They were stacking up; dead men on the side.
His dead men. Little white soldiers axed from the field of battle and all Jim could do was watch. His eyes searched the board fervently, trying to find an answer but there was nothing to be found. A cool wind blew through Central Park, ruffling his black hair and twisting strands of his opponent’s. Jim avoided looking at the man, at his black gloves and leather jacket – the iron gray hair, shoulder length; the hard-worn grooves in his tanned skin, digging deeper each year until they carved a latticework into his soul and the bristles that spiked around his smiling lips and cleft chin. This was no ordinary man, no ordinary face, not with those eyes; sunken pits that burned with a sullen, unrepentant ember; eyes that spoke of ages seen and horrors witnessed, experienced, enjoyed.
Jim didn’t – wouldn’t - look at him, but his face burned itself into his mind. He couldn’t forget it and the more he tried, the hotter it got until Jim grimaced with the pain of it searing his thoughts, one by one, leaving only the blackness of nothing and that floating picture, that torn soul weighted ever-so with millions of sorrows unwanted, undreamed, unknown and Jim wanted to cry with the strangeness of it all. He felt almost as though he knew this face, this person, more than he knew himself and what did he know anyway? It was all irrelevant before this and he raised slender, pale fingers, tempted to run them over his features, to see if they were still his own but faced with the horrible thought that what was his might feel strange and different – that he might expect to feel those other contours, those bristles, those smiling lips – he hesitated. Jim twitched.
He looked at the gloves again, watched them flex, stretch taut. Sweat slid down his cheeks and he realised with a shock his heartbeat was bolting across the paddocks of his chest, gone mad with fear. His lips curled. Like an amateur. He dipped his hand into his jacket pocket, fingering the worn cards within. Immediately, he felt a sense of relief. The frayed edges and familiar faces flickered beneath his hands, each one weighed with the memory of countless victories, cons, and successful tricks. There was, behind those bright sparks and twinkling stars, the backdrop of many more failures, of crumpled cards and disappointed expressions, of lectures and money lost. And so each card was weighted and balanced to perfection. Jim felt confidence welling within and for the first time since this hellish contest began, felt a little like his old self.
He looked up; saw a blur of brown skin before he focused on the tree above, swaying gently beneath the blue sky. He looked down; the board was ancient, riven with broadening cracks about the edges, but you could tell that it was once grand and gilded before time shore off the pretensions and left only bare necessity and stark naked truths. He looked to the side: his pieces, his fallen men were changing – not as bright as those still battling, but darkening, as though despair was leaking through their veins in an inky tide and the bishop most of all, seemed draped in shadow. Damn it, Jimmy, you can do this. You’ve faced worse. That was a lie though, and Jim knew it, not in any seedy club or pipe-smoke tavern, not in any polished bar or genteel country club had he come across the likes of this.
Heck, chess wasn’t even his thing. Cards, dice, darts – even pool, all these and more fell under Jim’s sway. Beneath his deep emerald eyes, all things usually fell; pretty girls and games of chance, lady luck never deserted him. Jim wasn’t even sure this was about chess anymore, but he couldn’t let a challenge like this beat him. He wasn’t going to lose to this old man; his fingers were charmed with the blood of leprechauns and the blessings of unicorns, he hadn’t lost in years and certainly didn’t plan on doing so now. He looked up.
And sincerely wished he hadn’t.
He felt a veritable tug on his soul as he fell straight into those holes, sucked into those candle-flame eyes like a drowning man to air and he breathed deep, deeper but no air came and his eyes bugged with the need until he choked and gasping, tore himself away from that steely gaze. The bastard was smiling.
“It’s your move,” he said, voice purring out, all golden and silky.
“Don’t rush me, old man,” Jim rasped.
“I ain’t rushing,” he said, “I’ve got all the time in the world.”
“Then sit there and shut up,” Jim said, glaring at the black gloves. Man, he was acting like a punk. Usually, he would be the one sassing the other guy, cool and cocky and confident, not the pale, sweaty guy on the other side.
“Aren’t you going to ask it?”
“Ask what?” Jim muttered, looking at the mute, dull pieces of wood desperately. They were deaf to his pleas.
“The question you’re dying to ask, the one pouring out of your eyes, sweating out your skin and tying your soul up in an untidy, infernal knot. The one making your fingers twitch and your throat burn for the wanting of it spoken. Don’t let your tongue shrivel now, boy, go on – ask it. I won’t lie.”
Who are you?
He was damned, doubly damned and thrice damned for good measure. He knew it, but wouldn’t give the bastard the pleasure of knowing. “I got nothing worth the asking.”
“That so?” The man’s bones creaked, the leather of his jacket tightening as he leaned back. “That’s a shame, then. A right shame, indeed. I extended the courtesy of truth and you turn me away with stinking, god-awful lies.”
Jim’s leg shook beneath the table. “Why are you so talkative all of a sudden, eh?” Jim moved a pawn one space forward.
“Well, it’s grown awfully quiet and I don’t know about you, but I just can’t abide silence.”
Jim blinked, confused. He looked around; all the benches were empty, the sky was grey and brooding, the park empty and city silent. His mouth opened in surprise. Wind blew through the trees and whispering leaves made lonely lullabies to accompany it on its way. They were completely alone. Shit.
He had to think quick, anything to stall for time. “It’s your move,” Jim said weakly, but even as he did the man was tutting and shaking his head. Jim checked again and realised the board was different, the pieces changed, but he couldn’t figure out what had been done. He had to struggle not to groan as he realised he’d been played. Of course, that’s why he suddenly began to talk – to distract Jim, and it had worked.
“I moved my castle forward, two places,” the man said. “In case you were wondering. Wouldn’t want you to think of me as anything but honourable now, would I?” He smiled.
Jim trembled. “Honour among thieves, eh? That’s rich, that is, heh.”
These words – slithering out of the old man on smooth, comfortable scales, machine-gun firing out of Jim – battled in the airspace between them, each composed of small, little moves mirroring the game played below. On both fronts, Jim was losing. And badly.
