Andrew hit the buttons of the
machine. His system wasn’t working.
He was now down more than fifty pounds.
He decided to wait until other customers had fed
maybe another thirty of forty into the slot, so he returned to the bar and ordered
another Coke, which he drank from the bottle.
Sitting
on a bar stool, doing The Times
crossword, a man with a florid complexion peered at him over half-moon glasses
and said, ‘I expect you’re into computer
games, as well.’
Andrew
shrugged and grunted. He didn’t like the
man’s patronising tone. Computer games
polarised youth and oldies more than music these days.
‘So
what sort of computer games d’you play?’ the man persisted.
Andrew
rattled off a lot of titles he thought would be meaningless to the man.
The
man smiled. ‘Sounds like a lot of war
games. Ever thought about the end result
of a direct missile hit?’ The guy’s a nutter, thought Andrew. Humour him.
‘Yeah,’ he replied.
‘Every time I bring down an enemy fighter, I
always imagine the pilot splattered into a million pieces.’
‘He’d
be one of the lucky ones. The victims
are the civilians unlucky enough to live within a certain radius of a military
target. Tomahawk cruise missiles, for
instance, have a circular error probability: they don’t have to be bang on
target to be effective.’
The
man spoke in a slight monotone, as if this was a speech he’d made many time
before.
‘These
computer games,’ he continued, ‘force feed us with the illusion that war is now
fought without blood being spilled.
You’d be too young to remember the Gulf War. At least fourteen years
ago.’
Andrew
nodded. ‘I’d have been only three.’
‘Well
the television coverage of the Gulf War was a wonderful video game.
From the comfort of our armchairs we didn’t
see the retreating Iraqi soldiers being cluster bombed, napalmed and burnt to a
crisp.’
Andrew
glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve...er...’
‘I’ve
driven you away. I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to be rude.
It’s just I’ve lived with this for the past
six years. I suppose I’ve become
obsessed. I think I need another gin. Can
I get you another drink? Go on, it’s the
least I can do.’
Andrew
hesitated. In spite of his suspicion
that this man might be the pub bore, his curiosity was aroused.
‘Okay.’ He said.
‘I’ll have another Coke.’
The
man grinned. ‘Of course, if you were three during the Gulf War, you’d be
breaking the law if you drank something stronger.’
‘Cheers!’
said Andrew after they’d been served.
‘When you said you’d lived with it for six years...’
‘I’m
a writer, I’m writing a book about an
arms dealer. Well, I’ve finished it,
actually. My publishers paid me a
handsome advance, then backed off. And
no-one else will touch it. But at least
the advance means I can self-publish now.
‘How
come your publisher backed off?’
‘I
opened a giant can of worms. Not far
from here, in deepest East Sussex, tucked away and
impossible to find, is a large rambling house surrounded by high walls.
The home of one of the richest and most
powerful men in the country. He made a
personal fortune of twenty million selling weapons to Saddam Hussein in the
early Eighties.’
Andrew
frowned. ‘But surely arms dealing
is...well, I thought it was just one of those things that goes on.’
‘If
you went to a posh school, thinking your father was just a rich businessman,
would you like your friends to know your father made money peddling death and
destruction? And if you were his wife,
cosseted from the truth, would you want it brought home to you that your
husband deals in cluster bombs that explode into thousands of needle-sharp
fragments, literally shredding people to death, women and children
included? How would they feel knowing their
father makes his riches out of other people’s tragedies.
He even has a company to outsource army interrogation
of Iraqi prisoners. And it’s not just the money that motivates him.
It’s the power.
Otherwise he could have retired years ago.
And this man is so powerful he can guarantee his anonymity.’
‘So
he can put the frighteners on your publisher?’
The
man smiled at Andrew’s choice of words.
‘What do you think?’
Andrew,
who’d been distracted from the fruit machine, suddenly found all this
intriguing. ‘I’d like to buy a copy of
your book,’ he said impulsively.
‘Thanks.
That’s kind of you but...’
He took a dog-eared business card out of his
wallet and handed it to Andrew. ‘Contact
me next week. Proofs should be ready by
then. I’ll let you have a copy.’
‘I
don’t mind paying.’
The
man waved it aside. ‘Please. It’s on the
house. The least I can do for boring
you.’
Andrew
blushed. ‘No, of course not...’ he
protested.
‘Just
promise me one thing,’ the man cut in.
‘Next time you play your computer games, spare a thought for the death
you could be dealing out. I know it’s
only a game but everyone seems to be losing their sense of reality.’
Frowning,
Andrew suddenly wondered if this bloke was on the level. Perhaps he was just
some pub nutter who drank too much. The
local nuisance.
As
if he guessed what Andrew was thinking, he added, ‘Everything I’ve told you is
true. When you read the book, you’ll
see.’
‘No,’
said Andrew hastily. ‘I believe
you. It’s just...I was wondering what
life would be like without my computer games.’
‘They’re
not all war games, are they?’
Andrew
laughed. ‘The best ones are.’
*
Mary had just returned from taking
the children to school when the phone rang.
It was Harvey Boyle.
‘I’ve
just had a phone call from Craig – chap you met last night.
He won’t be needing your help now,
Mary. I’m sorry, but it’s all off.’
‘Oh
no! I needed that two-hundred.
I still owe the balance for the school trip.’
There
was a slight pause. Harvey
cleared his throat before speaking. ‘I
tell you what I’ll do...’
As
soon as he used that phrase, she knew there had to be a catch.
‘You’re
still very attractive, sweetheart. Nice
figure and that.’
‘No,
Harvey. I’m sorry.
No strip-tease.
I hate it.’
She
shuddered at the memory.
‘You’re
a talented dancer, Mary. And this is a
good venue. A private do for
professional men.’
‘I
don’t care if it’s at the Oscars ceremony.
I won’t do it.
‘I
can make it two-fifty.
She
sighed, already feeling dirty at the thought of it.
‘Okay.
Just this once. For the sake of
the kids.’
IN EPISODE TWENTY-TWO ON TUESDAY
Claire has some devastating news about her daughter
and Craig has to break his news to Tony Rice.
