Nymphomation

  ‘What was the meaning of it? What was he thinking of? Why? You tell me why! And naked, but I wouldn’t mind! What must the neighbours, the nice neighbours be thinking, I cannot be thinking. Never in England should this be happening!’

  And then the silence and the glares.

  Jazir was OK, a little bruised. He’d landed half on the dustbin, which had fallen over and activated the neighbours’ security lighting. Really, he should’ve been more badly hurt. Just for one second he really had flown, he was sure of it! How else to explain his lack of injury?

  The son could say none of this to his father. His father had hit him. The first time in a long time, and the last ever. His father knew this. He knew his son was lost. The father could say none of this to his son.

  Jazir escaped by pledging himself to hard, hard work and lots of it, both in the restaurant and in his lessons.

  One hour later found him limping slightly down Alma Street. No signs of life, but that was good, that was normal for the area. He actually knocked on the door of No. 27 for some reason, maybe so as not to scare Daisy. He was so excited at what he had to tell her. He got no answer anyway, so he pushed the door open and went on through. No Daisy. He called out her name. Went upstairs, looked in every room.

  Emptiness. The camping stove knocked over, soup spilled on the floor.

  Some unfinished equations on a scrap of paper.

  A shadow’s breath.

  James Love (Five-Four) got the call on Sunday morning, rousing him from a drunken sleep. He was expecting it to be Daisy, just because there was nobody else. He couldn’t quite remember if he’d been harsh on her yesterday. Maybe she was ready for the next game now, the next lesson. He certainly didn’t expect the cold voice that cut short his greetings. ‘Mr Love?’

  ‘Last time I looked.’

  ‘You may wish to be less jocular.’

  ‘You what? Who is this?’

  ‘The police. We have your daughter.’

  ‘Daisy? What—’

  ‘She has asked that you visit her. Manchester Central. Thank you.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  An empty phone.

  The long bus journey was hard for him; not having been to the city for so many years, not since—well, not since the old days—he was scared at what he would find. His tiny life kind of suited him; soon he could retire, and spend his final days doing more or less what he’d done for the last twenty years, the wasting of his life. He liked wasting his life; he was an expert at it.

  Manchester, thankfully, was the same as when he had left it in the Seventies, only more so: dim, grim, grimy, grubby, grey. Someone had stuck a patina of flash over the top of it all, in the modern style. He was still drunk, of course, but even the police station looked the same. He’d been arrested in the early Seventies; some protest march had gone wrong. He’d spent a night in the cells. One new thing from those days was the giant scarlet W that floated above the entrance. Someone had thrown a stone against it, making a ragged, pleasing hole. Good shot. Thank God it was a Sunday. No crowds, just the detritus of Saturday night, his daughter included…

  Some buffoon called Crawl seemed to be in charge, but he wouldn’t give out details of the case.

  ‘Is my daughter under arrest?’

  ‘Have you been drinking, Mr Love? I trust you didn’t drive here.’

  ‘I did actually. Was that your parking space?’

  ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes.’

  Crawl watched the whole thing on the video system. He’d seen some hardnut bastards do some funny things in cells before, but playing dominoes? That was a first. The filthy drunk tumbling the bones onto the table. The following conversation was recorded:

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked the father.

  ‘I don’t know. They won’t tell me anything,’ replied the daughter.

  ‘You must’ve done something.’

  ‘I broke into the town hall.’

  ‘The town hall! Good on yer, girl!’

  ‘Just the Room of Holes, that’s all. We wanted to find out—’

  ‘We? Who’s we?’

  ‘Erm…a friend of mine.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Can you get me out of here?’

  ‘You should’ve called a lawyer.’

  ‘I don’t need a lawyer. I haven’t done anything wrong. Well, not seriously wrong. We just needed some details. Locations of a beggar. That’s all.’

  ‘Which is not a crime actually. Under the Vagrancy Act, the location of begging holes and who belongs in them is supposed to be public knowledge. Of course, you should’ve got permission first.’

  ‘You know the details?’

  ‘I used to be one.’

  ‘A beggar? When was this?’

  ‘You can’t play that domino, by the way.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t match.’

  ‘They think I know where this Celia is, but I don’t.’

  ‘Celia?’

  ‘The beggar we were looking for. Celia Hobart. Tell them! I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘I think they can hear you.’

  ‘OK, so I did wrong. But locking me up for a night? For opening a door? For that? And not telling me anything. It’s not right.’

  ‘No. It’s not right. Are you telling me everything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see. That’s another wrong bone, by the way.’

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘Right. I’ll do what I can. Domino, by the way.’

  ‘Well played.’

  ‘You too, Daisy. Keep the bones.’

  Crawl was on him as soon as he came out. ‘What was all that? Some kind of secret code?’

  ‘Just a gentle game.’

  ‘Your daughter has certain information.’

  ‘Evidently.’

  ‘All she has to do is give us that information and she goes free.’

  ‘The location of a beggar? Since when have beggars featured large in the police’s concerns, I wonder. This must be a very special beggar.’

  ‘Who is this “friend” your daughter refers to?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I wish I did.’

  ‘I called you in good faith, Mr Love.’

  ‘In the hope that I would make her see sense? Or just to watch us talking? Really, your methods are most primitive.’

  ‘You are free to go.’

  ‘My daughter?’

  ‘Not quite yet.’

  ‘She has rights, as a citizen.’

  ‘Oh, she does. Unfortunately, I have more rights, as a policeman.’

  Jimmy left the station. His mood was strange. A drink would cure it, but that wasn’t an option. Not if what he suspected was true. In Albert Square, he sat down on a bench. It was Sunday, quiet, peaceful. A few young lovers, hand in hand. Some children. Laughter. A police car travelling slowly across his vision, circling behind the town hall. The third time it appeared, he waved nonchalantly at the driver.

  He could wait.

  Daisy was a good player, he’d seen to that. Of course, not a master. Not yet. He’d seen to that as well. She made mistakes, sure, but one thing she never did was play a mismatched bone. In their last game she had played two. It was a message. Despite his warnings, Daisy had gone ahead. Now she was paying for it.

  Something was wrong with the bones. It had started. The maze was open once again. He would have to go back in.

  Jimmy Love had, of course, accepted Hackle’s offer to ‘meet the old gang’. It was 1977, and any chance of a better life was not to be lost. They drove out to West Didsbury, where Hackle had bought a house. To help with the mortgage he had rented out two of the rooms; one to Malthorpe and Susan, the other to Georgie Horn. It was actually very nice to see them all again, especially good old Blank-Blank. They greeted each other:

  ‘Blank-Blank!’

  ‘Five-Four!’

  As though still in the classroom.

  Malthorpe looked on, the same old dark eye, now
made bitter by years. Susan Prentice was pleased to see him, which was a surprise; she’d totally ignored him at school. Amazing these two had stuck together, were lovers even, because you wouldn’t place Paul Malthorpe as the settling kind.

  Hackle poured them all a drink and Malthorpe made a toast.

  ‘Play to win!’

  ‘Play to win!’

  They had talked for a while, mainly about the past and what had happened in between. Jimmy was slightly ashamed of his failings, compared to this team of evidently self-confident, successful people. Hackle was a teacher, just starting at the university, hoping to make his way up in the world. Malthorpe was working the stock markets, making a nice little packet. Susan was a top executive at a city-centre bank, in charge of investments. Jimmy’s dormant socialist leanings were roused by all this; how could they pervert Miss Sayer’s teachings in this way, turning numbers into money. He didn’t say anything.

  And Georgie?

  Georgie was Georgie was Georgie was Georgie was Georgie.

  Good old Blank-Blank, doing nothing, happy to be living off the others’ earnings. Yeah, they looked after him; fed him, clothed him, pampered him. Jimmy couldn’t see the reasons for this; maybe a guilt thing, related to their salaries? Whatever, Georgie Horn was their pet.

  They talked freely about their lives, but strangely, never about mathematics. Nobody referred to Miss Sayer and what they had learned in that strange year. Later, on his way home, Jimmy was to think of this omission. It didn’t matter much; he hadn’t done any maths for years, never even picked up a domino set.

  Over the next few weeks he would visit them again, usually on a Saturday night, when a fine meal would be served and vintage wine poured freely. They asked for nothing in return, only his company, which Jimmy was happy to give.

  One night, perhaps in early 1978, the post-dinner conversation took a surprising turn. They were talking about finding Jimmy a proper job, one in keeping with his talents. Malthorpe mentioned that the stock markets were based on chance alone, and that so-called experts like himself were only pretending to have knowledge. It was a chaotic system, ripe for exploitation, perfect for a player like Jimmy. Jimmy was all set to protest, if he could find the wine-sapped energy, when suddenly Georgie jumped onto the table, scattering ashtrays and breaking a wineglass. ‘Can we play now?’ he shouted. ‘Can we play now, Max? Play the game?’

  A silence came over the table. Susan took in a breath, Hackle shook his head slowly, Malthorpe made a little laugh.

  ‘Get down, Blank-Blank,’ he said, quite firmly. ‘You’re making a scene.’

  ‘Can we, Max?’ Georgie continued. ‘Play to win, Max.’

  Jimmy was intrigued, because this was the first real excitement these overly civilized dinner parties had generated. ‘Is he referring to what I think he’s referring to?’

  Another look passed around the table. ‘Of course!’ cried Max. ‘Let’s play some dominoes. You up for it, Five-Four?’

  ‘I’m game, Two-Blank.’

  Susan went to a small desk, where a finely carved ebony box rested. She brought this over to the dining table, whilst Georgie eagerly cleared the playing area. What a sound they made, those beautiful ebony bones! A sound that Jimmy hadn’t heard since his teens. He was fascinated by the sound, and the sight of all those numbers scattering over the finely polished surface. At the same time, slightly uncomfortable; he’d given up dominoes, and all other games, as politics took over his life. The playing of games was a childish activity, offering nothing to the gallant cause. Did he still have the skill, the expertise? As the bones were shuffled and chosen, it came to him that gathered around this table were four exceptional players. And yet none of them had ever played a championship match, as far as he knew.

  The room was tense, silent, only the occasional clack of a bone, a knock on the table. Susan had lit some candles, whose shadows danced over the playing surface.

  The first game was over quickly, easily won by Malthorpe. Jimmy was left with a deficit of high-scoring dominoes. The next two games went to Hackle and Susan, respectively. Only Georgie now matched Jimmy’s lack of success. The thin, nervous child-man was twitching with frustration. During their fourth game, he suddenly threw his bones across the table, wrecking the square-jointed snake of carefully matched numbers. ‘It’s not fair!’ he cried. ‘I never win.’

  ‘Game over,’ said Max, calmly.

  Jimmy was glad of the sudden tantrum; he couldn’t have faced another defeat by his once equals. But Georgie wouldn’t be shut up so easily. ‘I want to play the lucky bones,’ he screamed.

  ‘It’s time the boy was in bed,’ said Susan, ready to lead him to some nursery upstairs.

  ‘Lucky bones! Lucky bones! Lucky, lucky, lucky bones!’

  ‘Be quiet, Blank-Blank,’ said Max. ‘You know that’s not allowed.’

  ‘It is! It is allowed! Play to win, you promised.’

  ‘Not when we have guests.’

  Malthorpe cut in here: ‘Go on, Max. You might as well.’

  Hackle thought for a moment. ‘If we must. Susan?’

  As Susan left the room, Jimmy began to wonder if this whole episode had been carefully staged, just for his benefit.

  She returned some few minutes later carrying another box. This one was quite plain, giving no hint as to its contents. ‘Who will shuffle?’ she asked.

  ‘Jimmy, I think,’ answered Malthorpe.

  She gave the box to Jimmy. He was surprised to notice that it was slightly warm to the touch, as though something alive lay trapped within it. A sliding lid revealed a perfectly normal set of dominoes, carefully arranged in ascending order. He turned the whole box upside down to scatter the bones.

  What happened then took him by surprise. Little did he know at the time, he was actually casting the bones of his life.

  As soon as the dominoes hit the table their numbers began to change!

  What was once the double-six was now the five-one. He picked up the bone, not believing what he had seen. In his hand, after about two seconds, it changed again, this time to the three-one. Every two seconds brought another change. He looked up, to see that all the others were staring at him, gauging his reactions. Susan had the broad smile of someone sharing a secret.

  ‘Isn’t it good!’ squealed Georgie. ‘Good, good, good!’

  Jimmy looked down at the other dominoes; they were all pulsing and changing at regular two-second intervals.

  ‘Intrigued, Jimmy?’ asked Malthorpe.

  ‘Puzzled.’

  ‘It’s quite simple. Max, here, invented them. We call them randominoes. Very clever; a random number generator in each piece. The dots are best thought of as rather large pixels. They light up according to the numbers generated.’

  ‘You expect me to play with these?’

  ‘Play to win!’ shouted Georgie. ‘Play to win!’

  ‘It adds an edge, shall we say,’ said Hackle.

  ‘Having played dominoes for so long together,’ added Susan, ‘we became bored with each other’s strategies.’

  ‘Would you like to try your hand?’ asked Max.

  ‘I don’t see how…’

  ‘Play! You’ll soon pick it up.’

  The first game was a disaster for Jimmy. Every time he tried to play a certain number, it had already changed as he moved it. The others were doing better, in some way able to predict, if not the exact number, then a close neighbour to it. As soon as a bone was played, it stopped changing. If mismatched, and removed, it started changing again.

  ‘Contact transmitters,’ explained Susan. ‘They register the touch of another domino.’

  Jimmy nodded his head vaguely, trying to concentrate.

  Six games they played in all. Jimmy lost every time. Max, Susan and Malthorpe won one apiece. Strangest of all, Georgie Blank-Blank won three of them. In some way he was connected to the randomness, as though his naive, mismatched brain was closer in spirit to these crazy, nebulous dominoes.

  Jimmy had
his first real inkling as to why they kept this simple soul close to their hearts.

  Over the next few months, Jimmy was gradually introduced to the real purpose of the house; they were continuing with Miss Sayer’s work, to bring mathematics alive. To this end they had formed themselves into a group called the Number Gumbo. Jimmy was given various of their pamphlets and magazines to study, and long dinners often ended with even longer conversations, in which they would discuss the finer points of the latest research. Always they played the randominoes, always Jimmy lost, and almost always Georgie won the prizes.

  Becoming involved in mathematics again was very much like coming home for Jimmy. A purpose, a direction. Also, they had found a position for him in Susan’s bank. A lowly post, but still more lucrative than mending pipes. It was at this bank that he met Marigold Green. His courting of this homely secretary was in sharp contrast to the fevered atmosphere of Hackle’s house. Their first awkward sex coincided with the group introducing him to the far randier concepts of nymphomation.

  Jimmy went along with a Black Math ritual, even if his reason told him not to believe a word of it. Lights out, candles lit, incense, tuneless music, diagrams on the floor, chanting, strange equations that never quite came true, not in this world anyway. All five of them touched together the dominoes given them by Miss Sayer: double-six, five-zero, two-zero, double-zero, five-four. Thus it was that James Love was initiated.

  He could justify his involvement by calling it the wages he paid for being accepted, at last. A lover, a job, new friends, money, intellectual pursuits, mathematics. A time to grow young, he called it. No more politics, no more bitterness. And the crazy mazes they were making, only on paper, only in the computer’s innards, or the graph of the brain. Abstract games of no real consequence, very much like his love for Marigold, his love for his job, his love of the group; empty forms he could cling to without consequence.

  Two months after his initiation, James Love won his first victory at randominoes. There followed possibly the two most exciting years of his life. He was promoted at the bank, enabling him to put down a deposit on a house in Droylsden. He was made a special consultant on the Number Gumbo magazine, supplying a much-needed distance to the more extravagant claims put forward. For a short period in early 1978 he had a semi-vigorous affair with Susan Prentice, or rather, had the affair conducted upon his body. They kept it hidden from Malthorpe, but Jimmy was sure the guy knew anyway, and always had the feeling that he could never love Susan like Paul could. Jimmy just wasn’t violent enough, never had been. Those marks on her throat for instance; he could never do that to her. Subsequently, later in 1978, James Love married Marigold Green, to return himself to normal, to try for a child, to try for love. Maximus Hackle was the best man; the confetti was shredded equations.