Alex Garland - The Beach

Françoise stopped. 'OK,' she said. The rest of the group began drawing away from us. 'Let me say it, Richard. You are worried you said you loved me, yes?'

'What?' I exclaimed, momentarily thrown by her Exocet-likebluntness. Then I gathered my wits and lowered my voice. 'Jesus Christ, Françoise! Of course not!'

'Richard...'

'I mean, that's a ridiculous idea.'

'Richard, please. It is not ridiculous. It was what you were afraid of.'

'No. Not at all. I was...'

'Richard!'

I paused. She was staring straight at me. 'Yes,' I said slowly. 'It's what I was afraid of.'

She sighed.

'Françoise,' I began, but she interrupted me.

'It does not matter, Richard. You had this fever, and in a fever people can say strange things, no? Things they do not mean. So you are afraid you said something strange. It means nothing. I understand.'

'You aren't angry?'

'Of course not.'

'And... Did I say anything? Anything like that?'

'No.'

'Really?'

She looked away. 'Yes, really. You are very sweet to worry, but it is nothing. Do not think of this again.' Then she pointed to the others, who were now fifty feet down the beach. 'Come. We should

go.'

'OK,' I said quietly.

'OK.'

We caught up with the group, neither of us talking. Françoise walked up to Étienne and started chatting with him in French, and I walked a little aside from the others. As we neared the turning off the beach to the camp-site, Gregorio sidled over.

'You feel like the new boy in school?'

'Oh, uh... Yeah. A bit.'

'These first days are difficult, of course, but do not worry. You will find friends quickly, Richard.'

I smiled. The way he emphasized the 'you' made it sound personal, like he thought there was something particular about me that would make it easy to find friends. I knew it was just the way he spoke English, but it made me feel better all the same.

Game Over, Man

While we'd been on the beach, the camp had filled up with people. I could see Bugs and Sal by the entrance to the longhouse, talking to a group who all carried ropes. A fat guy was busy gutting fish outside the kitchen hut, stacking the hollowed bodies on broad leaves and emptying the innards into a blood-smeared plastic bucket. Beside him a girl blew on a wood fire and fed the flames with kindling.

The centre of the clearing seemed like a focus point. Most of the people were there, just milling around and chatting. At the farthest end a girl was carefully laying wet clothes over the guy lines.

Gregorio was right. I did feel like the new boy in school. I scanned the clearing as if it were the playground on my first day's lunch break, wondering what divisions and hierarchies would have to be learnt, and which of the thirty or so faces would end up as friends'.

One face stuck out. It belonged to a black guy sitting alone, his back against a storeroom hut. He looked around twenty, he had a shaved head, and his eyes were fixed intently on a small grey box in his hands - the Nintendo Gameboy I'd spotted earlier.

Étienne and Françoise followed Moshe to deposit their catch with the fish-gutters. I nearly trailed after them. The schoolyard atmosphere was telling me to stick with the people I knew, but then I looked back at the Nintendo guy. His face suddenly screwed up and over the murmur of talking I heard him hiss, 'Game Over.'

I began walking towards him.

I once read that the most widely understood word in the whole world is 'OK', followed by 'Coke', as in cola. I think they should do the survey again, this time checking for 'Game Over'.

Game Over is my favourite thing about playing video games. Actually, I should qualify that. It's the split second before Game Over that's my favourite thing.

Streetfighter II — an oldie but goldie - with Leo controlling Ryu. Ryu's his best character because he's a good all-rounder - great defensive moves, pretty quick, and once he's on an offensive roll he's unstoppable. Theo's controlling Blanka. Blanka's faster than Ryu, but he's only really good on attack. The way to win with Blanka is to get in the other player's face and just never let up. Flying kick, leg-sweep, spin attack, head-bite. Daze them into submission.

Both players are down to the end of their energy bars. One more hit and they're down, so they're both being cagey. They're hanging back at opposite ends of the screen, waiting for the other guy to make the first move. Leo takes the initiative. He sends off a fireball to force Theo into blocking, then jumps in with a flying kick to knock Blanka's green head off. But as he's moving through the air he hears a soft tapping. Theo's tapping the punch button on his control pad. He's charging up an electricity defence so when Ryu's foot makes contact with Blanka's head it's going to be Ryu who gets KO'd with 10,000 volts charging through his system.

This is the split second before Game Over.

Leo's heard the noise. He knows he's fucked. He has time to blurt, 'I'm toast,' before Ryu is lit up and thrown backwards across the screen, flashing like a Christmas tree, a charred skeleton. Toast.

The split second is the moment you comprehend you're just about to die. Different people react to it in different ways. Some swear and rage. Some sigh or gasp. Some scream. I've heard a lot of screams over the twelve years I've been addicted to video games.

I'm sure that this moment provides a rare insight into the way people react just before they really do die. The games taps into something pure and beyond affectations. As Leo hears the tapping he blurts, 'I'm toast.' He says it quickly, with resignation andunderstanding. If he were driving down the M1 and saw a car spinning into his path I think he'd react in the same way.

Personally, I'm a rager. I fling my joypad across the floor, eyes clenched shut, head thrown back, a torrent of abuse pouring from my lips.

A couple of years ago I had a game called Alien 3. It had a great feature. When you ran out of lives you'd get a photo-realistic picture of the Alien with saliva dripping from its jaws, and a digitized voice would bleat, 'Game over, man!'

I really used to love that.

'Hi,' I said.

The guy looked up. 'Hi.'

'How many lines did you make?'

'One four four.'

'Uh-huh. Pretty good.'

'I can do one seven seven.'

'One seven seven?'

He nodded. 'How about you?'

'Uh, about a hundred and fifty is my best.'

He nodded again. 'You're one of the three FNGs, huh?'

'Yep.'

'Where are you from?'

'London.'

'Me too. Want a game?'

'Sure.'

'OK.' He gestured to the dirt. 'Pull up a chair.'

BEACH LIFE

Assimilation, Rice

A few years ago I was going through the process of splitting up with my first serious girlfriend. She went away to Greece for the summer and when she came back she'd had a holiday romance with some Belgian guy. As if that wasn't bad enough, it seemed that the guy in question was going to show up in London some time over the next few weeks. After three hellish days and nights, I realized that I was dangerously close to losing my head. I biked over to my dad's flat and emotionally blackmailed him into lending me enough cash to leave the country.

On that trip I learnt something very important. Escape through travel works. Almost from the moment I boarded my flight, life in England became meaningless. Seat-belt signs lit up, problems switched off. Broken armrests took precedence over broken hearts. By the time the plane was airborne I'd forgotten England even existed.

After that first day, wandering around the clearing, I didn't really question a single thing about the beach.

The rice: over thirty people, two meals every day, eating rice. Rice paddies need acres of flat, irrigated land which we simply didn't have, so I knew we couldn't be growing it. If the situation hadn't come up with the Rice Run, I might never have known where it all came from. Unremarked, I would have let it pass.