Games Makers: A London Satire

by Andrew Calcutt

It occurs to Tony that maybe he should ignore Dinky altogether. Pretend what was said never was. If ever it’s mentioned again, simply declare that ‘the lad’s making it up’. On the other hand, he can already taste the possibility; and it’s starting to kick in like coffee on an empty stomach.

  No coat, no bag, no need to go back into the meeting.

  He picks up the low-key sound of half-hearted applause (so farewell then, Ms Tupelo) as he exits the building, punching in Dinky’s number en route.

  Dinky picks up but doesn’t say anything. His silence puts Tony on the back foot. He might have played the next scene with the hint of a Southern drawl, slow and deliberate. Instead, Tony finds himself dithering like Charles Hawtree:

  ‘Dinky...Shahid Dutta, is that you?’

  ‘My dear Mr Skance’, Dinky replies. ‘How good of you to return my call.’

  Fuck that, thinks Tony. This kid’s 20-odd and he’s playing me.

  ‘Have you got something you wanted to say, Dinky?’, he demands, brusquely.

  ‘I have an offer for you, Tony. Yes, I think we’re close enough now to be on first name terms, don’t you? My offer is me. I’m offering myself. I’ve decided that it’s better to do something, even if it’s as contrived as you are. Better fake than never.’

  Tony does his best to keep the excitement out of his voice. Slow it down, he thinks, and the kid will soon exhaust his self-confidence. He’s so brittle, there can only be a limited supply. Then he’ll be so much easier for me to play.

  ‘That’s very interesting, Dinky. And is there an explanation for this conversion? Have you recently passed a signpost to Damascus?

  ‘No explanation, Tony. Not a conversion, either.

  There is only the offer – take it or leave it.

  Either put me in the picture, make the movie around me, or I’ll take myself off and do something else.

  Maybe I’ll grow vegetables and tend my garden, instead of force-feeding people the way you want me to.’

  Sounds cool, calm and collected, doesn’t he? Quite the young James Bond, licensed to make it look like there’s a kill. Of course, if you could have seen Dinky instead of just hearing his voice on the phone, you would know different. You would find him hunched, hunkered down over the phone in his hand, twisted over it and caressing it, as if it were both a new-born babe and a live grenade with the pin popped out.

  But Dinky doesn’t want us to see any of this. And Tony has no time to stop and work it all out. The one thing he’s thinking about now is the offer of a lifetime; the bright, young man offering his own lifetime, just like that. Take it and make of it what you will.

  Of course he’s going to take it, and make as much use of it as he can: he’s Tony Skance.

  ‘That’s great, Dinky. Y’know, I haven’t had a chance... You’ve taken me by surprise. But let’s meet tonight, on the river. I’ll be on the Thames Clipper, the commuter boat going west from Canary Wharf. There’s one leaving at five past nine, and I’d like you to get on it at the next stop, Tower Bridge. Meet me at the back of the boat, OK?’

  Tony would have like Dinky to confirm. A single syllable could have done it. Not too much to ask, is it? But, no, not even a click, just call ended, and he’s already gone. Doesn’t matter, Tony tells himself, so long as he’s there to meet me tonight.

  (10) Way down river