[The Game] Nach Dem Spiel Ist Vor Dem Spiel

Chapter 10

'Tactics don't win games. Men win games'
- Sir Alex Ferguson.

Press play.

Vienna, Austria. Present day.

Victoria and Michael sit, having some coffee. He sips at his. She stuffs a chocolate cake in her face, going at it like it's crack-cocaine.
'You not hungry?' she asks him.
'Not really,' he replies, looking out a window.
'This is incredibly good chocolate cake. You want some?' she asks, offering a forkful.
'No thanks'
'You need to eat more.'
He grunts.
'You're from Dublin, right?' she asks.
'Yep, I am,' he says.
'Love the accent' she tells him, giggling. 'Oh to be shure, to be shure' she says in a bizarre, sing-song voice.
'Was that supposed to be an impression of me?'
'Not really. I've just known a few people from Dublin'
'Why do English people do this? Why do they feel the need to put on a cod Oirish accent whenever they meet an Irish person?'
'It wasn't meant offensively...'
'Let me put it this way; if I was Pakistani or Indian, would you be mimicing my accent?'
'WooooOOOOOOoooo. Fucking sensitive, aren't we?'
Michael sighs, laughs a little. 'Sorry. Where are you from then?'
'Isle of Skye' she says, laughing into her coffee.
'Skye? The one off the coast of Scotland? So where'd you get that accent? You talk like your auditioning for a Bond movie'
She laughs again. 'Here and there.'
'Sorry I said you were English'
'My mother was English'
'Oh'
'Jesus, you're an asshole'
'So they tell me'
'Anyway, you wanna hear a great story about Dublin?'
He thinks about it. 'Sure, why not?' he says, glad of anything that will change the subject.
She pulls out her pocket watch, flips open the lid and turns it around to show him. There's a picture projecting off the interface, showing in full-screen size before him. Steps, leading up the side of a church.
'This is an image of the 40 Steps,' she says, 'the passageway between the interior of Medieval Dublin to the area known as "Hell", at the side of St. Audeons' church. You know it?'
'Nope'
'Pathetic,' she mutters, slapping the lid closed. '"Hell" was where the limit of the law ended. So in 18th century Dublin, the space beyond that point was a denizen of whorehouses and drug dens. Over the years, the ghost of Darky Kelly, a famous Dublin brothel-owner, has been seen here. Too many times to count. She was burnt alive as a witch, just steps away from the gate of the city, about ten metres to the right of the steps shown in that picture. In addition to being a famous madame, Darky had the gift. The same one we have. She could see things, go places, meet people. Men craved her, coveted her. Fought over her. She could drive them nuts. Clever girl. Remind you of anyone?'
Michael said nothing.
'Yes, Gabriel told me what happened with Claudia. Old "Raveheart" herself, eh?'
Despite himself, Michael laughed. 'What did you call her?'
'"Raveheart". It's a nickname Gabriel gave her a few years back. On account of her propensity for guzzling handfulls of "e" like they're smarties and then beating the living shit out of people with big pointy sticks. Most of the guys in Cardenio think she's a fucking terrorist'
'And you?'
'Oh she is a fucking terrorist. But, I'm a woman. I suppose I might see it slightly differently. There's a part of me admires her maybe. I think most of the guys have a problem with her because they wanted to sleep with her and she laughed in their faces. I can empathise with that. I just wish she'd stop fucking around and getting in the way of what we do.'
'Sounds like you two have some history'
'We do'
'Which is?'
'For me to know and for you to wonder about'

Are you left-handed or right-handed she asks him. Right-handed he tells her. Then you lead with your left. Get your arms up. Up. Higher. Lead with your left, she says slamming the pads together, opening her hips up, placing the pads a few inches apart, blocking her face. Lead with your left to hit my left, then your right to my right. Across your own body. Left foot forward. Balance yourself. Lead with your left hand. Now try it. Left to left. Right to right. Harder. Hit me harder. Harder you fucking fairy. That's it. Now, when you swing across to hit the pad twist your shoulder. Your arm should pivot through the blow. Now try it. No, left first. That's it. Left then right. Twist. Get your arms up. Jesus Christ it hurts. I know, keep them up now. Never realised how heavy your arms were, eh? Keep 'em up. Now, when I call the number one, you hit left to my left. Number two, left to left, then right to right. Number three, left to left, right to right, left to left. Number four - you get the idea. Ready? One. Three. Don't worry, keep going. Two. Lead with the left. Harder. Four. Harder you fucking pussy. Three. One. Twist as you hit. Roll your shoulder through it. Two. Yes, that's it. Two. Four. That's it. Harder. Twist the shoulder. Lock your wrists. Harder. Two. Three. One. Stop trying to hit the pads and fucking hit them. Harder. Four. Two. One. Now, put a face on it and let it go. Three. Four. C'mon bitch, let me have it. Let it out. One. One. Two. Yes, let it out. As hard as you can. Three. Harder. Two. Jesus H. Christ, I've seen meaner six-year olds. Two. Yes, harder. And stop. No, stop. Arms down. Now breathe. Breathe. Slumping down. Heart-rate jacked. Jesus Christ. Crouched down, panting. Sweat and tears pouring down his face. She kneels down, her hand forcing his chin up, making him look at her. Remember, she says, "Nach dem spiel ist vor dem spiel". What the fuck? Breathe Michael, breathe. Easy, easy. Now, she says, standing up. On your feet. You're going to learn how to jab. And duck.

'Anyway, Darky could drive guys crazy. One in particular went real crazy. Batshit. The story goes that Darky became pregnant with the child of a man called Simon Luttrell, the Sherrif of Dublin. Fearing for his position, he refused to acknowledge the child as his own and levelled an accusation of witchcraft at Kelly in order to shut her up. Being a lady of the night, the accusations stuck and she was roasted slowly in front of a baying mob'
'Why?' Michael asks.
'Because she refused to be quiet. Refused to stop telling the truth. In that time, in that place, in that way of seeing the world, there was no space for a woman with those gifts. Two thousand years ago? Possibly. They could have accomodated her. In fact, had she lived in Ancient Greece or Rome, they probably would have made a priestess out of her. Worshipped her. Asked her for help. But not in that time. In that time, the language of men made no space for her and what she was. What she could do. They believed that there was God and man, nothing in between. No middle man. And most certainly no middle woman. She could talk to the infinite, and well, they weren't having that. She didn't fit the language - the technology. It had become corrupted, debased, limited. People like her no longer fit. So they burnt her alive.'
Victoria stuffed a final fork of chocolate cake in her mouth.
'I thought you said this was a great story?'
'It is,' she says, swallowing and reaching for her coffee. 'It's an example of what can happen when the software we use to understand the world around us is corrupted. It screws everything up - makes no space for those that are different. If the words they used, the mental model that it gave them was so limited that it could allow them to burn a Goddess alive, then consider the total reverse end of the spectrum - what a new piece of software could do. A software that allowed for greater words, a greater model. When we're done with you, your software will allow for that. You'll be able to use words to stop you from being well, burnt at the stake.'
'That doesn't make any sense' he tells her.
'Don't worry,' she says. 'It will'.

9,000 feet above the earth and rising, two people sit inside a C-130 Hercules plane, looking at one and other. One a nervous Irishman, the other a smiling red-haired Scotswoman. The drone of the engine doesn't entirely drown out their conversation. I'm not liking this very much he tells her. Not liking what, she asks. This. Being up here. I have a bad feeling about why you have me up here. She doesn't reply, just smiles. When are we, he finally asks. About 1200 years ago she replies. No-one will see anything. See anything of what he asks. She smiles. Where are we, he asks. Somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic. She stands up and removes her coat. Are you scared she asks, as the door behind them starts opening, the white noise of 10,000 feet bursting through the interior of the plane. He grabs on to his seat. I'll take that as a yes, she says hauling him to a standing position. Look at me, she says. He does. You have nothing to be scared of. Nothing. She kisses him, her hands running around the back of his neck, into his hair. Time slows, the taste of her in his mouth. Land properly, she tells him, and I'll see you on the ground. You'll what... hang on. Land? Don't I need a parachute? Nope, she says. You don't. And remember what I said. "Nach dem spiel ist vor dem spiel". What the fuck does that mean? It means "after the game, is before the game". How do I know that? I know that line. Nevermind that now she says. And with a laugh, she steps backwards, spins on her heel and roundhouse kicks him in the chest, sending his body hurtling out the opening and into the empty, screaming sky.

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