Below are the stories that were placed top in the competition – we had one grand winner and second place, with two runners-up slots up also up for grabs.
1st Place – Graham Curtis: A Secret Delight
A short story by Graham Curtis – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Short Story Competition.
He closed the door of his stylish Georgian terrace house and breathed in the cold, damp air of the early evening darkness. The street lights glowed and reflected back off the puddled pavements. He walked quickly and furtively. Would tonight be the night he would be found out? He rounded the corner and saw his destination lying a few hundred yards in the distance – bright lights beckoning and promising pleasure.
He had first succumbed, as he had come to think of it, two months earlier. It had been a similar night in the town by the sea – cold and unwelcoming. He had just finished his lecture, Poussin: Precursor or Pretender, delivered to a carefully selected audience of some of the finest art historians and critics the country could assemble. The TV cameras had rolled and recorded his magnificent and penetrating analysis for posterity. He felt pleased. Though, even then, some inkling of unease had disturbed him. He had recognised an element of smugness. But it was more than that – with horror he had realised that he found Poussin, the critics and the entire art world faintly boring. That intellectual pleasure, which until then, had been his foremost aim suddenly began to seem shallow and unexciting. He stopped, aghast as his world trembled. As if on cue a near simultaneous flash of lightning and clap of thunder shook him. Rain started sheeting down and he was forced to take cover from the downpour in the nearest available entrance. It was the doorway to an old art deco cinema. The warmth of the interior attracted him and he followed the buzz of voices into the auditorium. He had not spent long there, as his London bound train had been imminent, but it was sufficient for him to realise that here, in the warmth of this venue, was real excitement, real life.
Now, on that evening two months later, as he left his Georgian house behind, he felt a frisson of pleasure in anticipation of the evening before him. He also felt the guilty excitement of possible discovery. Would the famous art critic, noted for his fey and aesthete values, his powerful rhetoric and withering criticism of any who did not espouse the highest aspirations of ‘grand art’, would he be discovered in, of all places, a bingo hall? The thought of this possible embarrassment and the humiliation for him caused a guilty intensification of the expected delights of the evening ahead. As he approached the glowing neon lights announcing the activities within, he quickly looked either way, and satisfied that he was not being noticed swiftly stepped inside Ah! The relief. Another world. A world where bright colours contrasted, where large sums of money could be won on the chance selection of a ball, a world of warmth and honesty. It was such a change from the cold arid arguments, attacks and defences of the critics and connoisseurs which he increasingly found trivial and vacuous.
“What would you like, love?” The question startled him out of his thoughts. The kiosk attendant smiled at him and said, “How many tickets?” She waited patiently.
“Ah. Um,” he mumbled, “I’ll have a set of the five tickets please.” He took out his wallet and was about to hand over his Coutts card before he realised how inappropriate it was and that anyway it would divulge his name, not that he expected it would be recognised, but it was an unnecessary risk. He proffered a £50 note which the girl took and looked at up against the light, carrying out some check of authenticity of which he was not aware.
“Don’t get many of these.” She smiled again and gave him the tickets. She wondered who he was. His accent was refined as were his hands and fingernails. She always noted fingernails – they told a lot about the person. His nails, his accent and his clothes indicated that he was some kind of professional, a man of taste and substance – a surgeon, possibly, or a professor. She had seen him several times over the last two months. “Haven’t I seen you before?” she asked cheerfully. His heart missed a beat. Recognised! “Getting to be quite a regular, aren’t you?” she continued. He breathed a sigh of relief, smiled and moved on.
The interior was warm and carpeted. On his left an expanse of fruit machines were situated against the walls. They hummed and twinkled, beckoning all to sit and play with them. Several players were passing their time between bingo games on the machines. The cherries and pears rolled and sometimes lined up for a win accompanied by the click of coins falling. He had never played a modern fruit machine and was not even sure he knew how It was a long way from the manual machines of his boyhood where a handle was pulled and if the fruit lined up the win was automatic. Here there were so many possibilities. One day he would watch and learn.
The bar lay in front, separated from him by tables and chairs. It was almost half full with groups talking and playing the games relayed over the speaker system. This was the ‘noisy’ room – a room where socialising and bingo went hand in hand. A room where one could eat, drink, be merry and win. But this was not his goal.
Instead he turned right into the main hall. He could see through the glass panels that it was almost full. The game had not started and groups were talking and laughing amongst themselves. All life was here – the old, the young, the fat and the thin. Two young men in wheelchairs sat near the exit on the left. They were with loving wives or girlfriends. They looked fit – injured army he thought sadly. Behind them a gaggle of about ten young girls had spread out over three tables – giggling and breezing their way through alcopops they looked as though they did not have a care in the world. Several solemn couples sat at tables near the front – here for the games not the social he mused. Smartly dressed staff moved effortlessly up and down the aisles providing chips for cash games and answering questions. He noticed a seat free beside an elderly lady. She must have been in her eighties he thought – silver hair and a smile in her eyes. He walked over.
“May I sit here?” he asked. She nodded and with a movement of her hand invited him to the table. The game was about to start and he opened his ticket book. He suddenly realised that he had forgotten his dabber but before he could move to get one the lady had smiled.
“You might need this”, she said and offered him a dabber, “I have a spare.”
“Thank you.” And the game started. As the numbers were called he located them in lines on the ticket and dabbed them out It still required all his concentration. He was disappointed that no longer was it ‘legs eleven’ or ‘two fat ladies’ but ‘two and eight – twenty eight’. The numbers were computer generated – balls were for church hall bingo. Results showed on clear displays throughout the hall. The caller was a very good looking young woman dressed in a pencil slim black dress with white blouse and red waistcoat. She had the attraction of efficiency and calm as she called the numbers and dealt with the winning lines. Her headset and mike completed the impression that she was removed from those in the hall – in command of the operation, captain of the coin exchange clerks and arbiter of ambiguity. The authority in itself was attractive. He continued dabbing out his numbers initially with little prospect of winning. Two lines had been called and he was nowhere near a full house on a window. As time progressed his spirits lifted and an excitement started welling up within him as he realised that he was getting nearer the full house. But then someone from across the hall had shouted they had the full house and the games stopped. He breathed and relaxed – the build up of the excitement always took him by surprise.
“Still quite a long way off,” the old lady beamed and twinkled at him, “are you playing in the national next?” He nodded but replied,
“But I’m not sure how to play as it’s not a ticket game.” He knew he sounded pathetic. A thousand people in the hall all knew but he did not.
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you. You will learn – maybe even about yourself,” the little old lady smiled again enigmatically, “but first buy your counters.”
The attractive caller at the front announced the game. It was a national where the competition was from bingo clubs across the country – from Dorking to Dagenham, from Bristol to Bootle – the same computer generated numbers simultaneously being broadcasted across the country at a hundred bingo halls. The chance of winning was small but the prize huge.
The old lady watched him and it was as though the hand of fate was pulling the numbers for him. He entered each into the personal screen as it occurred and could not believe his success so early in the call. Excitement grabbed him as each number scored and he hardly dared breathe as the elusive goal of the national full house came closer and closer. He could almost believe his heart was going to explode. And then he looked up and saw it! Across the other side of the hall the mobile BBC team were walking around between the tables with camera and microphone. Within a few seconds they would be on him and his secret pleasure would be displayed for the whole nation to witness. He looked either way in panic but could see no escape and the numbers kept drawing him in, anchoring him to his seat and screen.
“Ah!” the old lady gently whispered to him, “you weren’t here earlier when the caller announced that the BBC would be broadcasting tonight. A great occasion. I think the programme is called ‘Live Entertainment as It Happens’.” He was horrified – live! His numbers kept coming – rolling out as though destined. He was torn between running and playing – but there was nowhere he could run. And the numbers kept coming and the TV crew were almost on him. Only one number to go for the full house and ‘one and three – thirteen’. It was called. Without realising he jumped up and shouted ‘yes!’. The camera swung to him and the game stopped He had won. He was exhilarated. His fifteen minutes of fame started here. No regrets. He had finally come out!
2nd Place – Chloe Dalton: The Cuckoo
A short story by Chloe Dalton – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Short Story Competition.
Jacqueline was late. It was sticky and humid and London was engulfed in the hazy embrace of a late July afternoon. The roads were glazed with a lazily applied black patina of melting tarmac.
She was ambling. Resigned to being late and too hot to run, she lingered past the ‘Coach and Horses’. The pub was ancient; had been mentioned in a Dickens novel, apparently. Oliver Twist? The overspill was as expected. Squawking children peppered the beer garden; mini-skirted women with used-beer-can ash trays lined the peripheries. Men with shirts knotted over sunburnt shoulders swilling beer dregs and fag ends in pint glasses.
Mecca Bingo, Hounslow. It wasn’t a bad job. Her mam, of course, had had grander plans. Dreams of college, university even. Thought she was wasting her life in a bingo hall.
“Jacquie”
Jacquie swung round. Stephen was grinning at her. He appeared not to have noticed the soaring temperatures and was dressed in his signature ‘jean jacket’. He ran a hand through his flat-top hair; a practiced manoeuvre, Jacquie suspected.
“Hey.”
“You’re late.”
“Who put you in charge?”
He shrugged. She kicked at an old newspaper on the floor. The front page was a picture of the late Bob Marley. Skin cancer had it been? It was almost two months ago now. Sad, really, Jacquie thought.
“I missed you, baby.” Jacquie hated ‘baby’. It set her teeth on edge.
“Look Stephen. My mam thinks it’s best I don’t see you no more. She don’t think you’re good for me.”
Jacquie’s mam thought she could do better for herself.
“She thinks you’re a hoser, says you probably got ten others just like me on the go.” It was a challenge. Jacquie met his eyes.
Stephen shrugged again. “Suits me; I don’t date girls who do what their mammies tell them no how.”
Jacquie bristled. “I never said I listen.”
He smiled. “That’s my baby.”
Inside was stifling; the air hot and thick.
“We’re busy, Jacquie. Are you ok serving?” His voice now was brusque and clipped. Steven knew how to be professional.
“Sure.”
“Mrs Raven has been asking after you. You know you’re her favourite.” He winked. Jacquie groaned.
“But what I don’t understand,” Mrs Raven was saying, “is why Prince Charles and Diana would have their wedding on the same day as ‘Coronation Street’s’ Ken and Deidre?” What Jacquie didn’t understand was why Mrs Raven seemed to struggle so with the distinction between fictional characters and genuine people…
The evening wore on.
“Take a break, Jac” called Richard from across the hall.
Jacquie collapsed with relief onto the battered staff room sofa. The cracked red leather sagged beneath her weight, the springs squeaking in angry protest. The tiny black and white TV flickered in the corner, a news report on the Brixton riots. A ripped-jean-clad teenager was speaking animatedly and gesturing to the shop behind him. He hopped from one foot to the other, a nervous jig to the background symphony of crunching glass. The room begun to spin…
“Jacquie”
Faces loomed; out of focus and pixelated.
“You passed out love.”
“Poor dear…”
“Probably the heat…”
“Hot in the kitchen…”
Quite a crowd had gathered. It seemed to Jacquie that someone was playing several radio stations at once, as she struggled to tune in to anything being said.
“Just hope she’s not up the duff…”
Jacquie jumped; struggled to sit up. Several pairs of hands pinned her down.
“There, there dear, not just yet. You take it easy a moment. Richard’s gone to fetch some water.”
Jacquie saw nothing of Stephen until she was leaving the building that evening. He was waiting for her.
“Alright Jac?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously. He was stood with his mother, who appeared somewhat camouflaged beside her ancient, rust brown, mustang convertible.
Jacquie nodded nervously.
“Hello Stephen. Mrs Brown.”
Stephen’s mother was as brown as her namesake. She had scraped back brown hair and a brown bag. She wore a brown coat, despite the heavy summer heat, and brown boots. She smoked brown roll up cigarettes rolled with brown nicotine-stained fingers. She wasn’t a pleasant woman and as she eyed Jacquie, Jacquie sensed the mistrust in her small, brown, piggy eyes.
“I’ve got to be getting back”, Jacquie ventured uneasily, “Was there anything special you wanted?”
“It ain’t mine, Jac.” Stephen stared at her defiantly, angrily.
“What?” Jacquie managed.
“I heard them, earlier. They think you’re up the duff.”
“Stephen, I haven’t even done a test.”
“Yeah, well, just so you know. It ain’t mine. And I don’t want nothing to do with it, see?”
“Well it’s nobody else’s!” Jacquie heard her voice getting shrill, heard the panic beginning to mount.
“That’s what they all say, love,” Stephen’s mother cut in sharply. “All he’s saying is don’t come sniffing round for no money, ‘cos it’s not his. See?”
Jacquie saw. She saw very clearly. She saw the way neither Stephen nor his mother could quite meet her eyes. And she saw why Stephen didn’t want to know.
The nurse was young, not much older that Jacquie. She had stringy blonde hair and nails yellowed with tar. Her eyes looked tired behind her NHS glasses.
“You’re pregnant.” She sounded sorry.
“Oh,” said Jacquie in a small voice. The nurse looked embarrassed.
“There are…options, you know. If you don’t want a baby, if the time isn’t right…” she trailed off guiltily.
“I want the baby.”
“It’s nothing to feel ashamed of. It can be hard, without support.”
“I have support.” The nurse looked doubtful.
“A partner?”
“A partner” Jacquie confirmed, the word catching slightly in her throat.
“And you’ve definitely somebody to tell?” Jacquie nodded fervently.
She told nobody. She went to work as normal and cried herself to sleep at nights. She pretended not to notice Stephen staring at her stomach while he thought she wasn’t looking. She flirted with David, who had started coming to bingo on Tuesday and Thursday nights.
“He’s like that with all the girls” Stephen jibbed.
“Oh give it a rest, Stephen.”
“You two going steady then?”
“What’s it to you!” He stared at her stomach and said nothing.
The riot was on a Thursday. No one had thought it would happen. Not in Hounslow. The shot like sound of the first smashed window rang out early evening. The hall was full. People were advised to sit tight.
“Tell you what,” Richard called, “first full house of the night gets a kiss from our Jacquie!” Laughter rippled through the hall. Somebody wolf whistled.
“Water boy or first base?” Someone shouted. Jacquie flushed.
“A kiss on the cheek. You should count yourselves lucky at that, pretty girl like Jac!”
“No way, Rich!”
“Go on Jac, be a sport. Get on up here!”
Steven was watching. Her cheeks burned as she made her way to stand awkwardly at the front of the hall, hands fumbling with her apron strings. The crowd cheered.
Richard grinned. Stephen scowled. Jacquie forced a smile.
But when the streets fell finally silent in the early hours and people gingerly begun to brave the walk home through the glass medley, Jacquie sunk in relief to the floor with her head in her hands. And when she looked up to see David in the doorway, casting his enormous shadow across the room, Jacquie knew what to do.
“David! Did you forget something?”
“I…uh…I didn’t like to ask before.”
“Ask what?”
Half shyly, he offered up his bingo sheet; a full house.
“Am I too late to collect my kiss?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He tasted like cigarettes and bubble gum, and didn’t close his eyes when they kissed, so Jacquie could make out a fleck of amber in one eye.
“You have eyes like a cat” she purred, nestling her face into his blazer lapel.
David was duly delighted when she announced her pregnancy, and his brow only furrowed a little with her due date.
Her parents too, were over the moon, and thoroughly approved of David, who had been to university and spoke without a trace of a cockney accent.
Jacquie gave birth to a healthy baby boy on April 4th 1982.
David stood proudly by her side as the midwife placed the prune-like package in her arms; he was purple with perspiration and a vein throbbed in his forehead. His eyes were screwed firmly shut.
The midwife cooed.
“Don’t he look like mummy?” Jacquie was mildly horrified at the prospect of bearing even a passing resembalance to the rubicund raisin she cradled.
“I think he has his daddy’s…eyes.”
On cue, the child stopped grimacing and blinked in the bright hospital lights. But the eyes that fluttered open were not cat-like green with an amber fleck. These eyes were small and brown and piggy.
“Have you picked a name yet?” asked the midwife brightly.
“I was thinking David…” Jacquie almost whispered “after his father.”
The silence hung thick with words unspoken. They waltzed and whirled and spun. Questions unanswered; apologies un-uttered.
“David?” asked David.
Their eyes met.
She nodded, almost imperceptibly.
He smiled.
“It’s perfect.”
Runner Up – Dominic Delargy: Buzzword Bingo
A short story by Dominic Delargy – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Short Story Competition.
“Sorry sorry sorry! Photocopier! Collate wasn’t working. Had to do them all by hand.” It was a slightly flustered Catherine who backed into meeting room 7F holding a large pile of agendas in both arms. She turned to face her expectant colleagues who were already seated around the large oval table and blew a stray lock of hair away from her face with an upwards breath.
This was how Catherine started most Wednesdays – printing, collating and stapling agendas for the regular Wednesday morning meeting of the company’s Core Management Steering, Consultation, Liaison and Facilitation Forum Group. When she was first promoted to the position of Tony’s P.A. almost six months ago, she would stay late on Tuesday evenings to get the preparation done in advance. She soon learned however that Tony invariably chose to make last minute adjustments so she had recently taken to doing it all in the hour before the meeting. It seemed to work just as well.
The room was bright and shiny yet dull and generic. Apart from the women’s tops and the men’s ties, the only detail in the room that ever changed from week to week was the selection of biscuits on the three equally spaced plates in the middle of the table. They were very Bourbon heavy this particular Wednesday Catherine noted.
“Big one this week!” Catherine said chirpily as she beetled around the room dropping a twelve page agenda including appendices in front of each person. Members of the eighteen strong team, grateful for Catherine’s entrance (as prior to her arrival Tony had been explaining why he had opted to take a carbon fibre rod on his recent fishing to trip to Scotland as opposed to graphite) began to leaf through the pages and made comments as each received their copy.
“Ooh! What delights await us?”
“Your mission, should you choose to accept it…”
As Catherine reached the head of the table where, as usual, Tony had taken both prime position and the Red Chair, she deftly took a copy of the agenda from the bottom of the pile and gave that one to him. She continued her circuit, dealing from the top of the pack as usual, until everybody had been given a copy and finally took her own seat at the far end of the table opposite her boss.
If a fly on the wall of meeting room 7F had been a particularly observant fly, it might have noticed the way all but one of Catherine’s colleagues were paying particular attention to the back page of their agenda and occasionally smirking as they did so. If the fly was a curious fly as well as an observant one, it might tentatively hover above the table in an attempt to see what was causing the subtle amusement. Our curious and observant fly would then have noticed that the whole of the back page of the agenda (except for the one that had been slipped to Tony) was taken up by a grid of sixteen squares with one or two words printed in each one. And if in addition to being both observant and curious, the fly was also literate, it would have read words in these squares such as “monetising”, “hear me out on this one”, “step up to the plate” and, perhaps amusingly for one with compound eyes, “eye on the prize”.
The regular Wednesday morning game of Buzzword Bingo was about to commence and the unwitting bingo caller was Tony.
Tony was some kind of buzzword beast. The very second a new word of management jargon was spawned somewhere in the world, be it in London, New York or Sydney, it would immediately find its way into Tony’s vocabulary. Those particular phrases which must sound wonderfully fresh and witty when used by their creator for the first time but soon become hackneyed and painful through unimaginative overuse, were the mainstay of his conversation and they fell from his lips like lemmings from a cliff.
A few months ago, some of his Outer Inner Management Team had been complaining about Tony’s verbal chunder over a few pints in the Goose’s Head and Catherine had enterprisingly come up with the idea of playing Buzzword Bingo. Buzzword Bingo is similar to Bingo Bingo but instead of crossing off randomly generated numbers, players are required to listen out for certain key phrases or words and cross them off their card whenever the oblivious manager says one of them. As Catherine was responsible for producing the agendas for the Wednesday meetings, she offered to create a personalised bingo card for each player. Catherine was also responsible for collecting the £1 stake money from each participant and the lucky winner received the pot. Initially the players were rather cautious and only played to complete one line but two months ago, Hassan had suggested playing for a full house, a suggestion met with approval by the team. The stake had been increased to £2 and due to the odds of there being an outright winner being that much longer when playing for house rather than just a line, nobody had won the prize for eight weeks so after successive rollovers the prize pot now stood at £288.
Of course, anybody walking away with such a kingly sum would not ultimately see much of it as he or she would naturally be expected to be in the pub as usual the following Friday evening and to stand as many rounds as the winnings would stretch to. In effect therefore, the winner of their Wednesday morning bingo sessions was never actually present at the meeting as it would always be Rodger, “humourless purveyor of vitlles” and landlord of the Goose’s Head. (It had been Tony who had dubbed Rodger “humourless” after the latter had reacted with a sneer when Tony had greeted him as “stout yeoman of the bar” a few weeks ago and had asked for “flagons of foaming ale” before offering to pay for them with his “English pounds”.)
No. In the grand scheme of things, the prize money wasn’t important to the Wednesday morning Buzzword Bingo players of meeting room 7F. It was victory. Victory for victory’s sake.
Tony flicked through the agenda and muttered, almost inaudibly, “all present and correct”. Immediately, Charlotte, Ahmed and John B crossed out these words in their grids much to the silent chagrin of the others who glared at them as Tony addressed the team.
“Ok people…” (John B crossed out another phrase as did Jessica, Mark and John C) “I need to get through this one quickly then get the hell out of Dodge…” (more scribbles from around the table) “…got a brainstorming session over in EC1 and I can’t make heavy weather out of this. Item one, “Apologies & Action Points From Last Week”. John – what’ve you got for me? Shoot.”
Pens around the table were a blur. Even by Tony’s high standards this opening was rich with vapidity and a palpable feeling spread around the room that this could finally be the week that Catherine paid out.
John C finished the apologies and action points and handed back to Tony with his customary “..er… and I think er… yes I think that’s about it” and Tony moved on to item two with the words, “10-4 good buddy. Right – “Relocation of Service Outlets in the South and South-Western Regions”…”
The atmosphere was tense. The team concentrated hard, eyes darting constantly from Tony, to bingo card, to opponents and back to Tony. The clichés piled up quickly causing an almost constant flicking of paper around the table as players referred to their cards each time a likely sounding phrase was uttered.
Celeste gripped her pen hard in her fist. She had only crossed off one phrase so far and was aghast at the amount of triumphant scribbling going on around her. The words in her grid were, she thought, too far-fetched even for Tony. Nobody, surely nobody said “blue sky thinking” any more and seriously, when was the last time anybody on the planet had actually exhorted colleagues to “wake up and smell the coffee” with or without the optional “people” at the end? Had Catherine stitched her up? She claimed to allocate buzzwords randomly but did she? What was her methodology? Was this revenge for that little bit of business at the Goose’s Head last Christmas?
Graham was turning a Bourbon over and over again in his fingers. Simon stared at Tony hard, almost aggressively, through his eyebrows. Julia ran the tip of her tongue backwards and forwards along her upper teeth.
Item two was quickly wrapped up and Tony moved on to “Review of User End Service Agreements” and asked Dexter to bring the team up to speed. “I’m gonna have to ask you to keep it brief though Specster – gotta high tail it to my EC1 powwow pretty sharpish.”
“OK…” said Dexter, adjusting his glasses and leafing through a file he’d brought with him, “So… as you know I’ve been working with the Basingstoke team on the outsourced elements of the… sorry?” Tony had been mumbling under his breath as Dexter began his report.
“No no sorry big fella,” said Tony, looking slightly shocked that he’d been speaking aloud, “Carry on. Ignore me. Talking to myself – first sign of madness haha!”
“Right,” continued Dexter, “yes… so I’ve been working with the Basingstoke team…”
“Power powwow!” piped up Tony. Puzzled heads turned in his direction. A few people had crossed “powwow” from their grids already but it seemed “power powwow” was a new one as it appeared on nobody’s card.
“Just saying…” said Tony, with perhaps a hint of uncharacteristic sheepishness, “I’m going to this powwow soon and people have power lunches so this could be called a power powwow.” There was a ripple of polite indulgent laughter from around the table. “Wow!” He persevered, waggling his hands in the air like a black and white minstrel, “Wow! Power powwow! Wow power powwow now!” Not sure how to respond to this, Dexter looked back down at his file and mumbled, “So…. the er… the Basingstoke…”
“Now! Now! Power powwow! Wow! How Tony how?” Tony was suddenly looking dreadful. Perspiration glinted on his forehead and his eyes looked tired and distant. “How? How? Wow! Powwow power!” He raised his fist limply in the air on “powwow power” then rubbed his temples with his palms.
Catherine shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“Wow wow power pow pow how!” He gripped his hair, his knuckles white, “Pow pow p-p-p-p poooow! How? How? Power to the people powwow power! ” Catherine stood up noisily. Everybody else looked on agog. She began to walk round the table towards her boss but Tony stopped her with a raised had and an emphatic “No!” She stopped awkwardly, not returning to her seat.
“Now? Power powwow now? How? How? How Tony how?”
“Mate…” offered Graham.
“Don’t mate me bloody so called Graham!” spat Tony, ” you and your stupid bloody…” he groped for something wounding, “…hair!” Graham, who was generally regarded as a nice man and whose hair had never before elicited comment of any kind looked defeated.
Bang bang bang! Tony began to rhythmically strike the table with his forehead. “Now Tony Now! Power powwow now! But how how? Now? Wow!”
There was now tangible alarm in meeting room 7F. Several people jumped to their feet, others remained rooted to their chairs staring down into their laps. A few more proactive members of the team tried saying things like, “Tony, Tony mate!”
Lucinda, who was sitting closest to Tony, thoughtfully pulled a squashy mouse mat from her bag and positioned it on the table in the place where Tony’s head was repeatedly making contact with it in an attempt to limit damage to both. Catherine reached him and placed comforting hands on his shoulders ignoring his attempts to shrug them off.
“Wow pow wow now how how cow? How cow? Wow! Wow! How cow?”.
Pandemonium flooded the room. Mobile phones were produced but nobody knew who to call or what to say. People stood up and pointed randomly in all directions as if directing traffic as Tony, tears streaming down his face, a huge bruise spreading across his forehead and with tufts of hair in his hands showed no sign of relenting.
“Tony it’ll be alright” cried Catherine, months of disdain washed away in seconds.
“No it won’t!” he screamed at her “Powwow? A cow powwow? Now? Wow? In EC1? With that bloody cow? And her solicitor? Bloody bloody cow! Cow powwow! Aaaaaaaaaargh!” He roared from the bottom of his being, a desperate, maniacal expulsion of years of conforming, of working hard and of rising through the ranks. “No no no! You cow! No you won’t.” He was suddenly on his feet, the Red Chair skidding away behind him. “Well…” he screamed at the uppermost limit of his voice into the silence that now filled the room, “she can have the house and the stupid bloody garden, she can have the money, she can have the pension and my fishing rods but SHE’S NOT HAVING MY KIDS!!!”
It’s safe to say that nothing like this had happened before at a Wednesday morning meeting. This would later be confirmed by John C who had been with the firm for twelve years.John C did recall though that Miriam’s waters had broken during a presentation a few years ago which had caused some commotion at the time.
A thick lingering quiet filled not just meeting room 7F but seemingly the entire seventh floor.
“OK….” said Tony quietly, after what felt like hours of nothingness. He had the shocked appearance of one who had woken up on a train with his mouth lolling open and drool on his chin. “Catherine… sorry, could you….” He gestured to the Red Chair which lay on its side behind him.She hurriedly set it upright but Tony did not sit. He wiped tears from his face, straightened his hair and tie and coughed a little cough.
“Sorry guys, I…” Everybody made small calming noises. Some said, “It’s fine mate” or “forget it” or “no worries”.
“Bit of a situation on the old home front.” Nods and understanding murmurs. “The EC1 thing is er… it’s a legal thing. The old trouble ‘n’ strife you know?” More friendly noises from the team. “Just got a bit much back there. I’m sorry about the hair thing Graham.” Graham indicated he was fine about the hair thing through a complex series of constipated shuffles and mumbles.
“You have nice hair Graham. Very nice hair. I like…” he trailed off and gestured in the direction of Graham’s head. “Anyway… Going forward….”
Simon reached for his pen. “Going forward” was the last phrase on his grid! He was quids in! The hands of Julia and Celeste, either side of him, pinned his arm to the table and they glowered menacingly at him. He shamefacedly withdrew his hand.
“I think,” said Tony, “I’ll go and get ready. We can catch up next Wednesday.” He walked slowly and falteringly towards the door with every eye in the room upon him. He pulled the handle and as the door swung open he turned to face the shattered room.
“Onwards and upwards eh team?” he said, and left, closing the door gently behind him.
After a few seconds of crackling silence, the team looked around at one another, all knowing that nobody present would mention what had just happened to anybody outside the room.
“So,” said Catherine as normally as she could. “Another rollover!”
Runner Up – Arabella Chippindall-Higgin: Game Of Chance
A short story by Arabella Chippindall-Higgin – an entry in the 1st Playing Bingo Short Story Competition.
The Bingo Hall was exactly as Zasha had seen it on TV, a square, windowless room with stone walls and an uncarpeted floor. Cameras lined the walls. It was designed to intimidate and it was working.
In the queue behind her, someone was crying.
Zasha had wanted to cry herself when she’d been elected to Play in this week’s Bingo game but she hadn’t let herself. Crying felt like admitting defeat and she wasn’t doing that yet. This was a game of chance.
Several burly men in military uniforms stood just inside the Hall, rifles resting easily in their hands. Playing Bingo wasn’t a choice and they were there to make sure everyone understood that.
Red lights flashed on the sides of the cameras as they switched on, glaring eyes focused on the Hall door. It was time for the Players to take their seats.
Zasha kept her head down as she followed the other Players into the cold room. If her family was watching, she didn’t want them to see the fear in her eyes.
At the far end of the Hall was a slightly raised platform, boasting a padded leather chair where the Caller would sit and the cylindrical metal drum where the Bingo numbers were generated from. Most other popular game-shows involved a higher level of technology, but the producers of the Bingo game had opted for a more basic, retro look.
Behind the metal drum was the only other door leading out of the room. It wasn’t a door anyone wanted to go through. The only other furniture in the room were ten small tables and chairs, one for each of the Players.
The military man nudged Zasha’s legs with the butt of his rifle and she realised her footsteps had slowed. Until the Hall door had actually opened, she’d clung to some absurd hope that maybe something was going to intervene and stop all this. She knew that she, like everyone else, was eligible to be called to Play one day, but she’d always thought it wouldn’t happen to her. None of her friends or family had ever been called and though she’d watched the game once a week for years, and known what it was all about, she’d still thought that somehow she was safe from it.
She eased herself into her seat. The chair was cold metal beneath her; no leather padding for the Players. Out of the corner of her eye, Zasha saw Donal taking a seat on the left behind her. It was ironic that for years neither she nor her friends had ever been called to Play and now she and her childhood friend had both drawn the short straw. She tried to smile at him but the muscles of her face felt frozen.
Zasha glanced round the room, scoping out the rest of the Players. On her right-hand side, an old man was taking his seat, carefully folding his withered frame into the metal chair. His features were almost obscured beneath an avalanche of loose, wrinkled skin but she could see his eyes. They looked….relieved.
Zasha blinked, confused. How anyone be relieved to be sitting in this dreadful room? Then she looked more closely at him, at the clothes that hung from his shrunken body, the sickly yellow gleam to his skin. He was sick, she realised, and probably couldn’t afford hospital treatment. He was hoping this game might actually be his way out.
On Zasha’s left side was the woman that been crying in the queue. She was still crying, her middle-aged face blotched with tears. Zasha’s stomach clenched. This woman probably had a husband and kids and they’d most likely be watching her now, hoping against hope that she’d be coming back to them.
A man strode into the Hall from behind and Zasha didn’t have time to scope out anyone else. One of the rules of Bingo was that all eyes had to be on the Caller. He strode through the rows of tables and up to the raised platform at the end of the room. A generically pretty blonde girl trotted behind him. The Caller surveyed the room and the Players before sinking down into his leather seat. The blonde girl took her position by the side of the metal drum.
The cameras mounted on the platform all turned to focus on the Caller as he dramatically flung wide his arms. “Welcome ladies and gentlemen, to Bingo,” he announced. “My assistant will be going round now to issue you all with your tickets and markers. The rules of Bingo are simple. If your number is called from the generator then you must mark it off on your ticket. If you have a winning combination” – he paused dramatically, his eyes roving over the Players – “you all know what happens then.”
He smirked in the direction of the cameras that were broadcasting everything onto live TV, but the smirk didn’t seem genuine. There was a tightness about his mouth and eyes that suggested he wasn’t happy with what he was doing. Zasha wondered whether he, like the Players, had any choice in the matter. Even if he did, being a Caller probably granted him some immunity from being called to Play and no one could blame him for taking that chance.
“The game lasts for two hours,” the Caller continued. “If you are still here at the end of those two hours then you are free to go. If not….” He forced another smirk.
His eyes landed on Zasha and something like regret flickered through them. He probably thought she was too young to be here, to be facing this terrible game of chance. But if there was one slogan that was true of all today’s televised game-shows, it was that you were never too young to die. Zasha had seen children as young as five being marched into this horrible stone room and no one had said a thing. At sixteen Zasha was more than eligible.
The Caller’s blonde assistant was sashaying between the tables now, issuing paper tickets to all the Players as well as red marker pens.
Zasha stared down at her ticket and the numbers swam in front of her eyes. Fifteen random numbers and everything in her life depended on them. Panic clamoured inside her, threatening to rise up and overwhelm her. Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself. If it was the last thing she did, she was not going to fall to pieces on national television.
“Players, are you sitting comfortably?” the Caller boomed. It was a stupid question really. No one could be sitting comfortably in the hard metal chairs. “Then this game has officially begun.”
Audiences round the country would be clapping and cheering right now. Zasha knew because she’d done the same thing when she was watching Bingo. From the comfort of home it was easy to pretend this really was just a game and nothing bad ever happened to the Players.
The blonde assistant was back up on the stage, posing prettily by the metal drum. Zasha clenched her hands into fists. Any second now the first ball would be drawn from that drum. The numbers on her ticket continued to swim in front of her eyes.
Blondie touched a manicured nail to the red button on the side of the metal drum. The drum began to spin and Zasha could hear the rattle of Bingo balls bouncing around inside. Now that she was here and not safely watching on TV, the whole game seemed ridiculous. There were ten Players in the Bingo Hall and the future of each of them was going to be decided by some plastic balls. It didn’t make sense.
The drum ground to a halt and Blondie flipped open a little hatch next to the red button. Reaching in she plucked out the first ball.
Zasha held her breath, her heart loudly thudding in her ears.
“Number twelve,” the Caller announced.
Frantically, Zasha scanned her ticket. Her throat was dust-dry, eyes scratchy with the tears she wouldn’t let fall. There was no number twelve on her ticket and the breath silently rushed out of her body.
Not everyone was so lucky. Behind her Zasha heard the sounds of marker pens being uncapped.
Then the balls were rolling again, rattling around in their metal prison. “Number six,” the Caller announced.
Zasha’s heart tripped against her ribs. There was a six glaring maliciously up at her from her ticket. Her fingers shook as she uncapped the marker pen and dabbed a red dot over the offending number. It looked like a spot of blood on the white paper.
And so it went on. The balls rattled noisily in the drum before being plucked at random by Blondie. Each number called was an exercise in torture; Zasha gripped her marker so tight her fingers hurt, knuckles white with pressure. A cold bead of sweat trickled down the curve of her back.
There were no clocks in the Hall but she guessed they’d been sitting there about forty minutes. It had been forty minutes of hell for her and the other Players and forty minutes of viewing entertainment for the folks at home. Six red dots stared up at her now, three of them in a straight line. Two more on that row and – she shoved the thought away.
“Number forty-nine.”
A stifled gasp split the silent room. The middle-aged woman on Zasha’s left was staring down at her ticket, her face carved with lines of horror. Even from where she was sitting, Zasha could see the horizontal line of red dots scarring the ticket. Five numbers in a row. Bingo.
The woman started shaking her head, hair whipping from side to side. “No, no, no, no, NO.” She launched out of her seat and stumbled against the far wall.
Zasha didn’t want to look at her, didn’t want to see the absolute terror in the woman’s eyes, but she couldn’t look away. There was still more than an hour to go before the game was over. That might be her before the time was up.
“Help me,” the woman screamed. Her voice bounced off the stone walls, splitting into echoes.
Zasha and the other Players stared back at her but no one moved. There was nothing anyone could do. The Caller was saying something but Zasha couldn’t hear over the angry buzzing in her ears. This wasn’t right. How could anyone play with someone’s life like this?
The woman was sobbing now, harsh, wrenching cries that wracked her body. “Please, I have children. Don’t do this.”
“Rules are rules,” the Caller said but his shoulders slumped slightly as if he was carrying a great weight.
The men in military uniforms moved into the room, spreading out to surround the woman. Screaming, she tried to lunge away but they were faster and stronger. Two of them seized her arms and started dragging her towards that door at the back of the room, the one that only opened when someone won. They could have clubbed her over the back of the head with a rifle and at least taken her quietly but kicking and screaming was extra spice for the viewers at home.
Nausea roiled in Zasha’s stomach.
The woman kicked out as she was dragged away, skewing tables and chairs and sending marker pens clattering to the floor. Her lashing foot glanced off Zasha’s ankle but Zasha clamped her lips shut and didn’t cry out at the sharp pain. Bravery wouldn’t make any difference to her fate since it was all decided by the Bingo balls but she did it anyway.
One of the uniformed men kicked open the door and bodily dragged the shrieking woman through it. She clung to the doorframe until her fingernails tore off. Then she was gone. The door slammed shut and silence fell upon the Bingo Hall.
Zasha hadn’t realised how badly she was shaking until her table started clattering beneath her. Glancing around, she caught sight of Donal watching her. He looked pale and sick. Zasha prayed to whatever god might be listening that she wouldn’t have to watch Donal go through that.
She clasped her hands together on the tabletop and willed them to stop shaking. Forty minutes in and they were only one person down. She only had to hold on a little over an hour and then she was free to go.
She couldn’t bring herself to look at the door at the back of the room.
With the drama subsided, the balls started rolling again and the game resumed. But there was a tension in the room that hadn’t been there before, crackling through the air like wildfire. It was one thing knowing what would happen if your numbers were called. It was quite another seeing it happen right in front of your eyes.
The minutes ticked by, Zasha counting them off in her head. Half an hour in, another player completed the dreaded five number line and was dragged from the room. This time Zasha didn’t even look up. She heard only his hoarse wails before the closing door cut them off.
I am going to survive this. I am going to survive this.
“Number sixteen.”
No.
She gripped her marker tightly to stop her hands shaking as she dotted the sixteen that stared up from the ticket. Now she had four numbers in a row. One more and…….
Another twenty minutes passed. She just to last a little longer then she was free. Desperate tears prickled her eyes. She could taste freedom like it was a sweet candy on the back of her tongue. In less than half an hour she and Donal were going to walk out of this room and go back home where Bingo was nothing but a game to watch on TV.
“Number eight.”
The bottom dropped out of Zasha’s world. She literally swayed in her chair, vertigo slamming into her and tipping her stomach upside down. The red marker trembled in her hand but she couldn’t lift it, couldn’t place that last dot over the eight on her ticket.
A camera on the wall whirred as it turned to her and a red light started furiously blinking on the side. They were watching her, the men and women who organised this whole barbaric affair, and they could see that damning figure eight. If she didn’t mark it herself someone would come in and do it for her. There was no way out of this.
Hope splintered inside her, jagged shards slicing at her heart. She had come so close….everything felt surreal as she lifted her marker, like some crazy dream she couldn’t wake up from, and dotted her last number.
“Bingo,” she whispered and the word tasted like death.
“It looks like we have a winner,” the Caller announced, his false grin turned to the cameras.
There wasn’t even a chance to try running. Armed men were at Zasha’s table in seconds, surrounding her. Their faces wore matching neutral expressions like the humanity had been scoured out of them.
Zasha swallowed her tears. The last two Players had gone kicking and screaming but she was determined to cling onto what little shred of dignity she had left. It was all she had now.
She climbed to her feet. She could feel Donal’s eyes burning a hole in her back and could practically taste his desperation. But he didn’t try and help her and she didn’t expect him to. They both knew there was nothing he could do.
“Let’s hear it for another winner,” the Caller was saying to the cameras. “She Played well but now the slaughterhouse awaits.”
If only it was a euphemism.
Zasha couldn’t help meeting the eyes of the old man on her left side. There was despair reflected in his sunken stare. Zasha was where he wanted to be and if there was any justice in this world they would be allowed to trade places. He didn’t want to live and Zasha didn’t want to die. But the rules of Bingo could not be altered for anyone.
The door at the end of the room loomed before her.
“Don’t forget, once Bingo has concluded, viewers can watch the live executions of all of today’s winners. Don’t go away folks,” the Caller continued.
Zasha fought to keep the contents of her stomach down, swallowing sour bile. She’d never expected to be called to Play and she’d never expected to win. Now she was nearing the last door she’d ever walk through. Someone had once told her that a long time ago Bingo had been a game people played for money. They actually won prizes. It was meant to be fun. Nowadays if your numbers were up, you were put to death on live TV.
The cameras all turned towards her, following her progress through the room. She managed to keep her head held high. If her Mum was watching this, Zasha hoped she would be proud that her daughter was facing her death calmly and bravely.
The dreaded door creaked open but was too dark to see anything inside. Zasha glanced back over her shoulder at the remaining Players. With so little time left before the game ended, it was likely that they’d all get to walk out of here. The only one of them that could meet her eyes was Donal. He wasn’t even trying to hold back his tears.
Zasha gave him a small, sad smile then a rifle butt in the small of her back urged her forward. She stepped through the door and entered the slaughterhouse.
The door swung shut behind her.
