Players at the Game of People (10 page)
Read Players at the Game of People Online
Authors: John Brunner
put to use
the astral forces which surround
us?" or, perhaps worst of the lot, "Doesn't it just
prove
that when
it's properly attuned, the miracle which is the human mind is capable
of concretizing anything our imagination has ever conceived of?"
But all this making with the mouth was boring his balls off, and he
earnestly looked forward to dumping Gorse and getting on with something
he cared about. However, by this time she was not only yawning, but
threatening to doze off, and with all possible respect to whoever was
calling her, he had no wish to carry her bodily into the house when they
reached their destination. So he talked rapidly and loudly.
"I think you'll get on well with Bill Harvey -- your temporary landlord,
you know, the guy whose house you're going to live in until you find
your feet and get a place of your own. An interesting bloke. Used to
be a jockey, and then a flyweight boxer, and still has the broken nose
to prove it. A bit like dueling scars in his circle, having a broken
nose. I remember he once told me that when he was a kid the big man
in his personal world was the landlord, whose agent kept coming around
to dun his mother for the rent, so he decided one day he was going to
be a landlord himself, and now be owns houses all over South London --
Catford, Lee Green, New Cross, Peckham . . . He prides himself on being a
good landlord; he swears he never hires anyone to do anything he can't do
himself, from painting and rewiring down to drains and concrete floors."
Was he going to have to go on and talk about Bill's one visible shortcoming?
Gorse's head was nodding and her eyelids kept drifting down, but --
thank goodness -- they were now rounding the corner of the street where
Bill lived. Godwin thrust a fiver at the cabby and told him to keep the
change, and just as he opened the door Bill appeared to lend him a hand.
"She looks as if she's being called already!" he whispered as he caught
the drowsy girl under the arms with all the expertise due to helping
fellow boxers away from the ring after a catastrophic defeat.
"Yes, I think so. Better get her inside as fast as possible," Godwin
answered.
But Gorse was able to stand and walk by herself as she was led into
the house, even though she kept casting glances to either side, for
this was a decaying street, down on its luck, and the frontages and
roofs were even more in need of repair than those where Godwin lived,
while the curbs were lined with abandoned cars, some of which had been
set on fire and burned to discolored metal skeletons.
"I have to live here?" she said in faint horror.
"You won't find a better 'ouse in London that takes in lodgers on the
spur of the moment," Bill declared. "Not since the Rent Acts you won't!"
He was a remarkable figure, and people were looking at him from across
the street as hard as Gorse was staring at his disreputable-seeming home,
with its unpainted woodwork and rusty guttering, all in accordance with
his ingrained principle that one should do nothing to attract the attention
of the tax collectors. He affected clothing that two or three generations
ago would have been considered flash: a brown check suit with brilliantly
polished brown boots, a yellow shirt, a green silk tie with a pearl sticker
in it, and -- even for this brief excursion into the open air -- the same
brown bowler hat he would have worn on a trip to Epsom for the Derby.
"All the gear you're getting from Hugo & Diana is being sent here,"
Godwin improvised. "And remember, this is only temporary --
and
of course
once you're settled in, you'll find it's much nicer than it looks from the
outside. Remember how you felt about my place!"
Had she not been so sleepy by now, though, it was plain she would have
resisted their attempts to steer her along the hallway and into a room
on the right. From the rear of the house came faint noises: a running
commentary on a horse race, growing momently more frenzied.
"I picked Shahanshah yesterday at twenty to one -- did you 'ave anything
on 'im?" Bill inquired as he opened the door of the room so that Godwin
could steer Gorse through it. By now she was again stumbling with her
eyes shut, fighting and failing to stay awake. The room had been repapered
with a hideous design of huge orange and pink roses on a sky-blue ground,
but otherwise it was precisely as Godwin remembered: the narrow bed, the
second-hand armchair, the rickety table and upright chair, the curtained
alcove in the corner for hanging clothes, the chest of drawers with a
mismatched handle on the left of the bottom drawer, the washbasin with
the exposed plumbing, the electric shower in a tin cabinet with a torn
plastic curtain across the front, even the battered tin wastebasket with
a design of daffodils.
Of course, it wasn't yet activated. It would take a while for Gorse to
learn how to do that, but she would. And then it might well be quite
some time before she decided to move elsewhere.
They laid her on the bed and within seconds she had rolled on one side and
begun to utter that trace of a snore which Godwin had rebuked her for:
a tiny bubbling sound on every intake of breath, and a pop-and-wheeze
on every exhalation. Nervously Bill said, "I think we better get out of
'ere and shut the door, don't you?"
"Yes. She's very close. I wouldn't put it more than half an hour away."
They retreated to the hallway, where Bill retrieved a tankard half full
of bitter which he had left on an occasional table. Raising it
significantly, he said, "Want to pop in the parlor for a minute, sink
a jar? I missed the end of the race but I can rerun it. After that
I got a terrific cup-tie -- everybody said Rovers 'ad it made, but I
said United and I was right! Even though that was before I got my new
amulet. You know what an amulet is? Truly? Ah, might've known you'd 'ave
'eard of 'em before. Smart aleck! Puts all my other gear in the shade,
though. Swear it does!"
He made an all-encompassing gesture. On the occasional table stood a vase;
it contained white heather. Over the front door a horseshoe was nailed,
open end down; Godwin recalled what agonies Bill had been through,
wondering which view was correct -- whether if it were upside down all
the luck would run out, or whether it should be mounted so that luck
would fall on those who passed beneath. The latter had prevailed, but
he had one the other way up at the back door, just in case. It was his
conviction that charms and cantrips had brought him his good fortune,
and he had made his home into a kind of museum of superstitions.
Wearily and not without malice Godwin said, "Did you have anything
on Shahanshah?"
"Me? Not bleedin' likely! Won't let me in the bettin' shop any more,
the buggers won't! Won't let me do the pools neither! Just 'cause all
the time I'm right an' they're wrong! But you're 'avin' me on, aren't
you? I could swear I told you what they done to me down the bettin' shop!"
"Maybe you ought to turn in your amulets and try your luck all by yourself
for a change," Godwin suggested dryly.
"Thought of that," Bill answered with a lugubrious scowl. "But the way
I look at it, you're better off bein' lucky than unlucky, right?"
"Right."
"Sure you won't stop off for a jar?" Bill went on, having drained his
tankard. "I got the place done over real nice now. You couldn't tell
it from Frinton-on-Sea, I'd take my oath on that. And I got barrels and
barrels of beer -- lager, bitter, stout, whatever you fancy!"
Godwin was spared the need to refuse by a sudden racket emanating from
Gorse's room: great clumsy stamping sounds, then the noise of something
being knocked over -- probably the chair -- and curses in a deep,
unfeminine voice.
"Either come on in, or scarper toot sweet!" Bill whispered. "I never
fancy meetin' any of me lodgers when they're -- well,
you
know!"
Nodding, Godwin repressed a shudder. Indeed, it must be eerie to meet
a stranger in a familiar body.
Something tinny: the wastebasket being kicked or hurled at the wall.
"Gawblimey, I'll 'ave to paper the room
again
. . . Well?"
"I'm going to scarper. Sorry. Next time with luck. You fix the luck, okay?"
"Okay."
But it was a sickly grin he gave Godwin as he shook hands and he couldn't
refrain from glancing at the door of the room to see whether it was
bulging yet under an attack from the other side. Often it took quite
some while for the owner to get adjusted.
"Funny . . ." Bill said as he turned away. He spoke in a musing tone.
"Sometimes I'd give anything . . . You been called lately, 'ave you?"
"What do you think I'm doing here?" And, impelled by the same need which
had caused him to speak up at Irma's, and knowing what he had to say
would register on Bill if anyone, he suddenly produced from his pocket
the press cutting which included him in a list of heroes decorated at
Buckingham Palace. "I got the George Medal for it," he muttered. "See?"
"Crikey!" Bill said, his eyes widening. "The George Medal, eh? Wish I 'ad
'arf your imagination! I thought I was pitchin' it a bit strong when I
backed Lovely Cottage for the National!"
He studied the press cutting avidly. But before he could make a further
comment, they were interrupted by a real crash from Gorse's room:
probably the hand-basin shattering. Godwin hastily retrieved the slip
of paper and made for the door.
"See yourself out!" Bill invited ironically, and turned back to the
kitchen. Struck by a thought, however, he checked.
"Show me that again!"
"Uh . . . Well, if you like." Godwin complied, feeling for some
unaccountable reason extremely nervous -- not because of the renewed
noises from the room, but because there was a frown on Bill's usually
cheerful face.
"September the twentieth," Bill said at last, tapping the paper with a
blunt forefinger.
"Yes!"
"1940?"
"Yes, of course-during the Blitz!"
"I don't believe it," Bill said with finality, surrendering the paper again.
"Nobody's asking you to!" Godwin snapped, returning it to his pocket.
But a sour taste was gathering in his mouth, and he forced himself to
add the crucial question: "Why?"
"Weren't no George Medals then, nor George Cross neither. Didn't get
introduced until September the twenty-third." Bill gave a crooked smile.
"I don't waste
all
me time watchin' football on the telly. Always bin
interested in the war. An' that I remember clear as daylight. September
the twenty-third just 'appens to be me birthday . . . Lord, there she
goes again! 'Ave that door down in a minute! Better scarper -- see yer!"
A moment later Godwin was back in the dingy street under a dismal sky.
People seemed to be looking at him more than even they had at Bill in his
out-of-date finery. Their faces were cold and pinched with hunger. Some
of the children playing in the gutter wore only ragged vests or outgrown
dresses and were mechanically masturbating as they gazed at him with
dull eyes.
Godwin shivered and hurried on by, pulling up the collar of his jacket
against those stony, chilly stares.
But at least he could now look back on a job complete, and before claiming
his reward he could afford to relax and unwind for a while. Starting today?
Starting tomorrow?
There was no hurry. Sometimes there was, as though pressure were being
applied, but not at present. He had time to think over what he wanted
next.
And needed it. What Bill had said had disturbed him. He felt as though
the foundation of his existence had been shaken, as by earthquakes.
There was only one tenable explanation. Birthday or no birthday, Bill
must have made a mistake.
It was inconceivable that the owners should.
Abruptly, as he was heading away from Bill's place, it dawned on Godwin
that he was within easy walking distance of Harry Fenton's. On the spur
of the moment he decided to go there and pick up a passport; he had used
his present one twice.
But when he arrived at Harry's basement flat, in a narrow street of
sleazy gray-brick houses beset -- like the whole of London -- with
abandoned cars, there was no reply to his ring . . . this being one of
the few doors which did not automatically open even to his touch.
The most likely explanation was that Harry had been called, and for that
there was no help. There was never any help.
Perhaps it didn't matter. Harry's forgeries were -- naturally -- the
finest in the world, and Godwin had not actually been warned that he
shouldn't use a passport too often; it just seemed like a reasonable
precaution, because there were so many countries where the police were
forever demanding "Vos papiers!" and "Ihr Ausweis!" -- or whatever --
and the presence of a visitor unrecorded at any port or airport might
entrain problems . . .
But what the hell? Shrugging, though unable to repress a scowl of annoyance,
Godwin resigned himself to using the old one. He badly needed clean air
and an absence of people, so there was no alternative.
As he trudged toward the nearest street where a cruising taxi could
logically be intersecting with him, because it was impolitic to work
even minor miracles except in carefully chosen company, his attention
was caught by a little girl on the other side of the road, shaking back
her fair hair. He checked in mid-stride, staring . . . and realized she
could not possibly be anybody other than herself.
Thinking he might catch the last of the skiing, he made for André
Bankowski's hotel at Les Hôpitaux Neufs, but even though the spring
was dismal over Western Europe, the snow was already melting except on
the very highest pistes, and the only good run he achieved was spoiled
because he spotted a blond girl riding up in the
téléférique with André
while he was on the last stretch, and didn't realize until he had wandered
off the line into soft crustless snow that she was too round-faced and
had too large a mouth.
Compared with whose?
He sat through one boring evening in the bar and watched people getting
drunk and amorous, and went to New Orleans instead, where English-born
Wilfred Burgess was fulfilling his ambitions by leading a band of
half-legendary jazzmen, one of whom claimed to have recorded with King
Oliver. But on the corner of Bourbon and Therville in the Vieux Carré
he saw a fair-haired girl making a grand performance, for the benefit
of a boyfriend, out of her attempts to eat an enormous oyster po'boy
one-handed with a full but open can of beer in the other, and found
himself on the point of going to her assistance before he realized she
was not in fact the person he imagined.
the astral forces which surround
us?" or, perhaps worst of the lot, "Doesn't it just
prove
that when
it's properly attuned, the miracle which is the human mind is capable
of concretizing anything our imagination has ever conceived of?"
But all this making with the mouth was boring his balls off, and he
earnestly looked forward to dumping Gorse and getting on with something
he cared about. However, by this time she was not only yawning, but
threatening to doze off, and with all possible respect to whoever was
calling her, he had no wish to carry her bodily into the house when they
reached their destination. So he talked rapidly and loudly.
"I think you'll get on well with Bill Harvey -- your temporary landlord,
you know, the guy whose house you're going to live in until you find
your feet and get a place of your own. An interesting bloke. Used to
be a jockey, and then a flyweight boxer, and still has the broken nose
to prove it. A bit like dueling scars in his circle, having a broken
nose. I remember he once told me that when he was a kid the big man
in his personal world was the landlord, whose agent kept coming around
to dun his mother for the rent, so he decided one day he was going to
be a landlord himself, and now be owns houses all over South London --
Catford, Lee Green, New Cross, Peckham . . . He prides himself on being a
good landlord; he swears he never hires anyone to do anything he can't do
himself, from painting and rewiring down to drains and concrete floors."
Was he going to have to go on and talk about Bill's one visible shortcoming?
Gorse's head was nodding and her eyelids kept drifting down, but --
thank goodness -- they were now rounding the corner of the street where
Bill lived. Godwin thrust a fiver at the cabby and told him to keep the
change, and just as he opened the door Bill appeared to lend him a hand.
"She looks as if she's being called already!" he whispered as he caught
the drowsy girl under the arms with all the expertise due to helping
fellow boxers away from the ring after a catastrophic defeat.
"Yes, I think so. Better get her inside as fast as possible," Godwin
answered.
But Gorse was able to stand and walk by herself as she was led into
the house, even though she kept casting glances to either side, for
this was a decaying street, down on its luck, and the frontages and
roofs were even more in need of repair than those where Godwin lived,
while the curbs were lined with abandoned cars, some of which had been
set on fire and burned to discolored metal skeletons.
"I have to live here?" she said in faint horror.
"You won't find a better 'ouse in London that takes in lodgers on the
spur of the moment," Bill declared. "Not since the Rent Acts you won't!"
He was a remarkable figure, and people were looking at him from across
the street as hard as Gorse was staring at his disreputable-seeming home,
with its unpainted woodwork and rusty guttering, all in accordance with
his ingrained principle that one should do nothing to attract the attention
of the tax collectors. He affected clothing that two or three generations
ago would have been considered flash: a brown check suit with brilliantly
polished brown boots, a yellow shirt, a green silk tie with a pearl sticker
in it, and -- even for this brief excursion into the open air -- the same
brown bowler hat he would have worn on a trip to Epsom for the Derby.
"All the gear you're getting from Hugo & Diana is being sent here,"
Godwin improvised. "And remember, this is only temporary --
and
of course
once you're settled in, you'll find it's much nicer than it looks from the
outside. Remember how you felt about my place!"
Had she not been so sleepy by now, though, it was plain she would have
resisted their attempts to steer her along the hallway and into a room
on the right. From the rear of the house came faint noises: a running
commentary on a horse race, growing momently more frenzied.
"I picked Shahanshah yesterday at twenty to one -- did you 'ave anything
on 'im?" Bill inquired as he opened the door of the room so that Godwin
could steer Gorse through it. By now she was again stumbling with her
eyes shut, fighting and failing to stay awake. The room had been repapered
with a hideous design of huge orange and pink roses on a sky-blue ground,
but otherwise it was precisely as Godwin remembered: the narrow bed, the
second-hand armchair, the rickety table and upright chair, the curtained
alcove in the corner for hanging clothes, the chest of drawers with a
mismatched handle on the left of the bottom drawer, the washbasin with
the exposed plumbing, the electric shower in a tin cabinet with a torn
plastic curtain across the front, even the battered tin wastebasket with
a design of daffodils.
Of course, it wasn't yet activated. It would take a while for Gorse to
learn how to do that, but she would. And then it might well be quite
some time before she decided to move elsewhere.
They laid her on the bed and within seconds she had rolled on one side and
begun to utter that trace of a snore which Godwin had rebuked her for:
a tiny bubbling sound on every intake of breath, and a pop-and-wheeze
on every exhalation. Nervously Bill said, "I think we better get out of
'ere and shut the door, don't you?"
"Yes. She's very close. I wouldn't put it more than half an hour away."
They retreated to the hallway, where Bill retrieved a tankard half full
of bitter which he had left on an occasional table. Raising it
significantly, he said, "Want to pop in the parlor for a minute, sink
a jar? I missed the end of the race but I can rerun it. After that
I got a terrific cup-tie -- everybody said Rovers 'ad it made, but I
said United and I was right! Even though that was before I got my new
amulet. You know what an amulet is? Truly? Ah, might've known you'd 'ave
'eard of 'em before. Smart aleck! Puts all my other gear in the shade,
though. Swear it does!"
He made an all-encompassing gesture. On the occasional table stood a vase;
it contained white heather. Over the front door a horseshoe was nailed,
open end down; Godwin recalled what agonies Bill had been through,
wondering which view was correct -- whether if it were upside down all
the luck would run out, or whether it should be mounted so that luck
would fall on those who passed beneath. The latter had prevailed, but
he had one the other way up at the back door, just in case. It was his
conviction that charms and cantrips had brought him his good fortune,
and he had made his home into a kind of museum of superstitions.
Wearily and not without malice Godwin said, "Did you have anything
on Shahanshah?"
"Me? Not bleedin' likely! Won't let me in the bettin' shop any more,
the buggers won't! Won't let me do the pools neither! Just 'cause all
the time I'm right an' they're wrong! But you're 'avin' me on, aren't
you? I could swear I told you what they done to me down the bettin' shop!"
"Maybe you ought to turn in your amulets and try your luck all by yourself
for a change," Godwin suggested dryly.
"Thought of that," Bill answered with a lugubrious scowl. "But the way
I look at it, you're better off bein' lucky than unlucky, right?"
"Right."
"Sure you won't stop off for a jar?" Bill went on, having drained his
tankard. "I got the place done over real nice now. You couldn't tell
it from Frinton-on-Sea, I'd take my oath on that. And I got barrels and
barrels of beer -- lager, bitter, stout, whatever you fancy!"
Godwin was spared the need to refuse by a sudden racket emanating from
Gorse's room: great clumsy stamping sounds, then the noise of something
being knocked over -- probably the chair -- and curses in a deep,
unfeminine voice.
"Either come on in, or scarper toot sweet!" Bill whispered. "I never
fancy meetin' any of me lodgers when they're -- well,
you
know!"
Nodding, Godwin repressed a shudder. Indeed, it must be eerie to meet
a stranger in a familiar body.
Something tinny: the wastebasket being kicked or hurled at the wall.
"Gawblimey, I'll 'ave to paper the room
again
. . . Well?"
"I'm going to scarper. Sorry. Next time with luck. You fix the luck, okay?"
"Okay."
But it was a sickly grin he gave Godwin as he shook hands and he couldn't
refrain from glancing at the door of the room to see whether it was
bulging yet under an attack from the other side. Often it took quite
some while for the owner to get adjusted.
"Funny . . ." Bill said as he turned away. He spoke in a musing tone.
"Sometimes I'd give anything . . . You been called lately, 'ave you?"
"What do you think I'm doing here?" And, impelled by the same need which
had caused him to speak up at Irma's, and knowing what he had to say
would register on Bill if anyone, he suddenly produced from his pocket
the press cutting which included him in a list of heroes decorated at
Buckingham Palace. "I got the George Medal for it," he muttered. "See?"
"Crikey!" Bill said, his eyes widening. "The George Medal, eh? Wish I 'ad
'arf your imagination! I thought I was pitchin' it a bit strong when I
backed Lovely Cottage for the National!"
He studied the press cutting avidly. But before he could make a further
comment, they were interrupted by a real crash from Gorse's room:
probably the hand-basin shattering. Godwin hastily retrieved the slip
of paper and made for the door.
"See yourself out!" Bill invited ironically, and turned back to the
kitchen. Struck by a thought, however, he checked.
"Show me that again!"
"Uh . . . Well, if you like." Godwin complied, feeling for some
unaccountable reason extremely nervous -- not because of the renewed
noises from the room, but because there was a frown on Bill's usually
cheerful face.
"September the twentieth," Bill said at last, tapping the paper with a
blunt forefinger.
"Yes!"
"1940?"
"Yes, of course-during the Blitz!"
"I don't believe it," Bill said with finality, surrendering the paper again.
"Nobody's asking you to!" Godwin snapped, returning it to his pocket.
But a sour taste was gathering in his mouth, and he forced himself to
add the crucial question: "Why?"
"Weren't no George Medals then, nor George Cross neither. Didn't get
introduced until September the twenty-third." Bill gave a crooked smile.
"I don't waste
all
me time watchin' football on the telly. Always bin
interested in the war. An' that I remember clear as daylight. September
the twenty-third just 'appens to be me birthday . . . Lord, there she
goes again! 'Ave that door down in a minute! Better scarper -- see yer!"
A moment later Godwin was back in the dingy street under a dismal sky.
People seemed to be looking at him more than even they had at Bill in his
out-of-date finery. Their faces were cold and pinched with hunger. Some
of the children playing in the gutter wore only ragged vests or outgrown
dresses and were mechanically masturbating as they gazed at him with
dull eyes.
Godwin shivered and hurried on by, pulling up the collar of his jacket
against those stony, chilly stares.
But at least he could now look back on a job complete, and before claiming
his reward he could afford to relax and unwind for a while. Starting today?
Starting tomorrow?
There was no hurry. Sometimes there was, as though pressure were being
applied, but not at present. He had time to think over what he wanted
next.
And needed it. What Bill had said had disturbed him. He felt as though
the foundation of his existence had been shaken, as by earthquakes.
There was only one tenable explanation. Birthday or no birthday, Bill
must have made a mistake.
It was inconceivable that the owners should.
Abruptly, as he was heading away from Bill's place, it dawned on Godwin
that he was within easy walking distance of Harry Fenton's. On the spur
of the moment he decided to go there and pick up a passport; he had used
his present one twice.
But when he arrived at Harry's basement flat, in a narrow street of
sleazy gray-brick houses beset -- like the whole of London -- with
abandoned cars, there was no reply to his ring . . . this being one of
the few doors which did not automatically open even to his touch.
The most likely explanation was that Harry had been called, and for that
there was no help. There was never any help.
Perhaps it didn't matter. Harry's forgeries were -- naturally -- the
finest in the world, and Godwin had not actually been warned that he
shouldn't use a passport too often; it just seemed like a reasonable
precaution, because there were so many countries where the police were
forever demanding "Vos papiers!" and "Ihr Ausweis!" -- or whatever --
and the presence of a visitor unrecorded at any port or airport might
entrain problems . . .
But what the hell? Shrugging, though unable to repress a scowl of annoyance,
Godwin resigned himself to using the old one. He badly needed clean air
and an absence of people, so there was no alternative.
As he trudged toward the nearest street where a cruising taxi could
logically be intersecting with him, because it was impolitic to work
even minor miracles except in carefully chosen company, his attention
was caught by a little girl on the other side of the road, shaking back
her fair hair. He checked in mid-stride, staring . . . and realized she
could not possibly be anybody other than herself.
Thinking he might catch the last of the skiing, he made for André
Bankowski's hotel at Les Hôpitaux Neufs, but even though the spring
was dismal over Western Europe, the snow was already melting except on
the very highest pistes, and the only good run he achieved was spoiled
because he spotted a blond girl riding up in the
téléférique with André
while he was on the last stretch, and didn't realize until he had wandered
off the line into soft crustless snow that she was too round-faced and
had too large a mouth.
Compared with whose?
He sat through one boring evening in the bar and watched people getting
drunk and amorous, and went to New Orleans instead, where English-born
Wilfred Burgess was fulfilling his ambitions by leading a band of
half-legendary jazzmen, one of whom claimed to have recorded with King
Oliver. But on the corner of Bourbon and Therville in the Vieux Carré
he saw a fair-haired girl making a grand performance, for the benefit
of a boyfriend, out of her attempts to eat an enormous oyster po'boy
one-handed with a full but open can of beer in the other, and found
himself on the point of going to her assistance before he realized she
was not in fact the person he imagined.
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