The chess game had dragged on for forty-five minutes. King was exhausted, getting bored and aware that Magee was taking advantage of his fatigue. He’d enjoyed it at first, the silence in the room as they’d both settled down to concentrate. Grace had remained restrained in her sack on the floor, rolling over occasionally and emitting a muted groaning, presumably phasing in and out of consciousness. Even the hysterical Elaine had remained quiet, face pushed into her pillow, either asleep or unconscious, he didn’t care which. Magee had turned out to be far the more fascinating specimen. He hadn’t anticipated that she would do anything either so brave or so brazen as to challenge him to a game for the woman’s life. It was a gutsy move, taking responsibility for another soul like that. Not that he’d been fazed by it. His father had required him to study expert gameplay and read books on the subject. He was never quite the player his sister had been, that had been made abundantly clear to him, but he was sure he could beat a woman he’d been clever enough to abduct without a trace.
For the first half hour, he was able to pretend that he was allowing her to succeed, giving her a false sense of security. Jayne was at a disadvantage and bound to be nervous. What was the harm in letting her take an early lead? By the time he’d realised how skilled a player she was, he was trying to catch up and failing, only just managing to retain his outward calm. After three-quarters of an hour he was fading. He should never have agreed to play when he could hardly keep his eyes open. It couldn’t possibly have been a fair match and she knew it. She was a cheat, luring him in, making herself sound desperate but knowing all the while that he was in no state to concentrate. When she moved her king to the centre of the board he knew they were in endgame. It was an effort to stop his hands from shaking. That was the lack of food and sleep. And his fury at the cheating bitch taking advantage of him. He wouldn’t concede, couldn’t. It was inconceivable that she should beat him.
She declared checkmate a few moves later without a hint of celebration or boastfulness and King loathed her for it. Had she been so sure of victory that she didn’t need to appear surprised or pleased by it? Had she assumed him to be such an incompetent that it was a foregone conclusion she would beat him?
‘Why aren’t you happy?’ he hissed. ‘It was a game and you won. Only because I’m suffering from exhaustion, but still, you beat me. Isn’t this what you wanted – to make me feel small? You’ve got it, I lost, so the least you can do is be gracious and sociable.’
‘Untie her,’ Jayne said. ‘Let me clean her up.’
‘That’s it?’ he shouted, standing so abruptly the table tipped. Chess pieces scattered at his feet. ‘That’s all it was about for you? To save her? I brought you here for me!’ He was screeching, his voice like a child’s. He realised it and hated it and still couldn’t stop. ‘You’re supposed to be interested in me! We were playing a game. It was my time with you. My time. Not hers!’
‘We made a deal,’ Jayne said. ‘You agreed. You knew the terms from the start.’
‘Don’t lecture me about terms!’ he shouted. ‘It’s all about me, do you get it? For once in my life, I’m the important one. You do what I want, when I want, and you do it for me!’
Jayne’s composure was breaking, he could see it. Her eyes were shining with a glimmer of gathering tears that made him feel victorious. He wanted her to cry, to carry on crying and never, ever to stop.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please just calm down. I’m sorry. We can talk as much as you want. You played really well. If you hadn’t been tired I’d never have been able to beat you.’
‘There’s going to have to be a punishment,’ he said, ‘and it must fit the crime.’ He picked up the black queen from beneath the upturned table and held it in front of Jayne’s face.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked. There was a tear on her cheek now. He liked it a lot.
He ripped the sack off Grace’s upper body and sat behind her, one leg either side of hers, an arm around her waist, pulling her against him. Even in a questionable state of lucidity, and unable to move her hands or legs for their bindings, she was making a good show of protest, whipping her head forward and back, side to side. Scooping chess pieces into a pile beside himself, he yanked her head back against his shoulder. King pulled open Grace’s mouth and caught Jayne looking at the pliers.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not that again. You chose this for her. You chose it when you asked me to play chess, knowing I couldn’t win. You did this to her.’
King dropped the queen into Grace’s mouth and snatched a castle off the floor. In it went, followed by a pawn and a knight. He thought fleetingly of how furious his parents would have been to see the treatment their precious chess set was receiving, but then they’d never let him win either. This seemed to be a better use of the antique carved ebony and ivory than it had ever been put to before. He’d suffered enough humiliation from this particular toy.
The blocked airway brought Grace back to consciousness, her body doing its best to make her cough and expel the foreign objects being pushed further down into her throat. Her eyes began to bulge, the lack of oxygen making her thrash even as it weakened her resistance. King decided it was time to skip straight to his favourite verse of the hymn.
‘Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail.’ He shoved two bishops in together, scraping them hard against her wounded open gums, blood joining the chess pieces, filling her mouth and sending Jayne into a frenzy. ‘And mortal life shall cease, I shall possess within the veil …’ Finally he seized whatever pieces were left around him in one fist and shoved them down her gullet. Limbs flailing, gurgling and retching, he held her mouth shut, closed his eyes and listened. It was, he thought, the sound of death rising to couple with life. Finally, when his joy at Jayne’s tears was starting to ebb, Grace became still. King finished his song. ‘… A life of joy and peace.’
‘I told you,’ a tiny voice said. He’d forgotten Elaine. She was sitting up on her bed, knees drawn to her chin, rocking from left to right and panting. ‘I told you.’
King went to her. ‘You did, my darling, didn’t you? You told her what would happen and she didn’t listen. She’ll pay better attention from this point on, I think.’ He pulled a blanket over Elaine to keep her warm for the night, smoothing her hair as he tucked her in. ‘I’ll take out the rubbish in the morning,’ he said, kicking Grace’s corpse as he walked past it. ‘Sleep well, ladies.’
The next day he arrived late to work, hoping Natasha hadn’t noticed, horrified by his unironed shirt and the smell of his own body. He’d fallen straight to sleep and not had the time to shower on waking. Any further leave days would attract attention and, much as he’d wanted to sleep the day away, it just wasn’t an option. The women in the administration office were staring at him. It wasn’t in their breeding to greet him or make small talk but today they were being openly rude. He checked himself. What could they see that he couldn’t? He had his usual suit on, hadn’t forgotten his tie. It wasn’t until he reached the mirror in his office that he saw what had attracted their attention. A blackening bruise sat at the temple corner of his right eye, still in the process of reaching its fullness of colour. He couldn’t remember the blow but supposed Grace must have caught him in her writhing and fighting. It didn’t hurt unless pressed but it wouldn’t do to let Natasha see him in such a state. She’d love it, would revel in his discomposure, would no doubt be desperate for the details. He considered retreating home and knew that would be worse – an admission that something was amiss.
His phone rang. He sighed when he heard the voice on the other end.
‘Dr King. We had a meeting scheduled. Did you forget?’
‘No, Professor Forge, I was delayed, there was an accident.’
‘Come through, would you?’ Natasha spoke fast. She always spoke fast to him, as if rushing to end the conversation. He heard her talking to other people and her voice seemed softer, her words slower. She was so tense around him. The atmosphere between them had been charged since the day they’d met. She knew it as well as he. The difference was that he had the courage to admit it to himself.
‘Can you tell me what you need on the phone?’ He didn’t want her seeing him in such a state, couldn’t bear to be near her. The thought of Natasha smelling the sweat growing stale on his body was too much.
‘Just come to my office, please. I have a biography and photo to give you for the lecture handout.’ A click on the line ended the conversation. King took one more look at the bruise on his face and prepared his explanation.
He walked straight into her room.
‘I have asked you before to knock and let me know you’re coming in. Everyone else does. Could you try to remember?’ She was marking papers on her desk and spoke without glancing up. When she did, he saw her eyes flick to the bruise and enjoyed the moment more than he’d anticipated. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to challenge her perceptions of him. He waited for the inevitable questions.
‘Here are the details of the speaker for the lecture this week.’ She turned her attention to her desk and held out a folder to him.
‘About the eye …’ he said.
‘No explanation necessary.’ She pushed the folder further in his direction.
‘It’s actually quite a funny story.’
‘It’s your private business and I think we should keep these conversations professional. Make sure the photo is printed in black and white rather than colour and that her proper title is included. The lecture will start at seven thirty. There’ll be drinks in the foyer afterwards. I’ll introduce her and attendees will have a ten-minute period to ask questions at the end.’
King took the folder from her hands.
‘I know the format,’ he said. She wasn’t going to ask about his eye. Just how traumatic an event had to occur before she expressed any concern?
‘Good,’ was her response. It was also a dismissal. He made his way to the door. ‘And this is a personal friend of mine, a very close friend, so please make sure everything runs smoothly. She’s very busy. There can’t be any delays or problems. Clear?’
King didn’t credit her rudeness with an answer, just let her door slam shut and bit his tongue.
Natasha Forge was made of ice. When he’d first heard her speak on the subject of whether or not philosophy should be taught as an individual discipline or if it was inherent within every subject, he thought he’d never be able to hear anyone else’s words again. A woman so different from his own mother, who had rarely left their house as far as he could tell, constantly cooking, pickling, tidying, writing lists and fussing, Natasha Forge was all clean lines, had professionalism stamped on every part of her, from her razor-sharp wit to her piercing eyes. Not for her a life of domesticity, child rearing or homemaking. King doubted she ever ate anywhere but restaurants, that she ever cleaned her own home or did her own laundry. Her life was lived for academia, seeking enlightenment of the mind. She was the reason he’d applied for the job in the department. At first she’d been welcoming, kind. Then, as they’d spent more time together, Natasha had grown colder. He’d heard some women were like that – their interest decreased relative to the amount of enthusiasm you showed for them. And yet Natasha’s intellectual gifts were undeniable.
After his failed application for the lecturing post, he’d collated all the philosophy papers he’d written and published them as a book. Self-publishing was acceptable these days, had almost become the norm. Increasing numbers of respected writers were doing it. It meant he’d been able to send the book to a university in America who’d given him his doctorate in recognition. That should have impressed her. But the rest of the staff hadn’t bothered to hide their amusement when he’d taken in his certificate and insisted his title be changed to ‘Doctor’ to reflect his new status. He’d heard them whispering. So what if it was an online university? The fee he’d paid was purely for administration purposes. He’d worked for his qualification, had earned it with hours spent reading, writing and editing. The name of the university who’d formalised his achievement was as irrelevant as the thickness of the paper they’d printed his certificate on. It was real and it was his.
With an impatient sigh he flipped open the folder Natasha had handed him. If he didn’t get on, he’d miss the printing deadline. He stared at the photograph of Natasha’s precious friend. Her curly hair made her face look childish. No wonder she’d demanded it be printed in black and white, no doubt to add some maturity to the image. Speaking on the subject ‘Society’s Moral and Legal Right to Punish Wrongdoers’ would be Detective Inspector Ava Turner.