There are twelve tokens next to the board. A regular set has only eight, but that wasn't interesting enough. It wasn't realistic enough. Anyway, there weren't enough Chance cards, and the board of the old set fell apart.
Well… they say fell apart. It might have been torn in the midst of an argument. Well, a fight. And the pieces of it might have been burned in the living room grate, while the three original players sat around tending their scratches and bruises and swearing they would never, ever do this again. But that was a few games ago. They've never allowed themselves to get so bad since that. Certainly no injuries.
Well…
There's a rumour, just a whisper, that the 9-Day Event was won only by technical knockout. But it's only a rumour and neither of the parties involved will discuss, or even say who would have won that way. But when Moran returned from Marrakech there was a fine bronze statuette missing from the fireplace.
Milverton has been told none of this. No sense scaring him off. Anyway, maybe he'll be a calming influence on them.
But Moran's looking at Mies, and Mies is glaring at Milverton, and it's hard to believe that these proceedings might manage to remain calm. Jim sees this too, but he's revelling, and Moran makes his morose prediction as softly and unnoticed as Cassandra, "We're going to eat each other alive…"
"Did you say something?"
"Nah, Dani love. Right! Are we playing this game or what? Where's the envelopes?"
Naturally, Jim has them. Four small white envelopes, totally plain. In the interests of fairness, he holds them only by the corners, so he won't know what's inside each of them. In a regular game, every player receives the same money, the same start-up stake. That, of course, isn't like life at all. That was the first rule he'd felt the need to alter. That's what started it all. Some stupid Christmas, looking at this stupid game, thinking from that first stupid rule how stupid it all was…
And how clever it could be, with just a little bit of work.
"Ladies first," Mies says, and reaches for one.
Jim pulls them away from her. "Guests first. Here we go, Charlie; find your fortunes."
Poor Charlie. He still feels this is all a touch childish. There are probably other things he could be doing. Could be picking up a couple of quick jobs, finding his real fortunes. Poor Charlie hasn't a clue, just yet.
He picks an envelope. The moment his hand takes the slack, he can feel this one is heavy. Whatever his mood, he can smile to think he's made a good choice. He can smile when Moran mutters darkly, Bastard. That has to be a good sign. He opens it and finds, in five- and two-hundred pound notes, a total of £4000. Moran mutters again, Bastard…
"Good for you," Mies smiles, "This time you don't have to pretend you're a Lord."
While they smirk at each other, Moran finds £800 and doesn't seem overly upset. Which leaves Jim and Danielle and two envelopes. They make each other laugh with fighting over them, and watch them play like idiot children is the closest Charlie's gotten to laughing this week. Maybe it won't be so bad.
"Right," and Mies snatches one, "This is mine."
"Okay. Sure?"
"Yes."
"So this is mine. I'll swap if you want."
"No, I'm happy."
"Okay."
"Okay."
"Open."
"Right." Mies flips the top of the envelope and falls back against the couch, screaming through her teeth. "No! Thirty bloody quid! That's virtually penniless."
Milverton grins over at her. "Well, you were wearing Primark shoes when I met you."
"You swore you'd never tell anyone!"
"Girls, please," Jim cuts in. "Calm yourselves. Dani, you've got first pick on the tokens." She settles, and tucks her unshod feet beneath her where Charlie can't smirk at them. This is a very important decision. This will affect how the whole rest of the game goes for her. And with only thirty pounds in her pocket, not even enough for the bloody Old Kent Road, not enough for Whitechapel (she likes to make Whitechapel her base of operations), she needs to choose wisely. She doesn't need Charlie, and his unwise comments about her past, distracting her.
She eyes all the little pewter symbols. It's not as simple as liking the thimble best, like when she was a little girl. The tokens, in this version of the game, no longer just represent the player on the board. That would be too simple.
Danielle looks up and down the line. Her magpie eye catches on the brightest flash of silver. The newest token in this, or any, version of the game. Perfect. "I'll be having the Cat, thank you."
Now, each token has its own special trait. It galls her to be forced to stop now and explain to Charlie that the Cat is a thief, like her, and how that fits into the game. Surely he ought to learn, like she and Moran had to, in the course of play. It all becomes very self-explanatory. Everything's in the folder anyway. But she explains, and is asked to explain again when he asks what the Top Hat does, and oh, he likes the sound of that. Charlie's having the Top Hat, thank you.
She explains the Cannon, Moran's marker of choice. Explains Jim's preference for the wheelbarrow.
"Oh, don't play to type or anything," Milverton tries to laugh. "What'll you, tarmac a driveway on Mayfair? Tree surgery at Coventry Street? Until you're sent directly to jail, of course."
Moran puts out a hand and just touches his arm, like one trying to prevent a fight outside a pub. "Leave off the anti-Irish shite, Charlie. You'll need the use of that wheelbarrow, and it's his decision whether you get it or not."
Alright, Milverton admits it; this is starting to sound like an interesting variation on the game. "So who goes first?" he asks. Cautiously, since there's bound to be some elaborate means of deciding. Eagerly, since he's getting to like the idea.
Jim, shifting in his seat, "Combined value of trouser pockets."
This is something of a sore point. Charlie still has a state-of-the-art phone, but so does everybody else around the table. The idea of having to count up the contents of his wallet makes him outright shake. It is, sickeningly, the bitch who saves him, when she produces a diamond tennis bracelet from her jeans. "I knew I was coming to this," she shrugs. "And I was in a jewellers' this morning and the pad was just sitting there so…"
She's not so ashamed of herself that she can't glow all over, feeling like she's won.
Then Moran reaches to the back of his jeans and produces his Walther handgun, imported and with a hand-painted custom handle decal. It's also his favourite, and a great deal of money has been invested into keeping it useful and unknown. He puts it on the edge of the table, "I knew I was coming here too."
"Conceded," Jim says. "But I would feel a lot better playing this game without a firearm in the room with us." Moran gets up, going to the safe in the office. He's almost out the door when Jim calls him back. Goes around the room gathering the poker from the fireplace, the cutthroat razor from Mies' handbag, the brass candlesticks, a cut-crystal ashtray and a silver letter opener. "Just in case."
