David Flusfeder - The Pagan House

Edgar walked past them as if undeterred, and went to the pinball machine. He put in one of his father’s quarters, frowned, slapped the machine with the heel of his hand to let it know who was in charge, pressed the start button, nodded at the display of lights, turned down his music, acknowledged the chorus of beeps and whistles and bells, checked the action of the flippers, pulled the plunger and let it go, and away he played.

Under the glass was a list of instructions, but Edgar liked to learn how these machines worked by playing them, by their responses to him, and his to them. His first ball was a good one, staying under control, keeping in the lanes, until it hit the left bank at an awkward angle, spun back on to his flippers; he tried to catch it, but the flipper was too clumsy, or he was: the ball hopped and fell between the ends of the two flippers and down the middle and was lost. It’s okay, Edgar nodded, this was a decent machine, a worthy opponent. You treat me with respect and I’ll treat you with respect. It was hard to find these machines any more. Everything was computer and video.

The lounging youths were walking slowly through, and now he could feel the attention of their unfriendly scrutiny. One of them jostled against his shoulder as they passed into a back room, where they drowned the friendly noises of the machine with loud lurching music, guitars and drums, clattering, angry, incompetent sounds that made the back of his neck vulnerable with their bad intent.

The second ball built up his score, and he was unlucky to lose it, just before he was about to hit the drop-down targets again to claim a free ball, but the pressure was on him, the music had stopped as abruptly and pointlessly as it had begun, and the hoodlums were back jostling behind him, so before he plunged the third ball into play he put another quarter on the glass top to reserve his next turn. The third ball was a disaster, swooping through the gate, down the alley, it took an awkward carom off his left flipper, bounced against the grinning monster face in the middle, which he had learned must be avoided, and fell through the impotent rise of his flippers.

Edgar felt sick. He had confirmed whatever low opinion of him these dangerous thugs might have. He had performed badly under pressure, like a boy, and the largest one, the Indian Fighter with the blond hair and the paper cap, reached for Edgar’s next quarter and said, ‘Unlucky, kid,’ and slotted it into the machine and pushed him aside.

‘Let’s see the master at work.’

‘But that’s—’ said Edgar.

‘I need some room here.’

A hard elbow cracked into Edgar’s ribs.

‘Tough luck, kid,’ said the weasel, unsympathetically. ‘You gonna order something?’

‘No,’ said Edgar.

‘We’ll see you later, kid.’

Edgar stood disconsolate. They were gathered by the machine with their backs to him. The player used his whole body, flicking the flippers double-fast, hips pushing the path of the ball into the desired lane, his hands slapping the sides of the machine. ‘Sky is so good,’ he said, supplying his own commentary. ‘He’s got all the moves.’

Stubborn Edgar, alarmed at his own impulses, pushed towards the machine. ‘I want my quarter back,’ he said.

Ignoring him, Sky flipped and shoved and jerked his head to tell the ball where to go, and miraculously it did, and miraculously his paper hat stayed on his head.

‘You’re gonna lose it,’ said the weasel.

‘It’s outta control,’ and ‘You is fucked ,’ said the other two, simultaneously, then glared at each other so violently that they had to be brothers.

‘In your face. Watch me and weep, you suckers.’

‘I want my quarter back,’ Edgar said.

Someone else had come into the pizza parlour, another enormous boy—they grow them big here—closer in age to the hoodlums than to Edgar. He carried himself awkwardly, as if he was making a perpetual apology for his size, the fluff of his incipient beard, the cleanness of his jeans and the T-shirt he wore over his sweatshirt, the pimples across his broad Scandinavian forehead.

‘Now look what you done made me do! Lost the fuckin’ ball!’

Edgar wished the gang’s inattention back. The sight of them all staring at him was not a comfortable one. He had met their type before, in London, brutalists, torturers of boys and beasts; they immediately went to the top of his list of suspects. He hoped the bulky stranger would intervene. Maybe their attention would turn to him.

‘I want my quarter back. You took my quarter. I want it back.’

He had established his position. There was no turning back. So this was how he was destined to die, friendless and forsaken in a pizza parlour in Creek. He supposed even his mother wouldn’t be able to recognize his battered remains after they had been dredged out of the river. No, no. That’s not him. That’s not my son. It can’t be!

I’m afraid there’s no mistake, ma’am. Dental records and DNA and suchlike prove it. That’s your boy, or what they left of him . Just for God’s sake get that, that thing into the ground quick, the sight of it is making decent men weep .

‘What did he say?’

‘I didn’t hear him. You hear him?’

‘I don’t think he spoke. Did he speak?’

‘You must have heard. He’s got a really funny voice.’

‘Did you speak, kid?’

‘My name’s Edgar.’

It was the first time his secret name had been spoken in public, and how he hoped it had the magic it promised.

‘What? What he say?’

‘He says his name’s Edgar.’

‘He’s got balls.’

‘Where you from, Edgar?’

‘Are you British, Edgar?’

‘Have you got balls, Edgar?’

‘He’s got balls. Edgar’s got balls.’

‘I thought the British were famous for having no balls.’

‘You got balls, Edgar?’

‘He’s not talking now.’

‘I don’t think he talked before.’

‘If you’ve got balls, Edgar, I think you’re gonna have to prove you got balls.’

‘You going to show us your balls, Edgar?’

‘He might be leaving.’

‘I think Edgar’s leaving. Are you leaving, Edgar? You didn’t say anything and now you’re leaving and we’re not going to see you again? Give Edgar some room. I think he’s leaving.’

‘I want my quarter back.’

Edgar had gone beyond being astounded by his own behaviour. He was reconciled to it now and fixed to his path and would take it to its inevitable violent end.

‘Did Edgar say something?’

‘I think he’s definitely got balls.’

‘Almost definitely.’

‘I think Edgar talks too much.’

‘I like how he talks, though. I warnt my quharrrrtarr . It’s funny.’

‘Edgar’s talking is going to get him into trouble one day.’

‘He’s in trouble now.’

‘Let’s see his balls,’ said the weasel, trying to incite his more powerful friends.

‘You took my quarter. I want it back.’

They were about sixteen or seventeen years old and they had muscles that were streaked with motorcycle and pizza grease and they wore tufts of hair on the chins of their hard, unforgiving faces, and he was almost thirteen and lightweight and maybe they’d go easier on him because of that. He wasn’t reassured by the affectionate way they were sneering at him. He had seen enough playground massacres to know that the bully loves his victim.

‘Give him a quarter, Ray.’

‘ Wha ’? Why me?’ whined the weasel. ‘I don’t have a quarter.’

Sky cuffed Ray on the side of the head and kept hitting him until he pulled out a quarter.

‘Shit,’ said Ray, enviously. He flipped the quarter to Edgar, who predictably dropped it. He didn’t suffer the kicks to the head he was expecting as he retrieved it from the grease-spattered red lino floor.