Game Over

Ragged clouds, brilliant light, squalls blowing in over the sea; people running for cover, seeking shelter in the arcade, they gather, waiting for the rain to pass over.
Standing at the entrance watching the sky clearing, families herd children out into the late sun. Tensions rise and fall, but with the rain passed over, the pier begins to stir again.

I watch shadows lengthen, the pier take on a more solitary aspect. Night draws in and others emerge, lonely souls, each gravitating towards the deep warm darkness of the arcade. Inside, games machines compete for attention. The air vibrates with confused, chaotic rhythms. Snatches of banal repetitive phrases cut across each other, insistent, discordant.
Two young men fall into the arcade; boys out for the night. One drops a can, spilling liquid across the threshold. He swears, his friend laughs, drinks, throws his can out into the night. They swagger and sway making their way deeper into the chaos. These young men, they don’t see, don’t register other drifting presences in the gloom, silently moving, beginning to encircle them.
They find a game, and one of them, let’s call him Jimmy, fumbles, drops coins. His friend, John, mocks him, shoves money in the slot, picks up the gun and begins to play. Jimmy’s sorted himself out now and has his gun. Both concentrate. Aim, fire short bursts, delight in screen deaths.
John’s money runs out first, the silent gun returned to its cradle. With nothing to do but watch Jimmy, he senses the pale figures hovering silently, expectantly, shuffles nervously waiting for the game to finish.
The money exhausted, game over, they retreat from the pallid faces, escape from the arcade out into the night.

Less certain now, with nothing of the warmth, the vitality of these young men, the silent souls disperse, leaving no one to witness how, across the screen of the deserted arcade machines, mute figures stir, shattered limbs heal, the dead walk, wait.

Present

Sparse grey hair, weathered waterproof, stained baggy trousers. His big toe pokes out of his right shoe, the left is split along the outer edge, the heel missing. He shuffles by licking a sweet wrapper.
A runner disturbs pigeons pecking at the pavement. People pass and I catch snatches of conversation.

A man sits on one of the promenade benches close by, methodically cleaning the label of a plastic bottle. First he rotates the bottle, scrutinising the label. Stops, moistens an index finger, rubs the chosen spot in neat circular motions. Stops, inspects the label, repeats the process. Next to him the usual carrier bags, the large roomy kind. I feel an urge to rummage, to sift through the contents of his world, wonder what the odours of his life might be? Not just the sweat and dirt of his daily life among the shelters scattered along this promenade, but the smell and taste of his memories.
A passing child cradled in the arms of her mother smiles shyly. He returns the smile and waves, the smallest of gestures to which the child responds.

He sighs and I see his younger self, feel wet sand and a cold sea breeze. Hear her voice, the questions she asks.
‘Where’s the bottom of the sea start?’
‘Just here. Right here where water meets sand.’
‘But where? How’s this the bottom of the sea?’
He tries to explain knowing he’ll never have the right words, she’ll never understand. He smiles at her, turns to me and I hear him say, ‘Touched by Angels, that’s what they tell me, that’s what they say.’
A crab drifts back and forth on the incoming tide. She squats, pokes at it with a piece of driftwood.
‘Look it’s not moving. Why isn’t it moving? Is it dead?’
‘Yes, I think so. It’s dead. I think it’s dead. Isn’t that-’
‘Will I die?’
‘What? No. I hope not.’
‘Will I die? Will you forget me?’
‘No, of course I won’t forget you. I’ll never forget you.’
‘Why? Will I be here inside you?’
‘Always. Here inside keeping me, my heart warm.’
‘Always?’
‘Promise. Always.’
‘Really and truly, promise?’
‘Yes. Yes of course I promise. Really and truly.’
‘How. How will I know?’
‘Because you’ll be here with me chattering away as always, just like you’re doing now. Like you’ve always done. Like you always will do.’
‘Yes, like now. You promised, didn’t you.’

We sit side by side on the bench. He touches my arm. ‘You saw her, heard her, hear her now don’t you? She’s always with me, always here. We protect each other.’ Looking at him I feel something shift, become aware of a difference that stirs an echo, dislodges a sensation I seem to recognise, to remember. And I have to leave.