The Game by Scott Kershaw

Author:Scott Kershaw [Kershaw, Scott]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2022-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

They’re sitting in the parlour by half past four, only minutes after meeting, and Sarah is clutching a cup of tea with both hands. The chairs are comfortable, real leather, and somebody has laid a fire before they arrived. It could be soporific if it wasn’t so disturbing. The chairs are arranged around a round table of dark wood in the middle of the room.

Sarah looks down into her milky drink, which the proprietor poured after showing the shellshocked women in. The proprietor is gone now. The door is closed. Sarah is desperately thirsty, but something is telling her not to take a sip. She looks at the other mother, who is closest to – and facing – the fireplace. Player Five’s face is an absolute blank.

‘What is this place?’ Sarah asks hoarsely. ‘Do you think the owners have something to do with this? What does it mean?’

‘I don’t think it means anything,’ the woman replies in a hushed tone. ‘I think it was probably chosen for its name and nothing more complicated. Probably picked from a list of places online. Maybe it was somebody’s idea of a joke. They wanted us to find this place, that’s the important thing. They wanted us to know it when we saw it. They want us to meet.’

‘What for?’ Sarah continues whispering. ‘Money? One big pay out?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m not sure that this has anything to do with money, and that’s the most frightening thing about it. I think this is only the start.’

Player Five sips her coffee, and Sarah follows suit with a cautious mouthful of tea. If it’s been spiked then the drugs aren’t immediately obvious.

‘Your daughter,’ Sarah says. ‘How old?’

The woman is quiet for a moment. ‘Seventeen. Alyssa’s seventeen. What about . . .?’

‘Hannah. Two.’

The woman glances over, directly at Sarah, and her tired eyes are full of sorrow. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Sarah turns her face to the fire. A log pops inside, shooting sparks up into the chimney. ‘What’s your name?’

‘I’m not sure if we should share our real names.’

‘I’m Sarah.’

The woman sighs. ‘Linda.’

‘Linda.’ It feels better to have a name for the face; Sarah can’t stand the inhumanity of the numbering, and she supposes that is the point of it. ‘I heard you say you were police. Is that true?’

‘I was. Thirty years.’

‘Does that mean I’m breaking the rules by talking to you?’

Linda considers this. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Good, because I’m glad you’re here.’ She winces, feeling foolish. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean that, I wouldn’t wish this on anybody. It’s just that I’ve been on my own all day and . . . I’ve been going out of my mind.’

‘It’s OK. I know what you mean.’

Sarah presses her head back against the leather and sips her tea, which has no taste at all. She feels utterly drained. This is how she felt after the miscarriages, more of a husk than a real person. Useless. Helpless. All round less. If Neil has, for some reason, still failed

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