window up, rolled a cigarette—keeping an eye on the Fiesta in his wing-mirror, in case the woman got out—swung the door open and climbed down from the truck.
As if she had been waiting to size up Jack (a non-threatening five-foot-two) before making her move, the woman eased the driver’s door open and stepped from the car.
“What the hell was all that about?” Jack said, walking the length of his artic. He’d left the wrench in the foot-well of his cab, thinking he didn’t need it. Now, standing there on the hard shoulder with no other cars around and only the growl of his own idling engine for company, he wished he hadn’t been so naïve.
If the woman was intimidated, she didn’t show it. Instead, she motioned to the rear of Jack’s truck and said, “One of your doors is open. I saw it swinging back there and tried to get your attention.” She had a slight Jamaican lilt, the kind which suggested she had perhaps been born in the Caribbean, but hadn’t been back for many years.
Jack reached the back of his truck and checked the doors. Sure enough, the one on the left had somehow unbolted itself; it creaked open as soon as Jack touched it.
“Fuck!” Jack said, turning to face the woman, who was now nodding and smiling. “I thought you were trying to steal my cargo. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” said the woman. “I just didn’t want you to shed your load. You came close a few times back there.” She moved toward the back of the truck, its one door revealing only a little of its contents. “What have you got in there anyway? Fruit machines?”
Jack, now fully relaxed knowing he wasn’t facing a fight to the death for both his life and load, smiled, unbolted, and eased open the other door. “Arcade machines,” he said. “You know? Games for the amusements arcades?”
The woman seemed to know what he was talking about. “Like Tetris?” she said. “My son was a big Tetris fan back in the day.”
“Yeah?” Jack said. “These days, games are a little more violent. I mean, look at these?” He pointed at the five remaining machines, his final delivery of the night destined for Scottie’s Arcade. “Tekken 7? I think that’s a fighting one, and I know those Resident Evil ones are zombie games.” He pointed to the machine with the red and white vinyl umbrella sticker on its side. It’s all about violence with kids these days.”
“Pity,” said the woman, somehow managing to suck her teeth at the exact same time. It was a skill not lost on Jack. “That one there doesn’t look like the others.” She pointed toward the machine in the centre of the five.
Jack stared up at it. “No, it doesn’t, does it?” he said. It was getting cold standing there on the hard shoulder. “I don’t even know what that one is… how do you even… pronounce that?” The machine was bereft of stickers and imagery
, other than the title decals above the screen.
Gēmuōbā
“Don’t ask me,” said the woman. “I don’t even know what language that is.”
“It sure is a strange one. Usually the manufacturers like to plaster these things in big-titted… I mean, big-breasted women. Draws the kids in.”
“I’m sure it does,” said the woman, now looking slightly offended. Jack wondered if it was too late to make a grab for his wrench.
“But that one—Jemewoba?—nothing…”
They stood there in silence for a few seconds before the woman visibly shuddered. Overhead, a plane roared across the sky.
Jack slammed the doors to the lorry and secured them, checking and double-checking they were fastened properly. “Look, thanks for stopping me,” he said to the woman as he walked her back to her car. Fuck, am I escorting her to her vehicle? When did I become such a gent? “Boss would have had my guts for garters if I’d lost those machines.”
“You’re very welcome,” said the woman. She pulled open the driver’s door and dropped into the seat. Jack thanked her once again before slamming the door shut. A minute later, she was pulling back onto the motorway, and Jack was waving at her and smiling as if he’d just shared a moment with a long lost friend.
Two minutes later, the artic was hurtling along the road once again, but Jack couldn’t shake the strange feeling he’d got from that odd machine. Gēmuōbā? What did that even mean?
He kept the window up for the remainder of his journey, and still he spent it shivering and biting the inside of his cheeks.
SEVEN
Scottie wakened to a world of pain, something he hadn’t done for many years. The drinks had kept on coming, oblivion seemingly just out of reach for the majority of the night, and then… well, here he was, stretched across his armchair, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, his head threatening to open up and spill out onto the cigarette- and booze-stained carpet at his feet. For a few moments he could barely move, or even open his eyes. He saw the room as though it was underwater through slits no bigger than stab-wounds, and even that hurt. He thought back to anything he might have done last night that could have caused offence, but he was clutching at straws. He wouldn’t know the extent of his debauchery until the next time he set foot in The Lacon Arms, if he hadn’t, of course, somehow been barred.
After ten minutes, he staggered to his feet and drew some water from the sink at the opposite end of the room. He gulped it thirstily down before leaning in to splash some on his face. The ice-cold sting felt surprisingly good. He drew a second glass of water, knocked back a trio of painkillers, and waited for the magic to happen.
On the TV—a tiny twelve-inch which picked up three channels on a good day; two on every other day—the weathergirl promised a bright and sunny day, with highs of twenty-four and a pollen-count of eight. Scottie didn’t give a shit about the pollen-count (people living next to the shore seldom did) but he was pleased to hear about the unbroken sunshine.
With sunshine came new families, weekend heat-seekers, parents with cash on the hip and kids who couldn’t say no to a few flashing lights and a series of high-pitched beeps masquerading as music.
It was going to be a beautiful day in Hemsby.
Let’s just hope this migraine fucks off…
*
The migraine did in fact diminish around an hour later and, following three of the strongest cups of coffee he had ever made, Scottie got changed and made his way into the yard to bring in the new machines. He immediately knew something was wrong when he saw five games standing there at the back of the yard, instead of the agreed upon four.
Shit, was I supposed to send back five? It wasn’t a major problem, but it was hassle he could do without. Later, upon checking the paperwork, he would see that the mistake was not his own, but the distributor. The note clearly stated four machines in, four machines out.
So where had the fifth machine come from?
It was somebody’s mistake—Scottie was just glad it wasn’t his—but there was nothing he could do about it now, or until Jack returned next month.
After one more intense coffee, Scottie brought in the four machines he’d been allocated according to the paperwork, marking them off as he went. The fifth machine—an odd looking thing inasmuch as it had no redeeming features to speak of—stood there in the yard, the ginger stepchild of the arcade world. He would cover it over with a tarp later, or drag it into his own room just to keep it from getting weather-damaged, but that could wait. No rain had been forecast for the coming week; there was no rush.
Back in the arcade, Scottie filled the gumball machines, restocked the grabber machines with cheap toys and Japanese knock-offs, skimmed the first three rows of two pence pieces from the tipping-point machines, and filled up the change-machines with pound coins.
Outside the sun was already beating down; Scottie thought the weathergirl might have underestimated the temperature for the day. It was already pushing twenty, and it wasn’t even nine o’clock. Scottie had never held much faith in the Met Office, ever since the great storm of 1997, in which at least three patio deckchairs were blown over and some idiot on a skateboard skinned his knee over by the pier.
After a cigarette, Scottie set about powering up the machines. He made his way around the arcade, switching each game on at the socket, and everything was going fantastically well until one of the new machines—a video-poker game called Mr Gamez’ Vegas Casino—failed to make it past the boot stage.
“Come on you bastard,” Scottie said, willing the green screen with its white gibberish text to shift to something more promising, but a minute passed, and then another, and Scottie knew he was wasting his time. “Great,” he muttered. “Just fucking wonderful.” Now he would have to call the distributor to let them know he was the proud owner of a useless piece of shit and that it was taking up fundamental space on his arcade floor, place better suited to something that worked, something—
Staring at the resolute green screen of the broken machine, Scottie had what could only be described as a Eureka! moment. Outside, sitting in the yard, was a spare machine. And then he had another thought: perhaps the distributor had sent that fifth game along because they knew there would be a potential problem with the video-poker machine. Maybe it was hit-and-miss whether the game made it past the boot screen. And instead of risking it, they were supplying amusement centres with a spare.
Just in case.
It made sense, strangely, and it certainly made enough sense for Scottie to settle upon a plan of action. “Sorry, Mr Gamez’ Vegas Casino,” he said, pulling the plug. He watched as the green screen shrank down to a white dot, which in turn faded away completely. “Looks like you’re the yard-sitter for the foreseeable future.” He began to wheel the machine away, still talking to it as if it were a living thing; a sentient being. “No, it’s no good looking at me like that. You should have put the work in when I connected you up. You’ve got to meet me halfway on this, and you blew your chance.” He was rambling, but it helped make the work lighter somehow.
Outside, Scottie frowned as he inspected the replacement machine.
Gēmuōbā
Never heard of it, Scottie thought, though he was sure some of the kids would have, and he was positive Jamie would not only have heard of it, but already mastered it. It certainly looked old enough to be a classic.
He wheeled Gēmuōbā in and pushed it into the space recently departed by a busted video-poker machine. After plugging it in, he took a step back and watched as the load screen appeared.
“What in the…” Scottie said, mesmerised by the strange dancing triangles on the screen. There were five of them in total, and around and around they went, spinning and shrinking, growing and changing colour. Blue to green to red to purple, it hurt Scottie’s eyes just looking at it. The pressure just below his right eye returned, and he blinked away the pain, made a promise to himself that he would take three more pills before opening up for the day.
A loading bar appeared beneath the pentagram and began to fill up with black. The digits next to it worked their way up. 5%... 12%... 27%. Scottie didn’t know why, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. Inside his chest, his heart rattled around as if it had come loose. And was that sweat dripping down his back? He’d certainly drunk a helluva lot last night, but surely not enough to give him the sweats.
When the loading bar was full, and the percentage reached a hundred, the pentagram faded away leaving nothing but a blood-red screen. For the longest time Scottie didn’t think anything else was going to happen, that this machine was as screwy as Mr Gamez’ Vegas Casino, and part of him wished it was. For some reason, standing there staring at that crimson screen, heart rapidly beating and tee-shirt sticking to his torso, he couldn’t help feeling that this was some sort of sick prank. That the developers of this game were nothing more than a bunch of heavy-metal-listening college students out to make a name for themselves.
But that made no sense.
And a second later, as if to prove him wrong entirely, the blood-red screen changed to something a little less menacing—forest green, Scottie thought it was called—and a menu appeared.
“Okaaaaay,” he said, peeling the clingy tee-shirt away from his body. He ran his eyes over the main menu; all the usual options were there (Start Game, How to Play, Options, High Scores, Credits) but there was only one he wanted to take a look at. He reached down, took the joystick in his clammy hand, and nudged it down once until the word HOW TO PLAY was highlighted.