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Elissa blushes. The couple continue to stare, as if expecting something in return for their interest, so she says, ‘I’ve got a chess tournament today, in Bournemouth. First of a Grand Prix.’
When they offer her fuzzy smiles and drift back to their conversation, she sags with relief. Turning away, she sees the man in the turquoise jumper watching her. He shakes his head minutely before returning to his book. Whether he was expressing solidarity at the unwanted interruption, or distaste at her poor social skills, Elissa cannot tell.
A minute later her mum comes back from the loo. Thenit’s her turn to go. They meet back at the service desk and settle their bill. When they pass their table on the way out, the couple that were sitting beside them are still eating, but the man in the turquoise jumper has gone. Steam curls from his abandoned teacup.
IV
The tournament is being held at the Marshall Court Hotel on Bournemouth’s East Cliff. Because they’re early, they have no problem finding parking.
Elissa’s stomach gurgles and pops. She wishes she hadn’t eaten the fried breakfast. There’s a strange taste in her mouth, as if her teeth have been coated with grease. An image pops into her head. She’s taking the opening move of her first game. When her fingers release the chess piece, they leave a sheen of bacon fat.
‘Have you got a wet wipe?’ she blurts. ‘It’s really important.’
Her mum nods, scrambling inside her handbag. She pulls out a sealed pouch. Elissa breaks it open and swabs her hands.
They sit in the car for a while, staring at the whitewashed building as seagulls circle overhead. Finally, Lena Mirzoyan taps the dashboard clock. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
‘Game face on?’
‘What?’
‘I’m not really sure – I just heard it on TV.’
‘Oh, Mum.’
V
A giant whiteboard stands in the Marshall Court’s lobby. On it someone has writtenCHESS THIS WAYand drawn an arrow pointing left. Elissa follows it to a wide corridor carpeted in a busy geometric fabric. Along one wall, a draperied trestle table is piled with chess merchandise: T-shirts, mugs, travel sets, clocks, home-printed manuals and guides. A grey-haired woman in a fuchsia cardigan sits behind it, smiling as they pass. ‘Be sure to come by later,’ she says. ‘Good luck, Missy.’
At the end of the corridor, a registration desk is staffed by a birdlike man with a prominent Adam’s apple. Dark hair sprouts from his skinny wrists, which emerge in turn from the frayed cuffs of a pink shirt. Behind him is the ballroom, where rows of tables have been set up.
‘Name?’ he asks.
‘Elissa Mirzoyan.’
The man drags an overlong fingernail down his list. ‘And who’ve you brought with you today, Elissa?’
‘Just my mum.’
He tuts theatrically. ‘I’d have said you deserve amuchlarger fan club. Got your ticket?’
Elissa winces. Turning to Lena, she asks, ‘Can I have the keys?’
‘You left it in the car?’
She nods, blowing out her cheeks.
‘Want me to come with?’
‘No. I’ll be thirty seconds.’
Taking the keys, Elissa sprints back down the corridor. Outside, a mud-caked white van has squeezed into the space beside their car. Sliding along the gap, she unlocksthe Fiesta’s passenger door, leans halfway inside and flips open the glove box. There’s the ticket, just where she left it. When she climbs out, the white van rocks gently on its springs. Elissa glances through the driver’s window but she can’t see anyone inside.
A cloud drags across the sun, casting a sudden pall over the car park. A rash of goosebumps breaks out across Elissa’s skin. Clutching her ticket, she edges back along the gap.
On the van’s rear bumper – metal, not plastic – is a series of tiny indentations, as if it’s been the target of a small-calibre rifle. There’s a creepy sticker, too, of a trilby-wearing skull smoking a cigarette. A speech bubble in a heavy gothic font reads:CHILLAX. Somebody, at one time or another, has burned a hole through the tip of the skull’s cigarette, revealing a cherry of orange rust. Elissa frowns, disturbed without knowing why, and rushes back inside the hotel.