they decided to shut down?”
I shrugged. “Nope, they didn’t even tell me they had shut down.”
Harold nodded along. “Yes, sure, I can understand that, it makes sense that you were all surprised about what happened when you arrived—that they hadn’t actually informed you of the, uh, situation.”
It was then that Harold broke off eye contact with me, that he shifted his gaze to the doorway of the dome.
I followed his eyes, looked to the person who stood there now.
It was a man in about his seventies—maybe eighties . . . one thing was for sure, he was old .
He wore a clean black suit and tie. He was slim and his leathery skin hung off him. He only had a light sprinkling of grey hair over his mainly bald scalp.
He was flashing us a beaming smile, and he held one hand in the pocket of his suit trousers in a seemingly carefree way.
But something was off about him.
The way that he had black eyes, eyes that constantly seemed to skitter between me and Harold here.
When I slipped Harold a sidelong glance, I realised that he was trembling.
“Mr Yorbleson,” Harold said, his voice creaking and groaning in a way my voice gets when I have to speak up in class, or I get nervous, or whatever.
“It’s all right,” Mr Yorbleson said, and then turned to me, “you must be Zak Steepleman.”
I felt my stomach clench. It was weird that all these people here seemingly knew just who I was . . . and I had no idea who they were.
But maybe it was because I was beginning to earn myself a reputation, and that can’t be a bad thing, right?
Then Mr Yorbleson outstretched his hand towards me.
It took me a couple of seconds to realise that he wanted to shake my hand.
I’m not that used to being treated like an ‘adult.’
His hand felt a little damp, a little sweaty, and I caught a whiff of his bad breath, which smelled of onions, and something else I couldn’t put my finger on.
“Congratulations, Mr Steepleman,” he said, slipping Harold a glance as if he was making a point to him that I was to be referred to by my surname only .
Already I didn’t much like Mr Yorbleson.
He slunk back, eyed me with that same dead smile, and then turned on Harold. “Could I have a quick word with you in my office?”
Harold flinched, and then looked to me.
I wondered if I was meant to interpret a warning—something like that—from the look . . . but, as it was, I couldn’t pick up on anything.
Guess that means I’m not telepathic, right?
Harold gave me another of his unconvincing smiles and then slunk out after Mr Yorbleson, who gave me a parting grin himself.
I listened to their footsteps echo about the high-ceiling of the convention centre.
I waited till they’d totally died away, and then went to fetch Dad.
Woke him up.
His first words to me when he did wake up were, “Bishop to B3.”
I saw that his mobile screen had gone blank.
That it had run out of battery.
8
THE WINNERS’ BREAKFAST exceeded even my expectations.
That’s why I love Gamers Con . . . as if I even needed another reason.
When I wandered on in through the door, I could already smell the butter melting on the stacks of pancakes, could sense it weaving itself into the chocolate fondue.
It’s fair to say that my mouth resembled something of a swimming pool just seconds after I’d wandered into the large room apart from the rest of the conference centre.
A window took up an entire wall of the place and gave a—fairly uninteresting—view out onto the car park outside. There were some trees and some rolling hills off in the middle distance for people who like that sort of thing.
I’m not one of them.
A scattering of officials in their dark-purple polo shirts popped up here and there, putting the final touches to the Winners’ Breakfast table which was, as far as I could tell, a pretty long table with a white cloth that had been nicely smoothed down.
Each place had a shining, white porcelain plate with gleaming
I shrugged. “Nope, they didn’t even tell me they had shut down.”
Harold nodded along. “Yes, sure, I can understand that, it makes sense that you were all surprised about what happened when you arrived—that they hadn’t actually informed you of the, uh, situation.”
It was then that Harold broke off eye contact with me, that he shifted his gaze to the doorway of the dome.
I followed his eyes, looked to the person who stood there now.
It was a man in about his seventies—maybe eighties . . . one thing was for sure, he was old .
He wore a clean black suit and tie. He was slim and his leathery skin hung off him. He only had a light sprinkling of grey hair over his mainly bald scalp.
He was flashing us a beaming smile, and he held one hand in the pocket of his suit trousers in a seemingly carefree way.
But something was off about him.
The way that he had black eyes, eyes that constantly seemed to skitter between me and Harold here.
When I slipped Harold a sidelong glance, I realised that he was trembling.
“Mr Yorbleson,” Harold said, his voice creaking and groaning in a way my voice gets when I have to speak up in class, or I get nervous, or whatever.
“It’s all right,” Mr Yorbleson said, and then turned to me, “you must be Zak Steepleman.”
I felt my stomach clench. It was weird that all these people here seemingly knew just who I was . . . and I had no idea who they were.
But maybe it was because I was beginning to earn myself a reputation, and that can’t be a bad thing, right?
Then Mr Yorbleson outstretched his hand towards me.
It took me a couple of seconds to realise that he wanted to shake my hand.
I’m not that used to being treated like an ‘adult.’
His hand felt a little damp, a little sweaty, and I caught a whiff of his bad breath, which smelled of onions, and something else I couldn’t put my finger on.
“Congratulations, Mr Steepleman,” he said, slipping Harold a glance as if he was making a point to him that I was to be referred to by my surname only .
Already I didn’t much like Mr Yorbleson.
He slunk back, eyed me with that same dead smile, and then turned on Harold. “Could I have a quick word with you in my office?”
Harold flinched, and then looked to me.
I wondered if I was meant to interpret a warning—something like that—from the look . . . but, as it was, I couldn’t pick up on anything.
Guess that means I’m not telepathic, right?
Harold gave me another of his unconvincing smiles and then slunk out after Mr Yorbleson, who gave me a parting grin himself.
I listened to their footsteps echo about the high-ceiling of the convention centre.
I waited till they’d totally died away, and then went to fetch Dad.
Woke him up.
His first words to me when he did wake up were, “Bishop to B3.”
I saw that his mobile screen had gone blank.
That it had run out of battery.
8
THE WINNERS’ BREAKFAST exceeded even my expectations.
That’s why I love Gamers Con . . . as if I even needed another reason.
When I wandered on in through the door, I could already smell the butter melting on the stacks of pancakes, could sense it weaving itself into the chocolate fondue.
It’s fair to say that my mouth resembled something of a swimming pool just seconds after I’d wandered into the large room apart from the rest of the conference centre.
A window took up an entire wall of the place and gave a—fairly uninteresting—view out onto the car park outside. There were some trees and some rolling hills off in the middle distance for people who like that sort of thing.
I’m not one of them.
A scattering of officials in their dark-purple polo shirts popped up here and there, putting the final touches to the Winners’ Breakfast table which was, as far as I could tell, a pretty long table with a white cloth that had been nicely smoothed down.
Each place had a shining, white porcelain plate with gleaming
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