Pier Pressure

Shortlisted entry

by Rosy Drohan

My hand shakes as I draw out the coin. It is bolder, brighter than the rest and glints as I tilt it from side to side. This way and that, I turn the coin. In the garish light of the arcade it grows larger. My hand trembles all the more. I see it slipping through damp fingers, disappearing into a crack, down into murky darkness. I see myself kneeling on the rubber lino, scrabbling desperately amongst the cigarette butts and ring-pulls. Better to put it back in my wallet, safe in the deep leather folds, away from trouble, away from temptation. How simple, you might suppose. To walk out into ordinary daylight, the grey-white sky, the circling gulls. To walk straight down the wooden planks, back on to dry land.

My nails bite into my fist. I must uncurl these fingers. An imprint is stamped into the hollow of my palm. I consider my dilemma. Fifty: fifty. This single coin holds both promise and dread. It has an unnerving energy of its own. It's heavy with the dread of expectation. I'd better get done with it, despatch it before it despatches me. But wait! Temptation rears its head with supreme alacrity. A last ditch challenge to my sanity. People are all around me, ordinary people, just like me. They have no problem. Pouring in the readies, as Dad used to call it. The huge machines, mouths gaping, gobble up the readies just as quickly as they are poured in.

The shrunken man across the arcade has a full cup. He feeds them in, one after the other. 'Hold!' 'Spin!' 'Select!' commands the Master. Nimble fingers obey: they push, twist, flick and eject. The Master is sent off into thrilling reels of light. He bleeps and flashes, buzzes and throbs. His appetite is always insatiable. A pause, then the moment of truth: a torrent of liquid gold falls into the vast chasm of desire. Empty once again, the Master yawns with futility of it all. The shrunken man turns. He is looking straight at me. There is something familiar about the eyes. His expression is glazed, his face set in a mould of satisfaction.

Is there no end to it, this living hell? No final release? What starts as a challenge - only a bit of fun! - quickly takes hold. Unremittingly, it alters you from within. Like a cancer it plans to invade every corner of your being. Desperate to stay in control, you bend the rules. It's okay, you say, it's just a question of finding a balance. But you don't notice how you've altered. Until you're barely recognisable. Like the woman with the buggy. She stares vacantly at the Wheel of Fortune, neither hopeful nor disappointed. Her baby babbles endlessly to nobody in particular. Today must have hit me for six. Now I don't like what I see.

I wend my way between these Masters of Fortune and step outside into pallid light. The metal balustrades are black and stand guard like soldiers. They protect against the dangerous unknown, the grey world of caution and compromise. The coastline is dull, grainy, sepia-tinged. I stare at the thin string of scum at the water's edge, where the sea meets the land. I cannot recall the last time I saw my father look really happy. Today has passed me by in a lifetime of lost memories. The crematorium, the service, all those people, people who used to mean something. I forget the exact time and place but I think it must have been at David's house. Sitting in the garden, waiting for a taxi to collect him. David was the one father loved best. Which is why David gave the tribute. Organised the funeral.
        'Come back to the house. Please Simon,' he said. 'We'd love to see you, to catch up.' He caught my arm. 'Dad would have wanted it, you know.'
        But Dad did everything in his power to drive a wedge between the two of us. I used to think he was frightened I'd contaminate his precious David, my little brother, the favoured one. Contaminate him, like Dad had contaminated me.

Instinctively, I raise my arm. It propels forward and I hurl the coin high into the air. For an instant, it hangs, sparkling provocatively, then plummets. The last thing my father gave me. His legacy. 'Don't you go spending it all at once, now,' he'd said. Then he climbed into the taxi and was gone. I kept that coin. It was a reminder. Dad who had everything but still wanted more. Dad who led a double life, but spent most of it wriggling his way out of trouble. It could go either way but today I've chosen to end it. No more 'business' trips to Germany, no more visits to the bookies, no more on-line poker. No more kidding myself. Dad won't win after all.

I walk down along the edge of the pier and see how lights have started to sprinkle across the town. Past the woman selling Chinese fortune cookies. Then I stop and buy fish and chips, warm and soggy in yesterday's Mirror, sit and eat them on one of those iron benches, except now they've been painted white. It had to be a different blue bench each time we visited, taking care to count them in case one was left out. That would mean bad luck. It'd mean Dad hadn't won at the tables so would return to find me in a mean temper. On one occasion, he was so incensed as to throw his car keys into the sea. It was an uphill walk to the station, no toffee apple and the journey home in silence. Even at that age it had struck me as odd. This fury, coming from a man who drove a brand new maroon Vauxhall Cresta! All our friends from Summersbury Estate would come out to admire it. Back in the sixties it was the most glamorous model. Like the one he used to meet in Brighton.
        'Our secret,' he used to say, 'just your's and mine.'
        Yes, it was the face of my father I'd seen today. The face of a hardened gambler.

David comes to mind, all at once, with his off the peg suit and his plump, homely wife. I struggle to recall what we spoke of today: pleasantries, odd memories, the kind of non-descript, artificial exchange employed at funerals. I could go back there. They'd all be there now. Or I could sink my wages at the casino. A rush of exhilaration, I stand still, throw back my head and give a whoop of joy! The elderly man shuffling past looks surprised and then plain disapproving, probably on account of my dark suit and black tie. I feel giddy and childlike.

Back at my b&b I fling my jacket and tie on the bed and fix myself a beer. Phew!! What's the chance of flipping the top into the bin? I perch on the edge of the bed. If I manage it, I get another beer! So be it - the beer's lousy in any case. So I search out my laptop. A spot of poker will do the trick. I'm really up for it now, can feel the adrenalin start to pump. But I can't get a connection. The blasted line's faulty. I seize the laptop, feel like hurling it through the window. The cable tugs and rips plaster from the wall. I drop the bugger on the bed.
        'This place stinks!' I sink down, head in hands and crumple up in defeat. This wouldn't have happened at the Grand! The Grand Hotel, June 25th 1998. Julia orders room service: Champagne and canapes, no less, which arrive on a silver tray. When it comes to settling up, I'm charged for nothing more than a toasted sandwich! We laugh together at our good fortune. Nothing can touch us.
        'Stick with me and I'll bring you luck!' Did I really say that? I can't afford a room there now. Not after that weekend. Not after the divorce.

I drag myself into the tepid shower, force down a cup of tea. The taxi is running up a fortune. Quick glance in the mirror: impassive as ever. Like father, like son. Then the nightmare journey to Newhaven, like travelling back down a long, dark tunnel. And they're sitting there, out in the garden, just as I left all those years ago.
        'How good to see you, Simon!' I sense false jollity, but David comes straight over, arms outstretched. Awkwardly, we hug. There's some catching up to be done, he says carefully. One day at a time, say I. How like Dad, standing there in my smart suit and carefully composed expression. But nobody comments on this, or on my late arrival. Nobody really notices. And they're not talking about Dad but discussing the price of hot tubs. Perhaps I'm not the only one who doesn't miss him?

List of shortlisted entries