Penny Feeny
‘You want we play again?’
Why was the man so persistent? ‘Not especially. I’m out of practice.’
‘To play is best practice.’
Over the following days the chess match became a habit, a way of filling time. Each game lasted a little longer than the one before but none presented a problem to Sharif. His black men slid smoothly across the squares; captive white pieces mounted. He moved his lips in expressions of condolence. Mitchell, frustrated, kept changing his mind. He made darting forays; regretted them; retreated. Sharif, confidently circling into checkmate, observed, ‘Always you react.’
Mitchell, dragged down by the lead in his boots, finding it hard to engage with a world where he had no identity, wondered if this were supposed to be a compliment.
‘Is big mistake,’ Sharif continued. ‘In chess you must be thinking in advance several moves. Is game of strategy. You must control.’
‘Of course I know that.’ He was insulted. He’d only got involved to return a favour. Chess had never been his passion; he preferred a hand of poker any day. Besides, he knew perfectly well what it was like to be in control. Every year he bore the lives of thousands in his hands. He didn’t sit idly accosting strangers.
‘When did you come here?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Is two, nearly three years now. But when I have my papers is good. My wife can join me and I can find work.’
‘What did you do, before?’
His teeth and face gleamed. ‘I am very dangerous man. I am philosophy teacher.’
‘They’re letting you stay, are they?’
‘This second appeal actually. My solicitor lose papers for first one. Maybe…’ he leaned forward eagerly. ‘You could be for me character witness.’
‘Have you any idea,’ said Mitchell, ‘How many of your sort have smuggled themselves aboard one of my planes in the past three years?’
Sharif’s eyes were button-bright; the chess pieces lay reflected in them. ‘You are pilot?’
‘I was.’ He hadn’t meant to use the past tense.
They stared at each other. Mitchell felt a surge of anger that he should now be trapped, grounded, with no more purpose than an alien he couldn’t even defeat at a board game. He remembered his casual reaction to being paged in the officers’ lounge, the mounting dismay once he entered the interview room. Apparently the dead stowaway had burst out of the suitcase in a tight coil; his limbs could not be unsprung without breaking. No-one knew how the man had escaped infra-red detection on boarding. Bribery was suspected.
When they’d showed him the body Mitchell could not suppress a start of recognition. This had been seized upon: ‘You know the man?’
There was no way they could prove a connection; the links were too tenuous. He had spent the evening in the company of a woman - Mitchell was proud to say he had never yet paid for sex. She was escorted home by someone she called her brother. Whether this was the same fellow, he really couldn’t tell. He remembered the woman all right: the warm heavy weight of her breast in his hand, the red threads of anxiety webbing the whites of her eyes, the lilting broken English of her questions. He’d been foolishly flattered, perhaps, by her apparent interest in him and felt a sharp distaste at the idea that he’d been manipulated. He’d glanced again at the shabby corpse, gawky as a disjointed marionette, dark stubble still growing on its chin.
‘No idea who he is,’ he’d said, adding: ‘He reminded me of someone I met, that’s all. Buggers look alike, don’t they?’
Sharif was watching him now with the same intensity as his colleagues. ‘I think you will not win,’ he said.
Mitchell was kneeling on the carpet, hunting in the sideboard.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘That chess set we bought.’
Clare had chosen it on holiday, a souvenir from a Venetian glass-blower’s studio, where it had shimmered like the waters of the lagoon. At home the quality of light was quite different; on display in their suburban sitting room, the set looked tawdry, was returned to its box.
‘Oh, I gave it away.’
‘You what?’
‘A charity tombola. Leukaemia I think. Or cystic fibrosis. We never used it.’ She spoke impatiently. The downward turn of her mouth had once seemed sultry to him; now it merely looked sulky. He was unnerved by their capacity to irritate each other. ‘And that reminds me. My best knife’s gone missing.’
‘Which is that?’
‘The small sharp one I use for chopping.’
‘You can never find anything you want in this house,’ he said.
In W.H.Smith he bought a book called Champion Chess Moves and a handsome wooden boxed set. By day he sat in the garden, under the looming Leylandii, working his way through each chapter. At night he played against his computer.
Coming home from work, from hours of set smiles and cossetting customers, Clare said, ‘There’s more useful things you could be doing than chess.’
Mitchell thought, ‘Knight to Queen, three, Queen to Bishop five.’
‘Have they rung you yet? Why haven’t you got your phone out here?’
He swept the bishop off the board and grunted. He was still taking regular walks, but varied the route. When he saw Sharif again he would be ready for a match of equals.
He had not anticipated rain. From the bay window he watched the downpour. The ground was so dry, fat drops bounced like tennis balls. Cars ploughed through sheets of water that had nowhere to drain. He supposed Sharif lived in a hostel somewhere, but had no idea of the address. He was mastering patience. He could wait.
When the skies brightened Mitchell left the house, carrying the wooden box under his arm. Earlier that morning a call from the airline informed him their investigation was complete. They had found no evidence of collusion; all staff were exonerated. The body had been disposed of. It was suggested he make a follow-up medical appointment. Mitchell felt in fine health. His cuts and bruises had healed; exercise had improved his heart rate. Only a wisdom tooth was niggling him.
The boys around the sundial were kicking listlessly at the concrete, snorting at each other’s bad jokes. He couldn’t be sure if they were the same ones who’d attacked him. He had the knife in his pocket still, but he wasn’t planning to use it. As he came closer - a man who’d recovered his authority - they shrank beneath his gaze. Just kids playing truant, he thought to himself. Couldn’t they find anywhere better to go?
No chairs were set waiting under the lime tree, but a transistor radio still droned. He paused beside the depleted group. ‘Is Sharif coming down today?’ he asked.
They shrugged their shoulders.
Mitchell was trying to calculate the weeks. A stab of pain shot up from his tooth. ‘Has he heard his about his appeal?’
One of the men looked at him and looked away. ‘Is lost,’ he said.
‘Has he gone? Already?’
No-one answered.
Would he wait for deportation? Or would he simply disappear? Mitchell imagined the fellow holed up somewhere, unable to practise his profession, dependent on well-wishers, moving his knight across the warped board. A restricted sort of life - but then, not many people were privileged to enjoy the freedom of the skies.
He thought about leaving the new chess set behind in case anyone saw Sharif, but decided against it. One never knew when the chance for a game might arise.