by Kim Slater
Maryam winks at me over Mrs Adams’s shoulder.
Mrs Adams’s eyes widen and she gives me a short nod. ‘Point taken, Finlay.’
I win the next game easily enough. My opponent is a seventeen-year-old boy from Aberdeen, called Christopher.
‘I’ve got a bad cold,’ he says when he gets up from the table after my win. ‘Let’s see how good you are next year if you have a bad week.’
I think about a couple of days ago, when Alex’s dad was trying his best to throttle me in that den. Not exactly what I’d class as a good week.
The steward points me to the next table where a petite girl with long black hair and almond-shaped eyes sits, stroking a doll’s hair. I offer my hand but she doesn’t look up; she’s totally focused on the doll. It’s quite unnerving.
Just before we start, she looks up and narrows her eyes. ‘You can’t beat us. You can’t beat us,’ she hisses, and places the doll on her knee so its glassy eyes seem to be watching me.
And then she carries on playing as normal, apart from asking the doll’s advice on various turns. We’re at fairly level pegging throughout and then I manage to pull forward at the end, playing J-E-L-L-Y on a double-word square, netting me a cool thirty points.
When we both stand up and shake hands, I can’t resist patting the doll on its head.
She snatches it away from me and stalks off.
‘She’s freaked out most of her opponents today with that doll.’ Mrs Adams frowns, watching her walk away. ‘I shall be putting in a formal complaint about her tactics.’
Maryam grins. ‘Congratulations, Finlay. The final is yours for the taking. Two great wordsmiths, with the only difference being in here.’ She taps her head. ‘This is where you will win.’
‘Proud of you, lad.’ Dad grabs me in an awkward bear hug. His voice cracks but we both pretend not to notice.
The steward walks over, pen poised over his clipboard. ‘Finlay McIntosh from Carlton Comprehensive, Nottingham?’
I nod.
‘Congratulations, you made the final. Follow me, please.’ I follow him up to the top of the hall, where a game table has been set up, apart from the others. ‘Take your seat. The other player is just in the bathroom.’
The board, with its familiar colours and a layout I could sketch from memory, lies flat and blank before me. I wish I had my tile bag, just so I could feel Mum is with me and in some way, spurring me on.
I look up to see where Dad, Maryam and Mrs Adams are sitting and dozens of pairs of eyes meet mine. People are crowding around to watch. My breathing is getting heavier, like I’m doing physical exercise. But of course I’m just sitting, waiting for the biggest chance I ever had in my life to happen.
I spot movement at the hall doors, a small group of people pushing through and walking over to the finals table. And then I see him, head and shoulders above his friends and gliding towards me like a young king.
‘Your opponent,’ the steward announces. ‘Amos Best.’
‘The current champion,’ Amos whispers as he shakes my hand and smiles for someone taking a photograph. ‘But I’m in a good mood, so I’ll try not to humiliate you too badly.’
The ancient-looking man stands up shakily and walks to the front of our table. ‘I’m very proud to announce the start of this year’s final, between –’ he peers at a piece of paper in his quivering hand – ‘Amos Best on the left of the table, aged eighteen, from Kent, and our current reigning champion. And on the right, Finlay McIntosh, aged fourteen, from Nottingham.’
The crowd applaud us and Amos takes his chance to lean forward. ‘Tell me, little boy, has your voice broken yet, or does your stammer prevent it?’ I hold out my hand to shake his and he grasps it so hard, my eyes sting. ‘You can’t even speak, so I doubt you can win,’ he says between bared teeth that looks like a smile to everyone else.
I look at his greased-back hair, his immaculate clothes, his handsome face and I think: I can win. Because you don’t know what I know. He doesn’t know about struggle and pain and loss. He doesn’t know how it feels to get through a day that feels like it’s a month long.
To Amos Best, this is just a game.
To me, it is my whole life.
ANAGRAM TRAINING CAN REALLY IMPROVE A PLAYER’S GAME.
Amos draws first turn. I can tell from the gleeful look on his face that the letters he’s picked must be truly spectacular. He barely hesitates, laying out the entire seven letters of his rack across the middle of the board. As he lays down his last letter and moves his hand, the word hits me like an uppercut to the chin.
S-T-A-M-M-E-R
I hear Maryam gasp and when I look over, Dad’s face is dark and grim.
‘Bingo!’ he hisses.
Placing an M on a double-letter square and using all seven letters with its fifty-point bonus wins Amos a score of seventy-eight points.
I close my eyes for a second, removing Dad’s face and Maryam’s shock. Focus, focus, focus is all that counts. I can only win by playing as if nothing else exists.
‘Your turn,’ Amos says, plunging his hand into the tile bag.
I tag an S on the end of Amos’s word and place S-T-U-C-K vertically down the edge of the board. It scores sixteen but I’ve included a triple-word square, so that multiplies my score up to forty-eight.
It’s a left hook to his head. I catch Amos’s smirk waver just a touch, before he comes back with P-U-C-K, using my K and pulling in a double-word square to score a very respectable twenty-four points.
And so it goes. The game is moving swiftly and I soon realize that Amos is forming better, more complicated words than I am. For the next few turns, each word he plays brings over twelve points, landing big blows to my head in our virtual boxing match.
But I know from watching boxing with Dad when I was younger that it is rarely the best strategy to chase the knockout punch. Most matches are won by constant well-placed blows to the body. They might not look as fancy or as dramatic, but their effects can be devastating.
‘Running out of ideas?’ Amos grins as he waits for me to play. ‘I’ve already cleared a space on my trophy shelf at home. Don’t prolong your agony, old chap.’
I select a letter and push it to the end of my rack with the other two that are already sitting there, purposely unused.
Then I play V-A-P-E, which earns me a respectable thirteen points using a double-letter square, but more importantly moves the game towards the left-hand side of the board.
Now Amos’s words are looking less spectacular. He plays G-A-T-E, T-O-R-N and C-A-S-T up at the top of the board. I keep my play focused down at the bottom of the board, easing the tentacles of words over to the left-hand side.
With five minutes to go, the score is 260–473 to Amos.
He seems to be running out of options now but, confident with his comfortable lead, he continues to smirk throughout my play. I just pray he doesn’t meddle with my set-up at the bottom of the board and nearly sigh with relief when he plays his next word at the top right of the board.
I’m aware of murmurs in the crowd, sure that the winner is clear.
Amos stops his clock and finally, the moment comes. It’s my turn and I’m ready.
Everything is in place.
As I watch the red digits of the clock clicking through the seconds, I think about Maryam’s Scrabble-board life-lesson. About the opportunities that lie among the everyday squares. A way to transform the ordinary into something special and, sometimes, into something that is truly amazing.
‘Giving up, are we?’ Amos says, leaning forward. ‘I almost feel sorry that I’ve exposed your lack of skill so easily to the crowd.’
I hear him but the words don’t mean anything. Nothing means anything but the picture I have in my head of Mum’s face, reading the newspaper and seeing me. Running out of the house to find me.
My thoughts are interrupted by Amos sniggering. I follow his eyes to the clock which is telling me there is one minute left to play. I snap back to the
game and select the letters I have been saving for this, my knockout punch to end the game.
Q-U-E-E-R-E-S-T
There is a collective gasp from the crowd and Amos’s face turns long and pale.
Using the E of one of Amos’s words, I stretch the word out from the bottom-left red triple-word square on the board to the middle triple-word square on the bottom row.
I look Amos directly in the eye.
‘T-two hu-hundred and t-twelve p-points,’ I say, jabbing my finger at Amos’s first word in the centre of the board. ‘Not a b-bad end to say w-we st-started with a st-stammer.’
THE IDEAL LETTER RACK CONSISTS OF SLIGHTLY MORE CONSONANTS THAN VOWELS.
I lose the game by one point to Amos. Dad is crying. I mean, properly crying. The tears are rolling down his face and he doesn’t care who sees them. I look at him and I see his love for me, even though I lost.
‘I’m so proud of you, son.’ He pulls me into a hug.
‘Th-thanks for c-coming, Dad,’ I say.
Mrs Adams is scurrying around, trying to organize photographs of me with the other school Scrabble club members who came along to watch. When my dad finally lets me go she gives me an awkward squeeze. ‘You were brilliant, Finlay,’ she says.
‘Th-thanks for b-b—’ I take a deep breath,
Mrs Adams waits.
‘Th-thanks for b-believing in m-me,’ I say, finally.
‘You did it all, Finlay,’ she says. ‘It’s your achievement.’
‘I l-lost.’
‘By one point,’ Maryam says from behind me. ‘Your first time in a national championship and you lost by one point to the existing champion. I would certainly call that an achievement, Finlay.’
But the whole point of entering, so Mum would see me in the papers, see how brilliant I was and be desperate to come back, is over. I’m surrounded by piles of dead ends and false leads.
I look up as a microphone crackles into life. ‘Please welcome Birmingham’s Lord Mayor, who will now make the winner’s presentation.’
The crowd erupts into applause and someone pushes me forward, back to the front of the hall. Amos stands next to the Lord Mayor, waving to the crowd, his face beaming.
‘This way, Finlay,’ someone calls and I see a photographer snapping away. On his camera is a sticker saying The Birmingham Star.
My heart swells. I wonder if there’s still a chance Mum might see me after all.
After the photographs, Dad’s strong arm grips mine and guides me away from the crowd.
Despite his new clothes and sprucing himself up, I can still smell the faint tang of creosote on his skin. People are calling me back.
‘He needs a minute,’ Dad replies, keeping me moving. ‘Give him five.’
Dad leads me out of the hall and into a small side room. My ears are ringing with the empty quiet of it. ‘I’ve got something to tell you, lad,’ he says, motioning for me to sit down. ‘The police have arrested Alex’s dad, Trevor King.’ Dad shakes his head and sighs. ‘It’s over, son. He won’t cause us any more hassle now.’
But it’s not over really. Not until we find Mum. I feel like an old balloon, after all the air has leaked out. ‘C-can we g-go home n-now?’ I ask, trying to process what Dad’s just told me.
‘Soon, lad, soon. There’s someone that you need to speak to first. Somebody I spoke to earlier.’
I remember how Dad stepped away from the hall this morning, deep in conversation on his phone. I groan and slump down further in my chair. I feel like this ordeal is never going to end.
Silence shrouds the room. Neither of us speaks.
Finally, I look up.
Dad is holding out his phone to me. I take it from him and hold it to my ear.
‘Hello, Finlay,’ a voice whispers.
SOMEWHERE IN THE WORLD THERE ARE OVER A MILLION MISSING SCRABBLE TILES.
All those times I’ve dreamed about finding Mum, hugging her and talking to her, now the moment has arrived, I just stand up and gape, too frightened to utter a word in case she disappears again.
‘You were right, Finlay,’ Dad says. ‘Your mum has been living in Walsall.’
He gently removes the phone from my shaking hand and puts it on to loudspeaker.
Nothing fits together in my head, nothing makes sense at all. I feel like I’m watching everything from a distance, like I’m completely separate from myself.
I’ve got so much to say. I can’t remember any of it.
‘Finlay?’ Mum whispers again, this time more urgent.
I don’t think I can do it. I just don’t know if I can. I take a big breath but nothing happens. The words I need to say are stuck to my tongue, my throat and the inside of my cheeks. They’re clinging to me, desperate to stay inside.
But I have something to say. Something that’s really important.
I take a deep breath.
‘I-I’ve m-m-m—’
Another breath.
‘I-I’ve m-missed you, M-Mum.’
I hear Mum sob.
I feel such a fool, sounding like a damaged soundtrack, but it’s a soundtrack that I’m going to play, however long it takes.
‘H-h-h—’
‘Take your time, son,’ Dad says, squeezing my arm.
Big breath.
‘H-how-did-you-know –’
But I can’t push any more words out.
‘I picked up your dad’s letter yesterday.’ Mum’s voice cracks. ‘The police had already been in touch with the Post Office. The staff kept me there until they arrived. I’m so glad they did. If they’d tried to explain . . .’ she trails off, holding back a sob.
I take a big breath and force out the words. ‘Why-did-you-leave-without-saying-g-goodbye?’
There is silence on the end of the line. Dad closes his eyes.
I hear Mum take a deep breath. ‘I would like to explain to you face to face, not now, not like this . . .’
‘M-Mum,’ I say firmly. ‘I n-need to kn-know. N-now.’
There is a long pause. When she starts talking, her voice sounds small and scared. ‘Sometimes, when you feel like the whole world is against you, it’s easier to crawl away into the shadows than face up to what you’ve done,’ Mum says, her voice shaking. ‘I was so . . . ashamed.’ The last word is a whisper.
Dad grabs my hand and grips it tight.
‘I made a stupid, stupid mistake,’ Mum whispers. ‘I got myself involved with Trevor . . . Trevor King. Me and your dad, we – well, we were having some problems. But I did wrong, Finlay. It was my fault.’
I look at Dad. He still has his eyes closed.
‘Y-you h-had an aff-affair?’
‘I’m so sorry to say it . . . but I did. When I found out he was nothing but a cheating crook, I was going to turn him in to the police, but he threatened to tell you and your dad about what had happened between us . . .’
I’m desperately trying to fit the pieces together in my head about why she left, but it’s still not working. I know she told Dad about the affair anyway.
‘There’s something else,’ Mum says. I can almost feel the willpower she’s using to force herself to get these words out. ‘Something I just couldn’t find the words to tell you both, back then.’ She takes a shaky breath. ‘I was pregnant. I knew if King found out he would never leave me alone, never leave us alone.’
‘W-was it K-K-King’s b-baby?’ I choke.
Her silence is her answer.
I don’t know what to say. I can’t speak. Even though I can still hear the buzz of people talking in the big hall, it feels so lonely here, just me and Dad and a phone.
‘I was so scared for you . . . your dad and the baby. I thought I was saving us all. I thought it would just be for a few weeks or so. I thought I would find the courage to come back. I realize now I was just running away. I was a coward.’
‘You could’ve told me, Christa,’ Dad’s words sound strangled. ‘I would have protected us all, you know that.’
There’s a beat o
f silence and then Mum answers. ‘King was a monster. I was terrified . . . And I believed him when he said he had a local copper on his payroll.’ Her voice sounds frail and small. ‘I even drove to the police station, do you know that? I walked in and said I wanted to make a statement. This policeman behind the counter, he looked at me funny. He walked into the back of the office and picked up the phone, staring at me the whole time. I couldn’t risk it. If he’d have hurt either of you . . .’
I feel numb. But there are still things I need to know.
‘Y-you hid the m-memory card so w-well, M-Mum – d-did you w-want us to f-find it?’
She says nothing, listening to me struggle with my words as if the struggle is hers. I can almost hear her biting back the tears.
‘I hoped you’d never find it,’ Mum says eventually. ‘It was an insurance policy, in case King ever came after you or your dad. The copy of the original database was something I had over him . . . just in case . . . but he was never supposed to find out I had it. So I hid it where he would never look. You were never meant to find it.’ Mum is quiet for a moment. ‘I wanted to get back in touch, I need you both to know that. I never thought . . .’ She starts crying, softly. ‘The baby . . . he’s eighteen months old now. His name is Miller.’
Dad and I stand side by side. Neither of us speaks, we just look at each other, taking her words all in, like we might only have these few precious minutes with her.
‘Christa,’ Dad says softly. ‘We need to talk.’
‘I’m on my way, the second I put down the phone,’ she says. ‘We’ll see you both tonight . . . if that’s OK with you?’
‘Just hang tight for now,’ Dad says softly. ‘I’ll call you later, OK?’
‘OK,’ whispers Mum, swallowing a sob. ‘I’ll be waiting.’
‘M-Mum?’ I cry out before Dad ends the call. ‘I j-just w-wanted to s-say I’m s-sorry I d-didn’t win the ch-champ-ion-sh-ships. I w-wanted to m-make you pr-proud of me. Every-th-thing w-was g-going to pl-plan and th-then –’
‘Finlay,’ Mum whispers, her voice cracking. ‘There is nothing you could do to make me more proud of you than I already am. I love you with all my heart, whether you come first or last.’