Games

“You better get a move on! The show’s about to start”

I have barely begun to adjust to the darkness when the spotlights hit my eyes. In that type of light you can almost create living people out of the cardboard studio cut outs if you squint hard enough; for a moment I think I can see smiling faces in the crowd. The illusion does not last long, however. Within seconds it is obvious how faded the crudely painted figures have become in the years since these seats were last filled. There are no sympathetic eyes here.

“Are you ready?”

I have little choice but to nod my head toward what I can make out of the small man in front of me. The glare on what are left of the sequins on his suit bounces upward to reflect cheeks sunken by years of neglect and a perfectly coiffed golden quiff that reminds me of a hairpiece that I had once seen on an eight ‘o clock quiz show.

Jimmy, I think his name was, the Host. The contestants had to cheat each other, if I remember rightly. One of the least kind ones. Perhaps that was where it started, games like that. When prizes stopped being awarded for knowledge, and instead for how far you were willing to go. Back when there was an audience to watch, they were encouraged to clap every time the contestants would choose the money in exchange for a cheap laugh at each other’s expense. Not that they needed much encouragement. It didn’t take long to move on from there; there is little people cannot justify when they are desperate enough.

“Look. Ahead.”

Not a request, but an order. There is a screech of interference through the mic and my body jolts upwards before I make out the words that are hissed into my ear. The woman must be behind a curtain somewhere, I cannot see her on the stage. It does not make an awful lot of sense why they still persist with this, I think, there is nobody to see if she just stood ahead of me and held up a sign, but I suppose it must help them in some respect, to carry on with the old processes. They probably take some joy in the fact the equipment still works at all; I cannot deny that I am marginally impressed at the amount of electricity they must have access to in order to run a set up like this.

“Now.”

I don’t hesitate any longer. I stare ahead but cannot meet his eyes for longer than is absolutely necessary. There is something in them that I can’t put my finger on. Are they empty? I do not think so, not quite. Not cruel, as I had expected. Maybe just tired. I think that is why I can’t bear to look. It is easier to keep the caricature in my head; to imagine a monster. His eyes are not those of a monster. He just looks small and so tired. I know how tired feels.

A tinny imitation of cheering is pumped from somewhere to the side of me. I do not have much of a scope of movement but I can just about turn to the side to make out some rusted pieces of metal tied together with a piece of black cord. It is fraying at the edges but just about holding. The speaker must be at the top somewhere.

“Ahead.”

I look again to face the man in front. He meets my eyes first, and then turns to face the camera in front of us both. The introductions are made to any that are still watching. I wait, held in place, whilst he meanders towards the point. I have heard the stories of what happens next. We all have, from a friend of a friend. Somebody’s brother’s wife’s Uncle was on the show once, they said. They didn’t watch, they said, of course not, who would, but it set him up for life. Never saw his family again, he couldn’t; or friends, or anyone, for that matter. But he was set up for life. We couldn’t do it, they said, but they didn’t blame him, what choice could he have had.

I stare ahead as he takes out a small black book from his lapel pocket and flicks a sequin from its weathered cover. I notice his front finger does not have a nail. Strange, I think, I would have thought they would have the means to grow them back here. Or at least a prosthetic for the cameras. Perhaps they know nobody is watching any more.

He flicks through and settles on a name. Turns to face he camera and holds up the page to an imagined audience at home. Turns back to me.

“Gerry Black – ring a bell?”

I can feel my stomach lurch and my heart jump to my throat. Anybody, I think, anyone but him. A screen lights up to the right of my eyeline. I can see Gerry; he doesn’t look conscious. There is no choice, not really. He is gone before this even starts, they will have seen to that. But this knowledge does not help. I still have to say the words. I take the money, as we always do, and they broadcast the sport. I feel bile rising as the credits roll, and I am allowed to step forward and take my prize.

I open the bag as I step outside and count the winnings. £20,000. Maybe enough to do something, once. Half for an overcar ticket, half on a week of bread, now. What choice did I have. There is little that will not be done in desperation.