Marbles (unfinished story/novel)
(Warning - contains adult material)
1
“Yes!”
Mark jumped up and punched the air. Ten-or-so feet away the marble he had just flicked across the concrete had dropped neatly into a groove in the drain cover he and Charlie used for their regular marbles tournaments.
The object of the game was simple. All you had to do was get the most marbles into the grooves on the grubby iron grate. Fifteen marbles each - winner takes all. Mark was on a roll tonight - he’d won all four matches so far and Charlie was fuming. His cheeks had been turning slowly redder as the humiliation went on. He tried his hardest to stop the rot, concentrating for ages on each of his shots, screwing his mouth up as he focussed, and then silently propelling his marbles towards the grate. Some found their target; most had too much power and skittered past the drain. Mark, on the other hand, seemed blessed, as almost every shot he played hit the drain with just the right power and aim, dropping neatly into one of the channels in the metal. Even when he misjudged, his shots fell short, blocking the way for Charlie and making his shots more difficult. The boys played like two Grandmasters vying for superiority. Try as he might, Charlie couldn’t halt Mark’s winning streak. One after another, the marbles hit the grate.
The match ended. Another win to Mark and it was now five-nil. Charlie looked at his watch. It said six-thirty - home time. If he stayed any later there would be trouble when he got in. His mother had told him to be in by quarter-to-seven and no later - if he didn’t leave very soon he would be late. And that meant there would be hell to pay.
On the other hand, if he left now he would have to accept a whitewashing from Mark. Perhaps he could just fit one more quick game in. If he ran home straight after he could still be back in time.
“Last game,” he said.
Mark nodded. “Sure. You ready to lose again?”
“I won’t lose. Not this time. You watch.”
“Whatever.”
Mark laughed. Charlie scowled. “I bet any of my marbles against your King.”
“Oh come on, don’t be stupid. I’m creaming you! You’re only going to lose again.”
His friend bristled at this. “Do you wanna bet or not? You chicken?”
“Alright, don’t freak out. If you’re that desperate I’ll bet. I want that big Bluey you’ve got.”
Charlie had a sky-blue marble the size of a ping-pong ball. He had won it from a boy at school a few weeks ago. He was immensely proud of the marble, one of the most striking in his collection. He hesitated when Mark nominated this, as Charlie’s half of the bet. Nevertheless, he laid it on the ground in between himself and Mark. Mark took his King from his marble bag and laid it next to the Bluey. Mark’s King was a creamy white marble, bigger than Charlie’s Bluey, and it had red and green swirls running through it. It was a beautiful marble. Mark had only ever gambled it twice, and never against Charlie, only against boys at school he knew he could beat. Usually he would worry that Charlie would win the marble from him - his friend was normally strong competition - but tonight he felt invincible. He couldn’t lose.
Mark tossed a coin to decide who would go first. Charlie won the toss and opted to go second. This was a sensible decision, because you always knew what you had to do to win, and if you were behind on the last throw, you could always try to knock some of your opponent’s marbles out of the drain cover area to snatch a last-gasp win. Marbles was a serious business. You had to know the tactics.
Mark crouched down to take the first throw. He cocked his arm back a little and flicked the marble out of his hand. It jumped as it rolled over the hard ground. It hit the drain cover and came to rest just on the grate, on the left. Any more power and it would have bounced off. Mark breathed a sigh of relief. First blood to him.
Charlie hunkered down without saying a word to his friend. He felt the marble between his fingers, rolled it to and fro, let it warm up in his grip. When he was ready he closed his eyes, just for a second, willing the marble to find its target. He let it go. It hit the ground, bounced once, twice, a third time. It slowed up as it reached the drain, then rolled onto the front of the grille, right in the middle. Result.
“Good one, ” Mark said, as he prepared to unleash his second marble. Charlie nodded, still silent. Mark let his second throw go. It hit the drain too soon, too fast, and spun off out of harm’s way.
Charlie grinned. He stepped forward and bent down, marble in hand. As the small glass orb left his fingers it glinted in the early evening twilight. As it hit the concrete it spun off to the right. It bounced once and finished miles away from its target. Charlie stood up and kicked the ground in frustration. After Mark’s errant throw he had hoped to press home the advantage. He couldn’t afford to lose this one. He couldn’t let himself be beaten without winning a single game. And he didn’t want to lose the big blue marble that he treasured as a valuable prize.
And so he frowned when Mark’s third marble rolled onto the middle of the grille, pushing his own back a little. Two-one to his friend and opponent.
Charlie’s reply was to roll his marble just short of the target. It stopped in front of the grate. Charlie willed it to roll the extra few inches into a scoring position but it stayed where it was. He cursed it under his breath and stood aside for Mark to throw again.
Once more Mark found the target. His marble went into the right hand side of the drain cover and stayed there, giving him a firm 3-1 lead.
Charlie stepped up, angry now. He threw without thinking too much about the shot, and somehow hit the grate. 3-2 to Mark.
One by one, the two boys let their marbles fly towards the target. They barely spoke as the contest progressed. Like two gladiators, they each tried to force the other to break first. They gave each marble every effort they could muster. Some hit the target, some went long or wide, others fell short.
Eventually, with one throw each remaining, the scores stood at eight points all. Mark was calm, confident. He had won all five matches so far and he felt sure he would make it six with this one. Charlie, for his part, was hopping from one foot to the other, nervous as Hell, hoping to God that Mark would make a mess of his final roll.
Mark bent down. He kissed the marble in his fingers and rolled it towards the grate. It looked to have the perfect line. It skipped towards the drain cover, all the way a score, then at the very last minute disaster struck. The marble hit something on the ground - a piece of grit, a lump of gum, something - and spun off to one side, as effective as if Mark had just tossed it over his shoulder without looking.
A few marbles littered the ground all around the drain cover. Sixteen of them - eight to each player - lay in the grooves in the metal grille.
All Charlie had to do to win was to find the target. A draw was no good. In the rules of marbles there were no draws - they would play on until someone won. Charlie couldn’t let that happen - he had to go home before his mother decided he had pushed his luck too far. It was late. Too late.
Charlie crouched. The marble was held between his thumb and forefinger, ready, a missile primed to launch. He paused. Steadied himself. Rolled the marble.
It went off like a rocket. After all that pressure, Charlie had launched the marble towards the grate at light speed, without meaning to. He watched it as if in slow motion. The final play, the final roll of the dice, the final tackle before the handover. The marble hit the drain cover at speed. It clattered another marble, which had been sitting in one of the grooves, a scoring marble, one of Charlie’s own scores. Both marbles leapt up and cleared the drain cover, landing a good twelve inches away on the concrete. Charlie had handed the game to Mark on a plate. The match was over. Charlie had been beaten again, and it was no-one’s fault but his own.
“Shit!” he shouted. He clenched his fists together tight and forced the tears back into his eyes. Just for a second, he wanted to tell Mark he hated him.
Mark was smiling. Gloating. He said bad luck to Charlie, still with a grin, and bent down to pick up the Bluey, his prize.
Charlie jumped forward and shoved Mark, sending him sprawling backwards onto the concrete.
“Bloody Hell!” Mark said, “You shithead! Calm down, will you?”
“You cheated!” Charlie yelled, “On that last shot! You were too close!”
Mark scowled. “Don’t be stupid. I beat you fair and square!”
Charlie bent down and picked up Mark’s King.
“You want this back? Go fetch it then!”
Charlie drew his arm back and hurled the marble as far as he had the strength to. It left his hand and spun through the air, over the wall behind Mark and onto God-knows-where. Mark looked horrified.
“You idiot!” he shouted. His prize marble sailed off into oblivion.
Charlie laughed and stuck two fingers up at his friend. “You cheated. You bloody cheated.”
Mark flew at Charlie, flailing away at his head. The two of them fell to the floor, punching and grappling. Mark rolled on top of Charlie, pinning his arms under his knees.
“You lost my King,” he hissed, “Spaz!”
“Fuck off!” Charlie said.
Mark rolled off Charlie and got to his feet. Charlie got to his knees, slapping dust from his clothes as he did so. He would be in trouble when he got home. He was already late and he still had a twenty-minute walk in front of him.
“I hate you,” he said.
Mark was no less irate, having lost his prized possession. “Get buggered,” he said, “Sometimes you can be such an idiot! Sometimes I wish you’d just fuck off and die!”
He considered taking it back as Charlie got to his feet and grabbed his marble bag, but he decided against it. Instead he scowled at Charlie as he turned tail and fled for home.
From behind the Spar supermarket, where they had been playing marbles, Charlie had a simple journey home past the shops and then along a footpath which led past the railway lines and onto the street where Charlie’s Mum lived. He would be late, but he would be home soon.
2
The Bluey sat on the ground, innocent and quiet. Mark picked it up, rolled it between his fingers, felt its weight. He stuck it in his trouser pocket, not in the bag with the other marbles, not yet. With a shrug he too headed for home. His house was close by, just past the shops. He could be there in a couple of minutes at the most.
As he went round to the front of the small supermarket two bigger boys emerged from the shop clutching chocolate bars. Mark paused for a second and then headed past them into the shop.
The elderly woman behind the counter had piercing grey eyes, which bored into him as he fumbled in his pocket for some money. They matched the colour of her hair. As he counted the coins she scanned the shop like a guard dog, on the lookout for whatever it was that elderly shopkeepers looked out for. Finally Mark handed her the right change and took his chocolate bars. He stuck them deep in his jacket pocket to keep them away from his mother’s prying eyes. He would eat them later.
When Mark arrived home his Mum was in the kitchen, cleaning.
“Just in time,” she said, “Any later and you’d have been in trouble. Go get cleaned up and I’ll pour you some milk.”
He smiled at her and went off to wash his hands.
In the bathroom, Mark went to take the Bluey out of his pocket. It wasn’t there. He fished around in the rubbish that filled his pocket - chewing gum, an elastic band, a few coins. His house key was in there too, on a plastic Newcastle United key ring. But no marble. He checked his other pockets. Nothing. But he was certain he’d put it in his trousers. He picked up the marble bag and sifted through the little glass balls, just to be sure, but there was no Bluey in there, as he’d known there wouldn’t be. He must have lost it somehow. He’d come straight home after the fight with Charlie, except for popping into the shop. That was it - he must have lost the marble in the shop. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he had taken his money out to pay for the chocolate. Damn. He cursed himself for losing the marble that he had just fought so hard to win.
He was sorry that he’d argued with Charlie but he knew they would be friends again the next day. They had fallen out before and it was no big deal, it was just something that boys their age did. It was nothing to worry about.
Sometime later, the telephone rang. It was Charlie’s father, looking for Charlie. He hadn’t arrived home yet, and he was now three hours late. It was dark outside.
3
The alarm clock crowed like a cockerel, loud and intrusive, roughly jerking Mark awake. He leant over and shut off the alarm, silently hating it as he did every morning. He kept meaning to ask his Mum to buy him a different one, one that didn’t wake you up with such debilitating brutality, but somehow he never quite got round to it.
He climbed out of bed and went downstairs, yawning as he clattered his way down the stairs. His Mum was in the kitchen, talking on the phone.
“Yes, I will,” she said. “As soon as possible. Could you? That might be better, yes. Thank you. Thank you. Yes. Bye.”
She clicked the phone off. She turned to Mark and immediately he sensed that something was wrong. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying, though she wasn’t crying now.
“Mark, come here. I need to talk to you.”
They didn’t tell Mark the details. They told him that Charlie’s body had been found in amongst some trees, which bordered the railway line, by the footpath near his house. They told him that someone had killed Charlie. They did not tell him that Charlie’s hands had been nailed to a tree, leaving him standing upright and naked, caked in his own blood. They did not tell him that Charlie’s throat had been slashed, or that his tongue had been cut out, and had yet to be found. They did not tell him that Charlie’s body had been a mess of frenzied knife wounds, dozens of them around his head, his abdomen, and his legs and genitals. And they did not tell him that pushed into Charlie’s anus was a large, blue, glass marble.
(c) Nick Boldock, 2010
Author's Note: This is another one I wrote with a pretty firm idea of the whole story in mind, but then (as I do) I got distracted by other things and lost the momentum. I suppose you'd say this was going to be a "psychological thriller" (as the blurbs call them) and who knows, maybe one day I'll return to it. On that basis, I'm afraid I won't reveal what happens next. This was, I think, intended to be novel-length. I must say that although this is a few years old, I think it stands up pretty well on the whole, and I remain particularly pleased with the tension of the final marble shootout. It's amazing the things you find in the "archives"...
