Silverfish

I could not see the faces, so I followed the tics and tells of their fingers, picking out the passionate from those feigning to care less. Bruised notes of money flashed across the table, flowing like shoals of fish towards the winner. Two arms would spread out to engulf the spoils. Then, scraping chair legs, howls of laughter, coarse goodbyes and the door out slamming shut. This ritual took place every Saturday night, with the hands the same - though they could move position. I began to recognise the individual pairs distinctly. I could even name the owner.

Popeye - bloated like a pair of hams and slow to move.

Gravy – thin and hairless. Fond of spreading fingers in a star formation.

Beck - prominent veins, pronounced knuckles.

Jasper – black hair on bones, sovereign rings.

Rad – balled fists.

Steveo – tanned with shiny chipped nails.

(unknown) – freckled and neat.

The man whose name I could never catch, I decided to call Mr. No-Name. Not to any real purpose, but because I don’t like loose ends.

I watch them from my floor above the double-glazing shop, through the back of the ceiling lights. I’d pulled up the boards and removed the solid hood from the light fittings, and used wire to make a cradle for the bulbs and cable. That way it hung in a similar fashion within the metal trim. I did this to three of the lights, and by pressing my face hard against the floor and peering sideways, I could see the whole table. I moved carefully between each to conceal my spying.

I live and work here, in a unit that straddles the corner of two roads. I stare at the fixtures for hours at a time. The twirling uprights with leaflets held in the dockets. The windows on sale shrink-wrapped in white plastic, their shiny newness pregnant with future possibility. They lean, dusted lethargically.

The boss comes in every Friday afternoon, and shuffles out just as the clock strikes five. It is a relief, frankly, to have a new occupation.

Popeye – rubbing index finger to thumb, always the right hand.

Gravy – squeezing the finger joints until they crack.

Beck – wiping palms under the table.

Jasper – twitching thumb to ring finger.

Rad – covering one fist with one hand, and then the other (back and forth).

Steveo – placing palms along the edge of the table.

Mr. No-Name – still.

Come Wednesday – with one shoulder against the wall and both elbows on the counter, I was considering getting a cup of tea from the small kitchenette at the back. It had gone four in the afternoon and I was waiting to retreat upstairs. There are two rooms above, the largest is an octagon shape, and with my few possessions I feel the space. Lying on the floor, I watch the patterns of car headlights slide across the ceiling each night, then haul my slug self to the bedroom. I sleep on a mattress raised by books - none of which I have read - but the silverfish devour them daily.

The sighing, wet sound of the kettle pulls me back and I reach for a mug of brown-ringed stains. I count them wondering the age of the crockery. The cheap teabag struggles and swells under the boiled water. Sniffing the milk, I hear the sound of the entrance door open to the shop floor.

“Is Ray in?” The man asking the question shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hands shoved in his coat pockets.

“Not until Friday.”

“Right.” He looked me slowly up and down.

“Tell him it’s going to be the weekend. Tell him that.”

Friday arrived and I was more attentive than usual to the movements of my employer, which to all intents and purposes, seemed the same.

“A man called by yesterday, looking for you.”

“Oh yes?” Sporting chain store garb, his pallor was on the edge of illness.

“He left a message.”

Chewing his thumbnail, Ray was looking at a piece of headed notepaper. He screwed it up and threw it over his shoulder, missing the bin. It landed beside the metal drawers, the top one of which, he kept locked.

He lifted his head towards me with enquiring eyes.

“All he said was ‘It’s going to be this weekend’.”

“Right.” Ray blinked, and returned to his paperwork. I, sloped back to my corner.

The weekend brought the sun. I never close the curtains in the octagon room, and the windows are painted shut, so I lay there in the stuffy heat and watched the darkness creep across the glass. I must have started to doze, because I woke to voices rising from below. I held my breath to hear, it was two in the morning. There was the sound of Ray talking, the swell of noise in response, a peel of laughter. I sat up abruptly, and the timber planks beneath me groaned. Downstairs there was a sudden hush.

I sat like that, not moving, for several minutes. Then, creeping to the back of the lights I looked down. Jaspers hands were not there and no words passed to explain his absence. Ray was offering drinks more frequently than was comfortable. Voices got louder, the playing more reckless. I got up to check the door to my flat was locked. When I knelt back down to continue my watch, things had changed.

Two men were locked in a grotesque embrace across the cards, their faces bent with silent rage. Ray was dancing about in a frenzy.

“Please, gentleman!”

Neither let go.

“Do I have to remind you of the circumstances? No one gets access to them without my say-so.”

With great reluctance, they parted and sat back down. For the first time I saw Steveo and Beck’s faces. They were as different from one another as night and day.

“We’re not afraid of you and your games Ray.” Beck said, sounding exactly like someone who was.

Ray responded in a low tone.

“Winner takes all, and every one of you is a long way from winning.”

I returned to my bed thinking, I need to break into that metal drawer. I went downstairs the following night and pulled the whole unit from the wall to feel behind and around it. My fingers skimmed over the dust and dead insects of years. There was nothing. I sat back on my haunches. There was an old coat that Ray hung on the back of his chair. I thought it worth a look.

The pockets were grainy inside, but – so easily – I found what I needed. The key slipped into the metal drawer front as if they had never been parted. Inside there were only two items, and eagerly I withdrew both.

A small black notebook was tied with an elastic band to a passport, my passport. I felt my stomach contents congeal. I opened the notebook carefully. The paper was crammed with pencilled lists of numbers, the figures moving up and down. There were only a few clear pages left. I skipped to the end. The last entry was scrawled as $20,000.

I tried to sift my clouding thoughts,

Why has Ray got my passport?

I was annoyed with myself that I hadn’t noticed it gone.

What are the figures about?

Surely the gambling.

Where is the money?

Was it with Jasper?

Access to them… to who?

Me?

Tight with nerves I glanced over the rest of the office. I wondered about the back room where the Saturday nights took place. I had never actually been in there. Gingerly I turned the handle and peered in. The layout was sparse, a large wooden table – scratched with use, and eight chairs. A dingy window covered by a closed and lopsided blind occupied the rear wall. I looked up to the ceiling, there were four spotlights in a row. Out of curiosity I flicked the light switch on. The fourth spotlight was dark.

I climbed on top of the table, pulled the light out by it’s rim, and inspected the hole. Through the luminous light from the back of the other fittings, I could see the edge of a packet. I leapt off the table and ran upstairs to my rooms. The boards were already loose where I’d doctored the other lights, so the surrounding planks came up easily. The packet was a bin bag, wrapped over and over in tape to keep it closed. I was aware of the heat on the back of my neck, beginning to spread.

Carefully I opened it.

These notes weren’t bruised. They were brand new and perfect, except for the bundle next to the sovereign rings. Even with bloody smears, the money was still crisp. Swallowing hard I hovered, cramped and rigid, having dropped the packet straight to the floor. Car headlights streaked across the ceiling above me. The innocent voices of passers-by clamoured up from the street. Of course Ray had been in these rooms without my knowledge, he owned them. He owned me.

What if I left now? The only bridge to cross was the unknown. What I thought I knew was gone. These new circumstances left me displaced, again.

Feeling safe is a right, to pass. Our rites of passage.

The following Saturday night found me sat on the wall under a tree, just outside a streetlights grasp. Acetylene shadows are the darkest. Across the road, the octagon room glowed. Several figures were inside. Every now and then one crouched to the floor and got up again. I wrapped my arms more tightly around the package zipped into my jacket, and adjusted the strap of the rucksack over my shoulder. Standing up to leave, I saw Ray come right up to the window and look out. He seemed to be staring straight at me. After a few minutes, he pressed his hand across his mouth, and slowly releasing it, turned away. He slipped back into the room, the large arm of another encircling his shoulders.

I began to walk, feeling the rigid lines of my passport pressing against me. I now knew why, in all that time, Ray had never asked my name. I would think what fools, each of us, one to the other. There is only action that leads us, even hiding is an act.

The discarded sovereign rings sat purposefully, guarding the spot I left.