From Under the Overcoat Read Online Free PDF

heaving to the bathroom. But Mitchell opens the box and counts out twelve matches. He handsthree to each of them, keeps three for himself.
    Spoofing. They will spoof for the meal. One of them — the last one left in the game — will pay for the entire evening’s indulgence. The other three will pay for nothing.
    David understands entirely and in the cacophony of men laughing about profit and loss, and rain hammering against the windows, he recognises the frightening mad mess that he has made of it all.

    IT WAS ONE OF the first things they noticed, after they came home from the hospital. Before the vomiting started, before the pain in Jamie’s wrists made him scream through the night, tiny fists twisted and flailing. Around the time he started following them around the room with his dark eyes — it was at that traditionally golden parental moment they discovered he was deaf.
    David had come home from work early. He took his shoes off, unlocked the front door and tiptoed into the house, in case Jamie and Trudy were sleeping. He heard sobbing. He stopped at the door of the lounge. In the kitchen, he could see Trudy. She was sitting at the dining table, her head in her hands, her whole body convulsing. The noise drove a chill up David’s spine — he could think of it only as a wail, like nothing he had ever heard before. He recognised it, somehow, as a cry of grief.
    Jamie was in his pram. Trudy had wheeled it inside, as she often did if he was still asleep when they returned from their walk. The pram was right next to her. David walked through the lounge and looked at Jamie. Jamie smiled up athim, and David’s heart filled with joy at the rare expression of happiness. Then he realised that Jamie was oblivious to Trudy’s distress — that he could not hear a thing.

    DAVID SITS FORWARD IN his seat, clutching the little white sticks in the palm of his hand. He presses hard on them, keen to feel their sharp edges, perhaps a splinter.
    He has played the game before — many times, business lunches and dinners — but always with the corporate credit card. It’s never occurred to him that it might be played with personal wealth at stake. He looks at Neil, hopeful for a glance saying Are you okay with this? , hopeful for any sign of connection. But Neil talks on to Ciaran, rubbing his matchsticks between his hands as though warming them up.
    The four men lean forward over the coffee table, each holding a clenched fist towards the centre. Some might have all three matches in their hands, some two, some one, or none. Twelve is the highest possible result, zero the lowest. Smiles all round, then Mitchell speaks.
    ‘Ten.’
    Ciaran is next to Mitchell. He looks quickly round the group. ‘Six,’ he says.
    David shakes his fist, as though juggling the matchsticks. ‘Nine,’ he says finally.
    ‘Eight,’ says Neil.
    They open their hands and count. Mitchell has kept all three of his matchsticks. Ciaran dropped his three, his hand is empty. David has two, Neil three. Neil has guessed correctly — he’s safely out of the game.
    It begins again, this time only three hands in the middle. David looks hard at Mitchell and Ciaran, but there is no skill to draw upon. It’s a game of chance.
    ‘Four.’
    ‘Seven.’
    ‘Nine.’
    They open their hands. There are four matchsticks in total. David has won. He sits back in his seat and closes his eyes as the game continues without him.
     
    HE WAKES NEXT MORNING in a puddle of sunlight, his hair damp on the pillow, and squints towards the window. Seagulls swing low, white acrobats against the bright blue sky. He has no idea of the time. His head throbs as he tries to sit. The sunlight stops him opening his eyes so he feels for his watch on the bedside table.
    It’s eight o’clock.
    What arrangements did they make for the day? David recalls talk of a daylight start on the course and wonders whether the others are already playing. They might be, he hopes; they might have hammered on