Dagenham Rules, Henderson’s Variation by Jonathan Pinnock

As he wakes from a troubled night’s sleep, he tries to remember what he worked out at 4AM. Yawning, he runs it over in his head again. Yeah, that’ll work, he decides.

“5-17,” he says. “Montrose.”

She doesn’t miss a beat before replying: “6-44. Aloysius.”

He lifts himself up onto his elbow and stares down at her.

“6-44?” he says. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she says, swinging her legs out. “I ran through every combination before I went to sleep.”

Bitch.

“But 6-44? There’s a block at 29F, surely?”

“No. I moved that one after supper.”

So she did. Bitch.

The kitchen smells of toast.

“67-3,” he says, sitting down with a bowl of cereal. “En passant.”

She ignores him, reading the newspaper and drawing faces all over the sudoku. He eats a couple of mouthfuls. She’s still silent. A smile begins to creep over his face.

“Gotta go,” she says, putting down the paper and standing up.

“Hey,” he says, “I said – ”

“Yeah, I know. You said 67-3, en passant.”

“Well? Does that mean – ”

She grabs her bag and heads for the front door. As she leaves, she turns round.

“65 squared,” she calls back at him. “Sans filtre. And I’m calling out your proxy.”

He stares after her, dumbfounded.

What does she do all day, he wonders? He knows she works in the pavilion at the end of the pier. Are there other men? Certainly there are men who go down to the end of the pier. Everyone knows that. Every Friday night after work, they take the little train with bagfuls of cash and blow the lot on bad beer, chips and slot machines. But he’s never been. He doesn’t like travelling over water.

The sheet of paper in front of him is decorated with a scrawled pencil diagram. Next to this, running onto several more sheets is a many-layered decision tree. He thinks he’s worked out all the options. Someone once told him you need to be three moves ahead to survive in this world.

For a moment, he imagines her crammed into a tiny booth on the pier with a bearded trawlerman pressing his groin up against hers. In the airless, sweaty space, they move together with an urgent clumsy movement.

He decides he’ll check her skirt for scales when she gets in.

She doesn’t say anything when she walks in the door. He puts her sausage and mash down on the table in front of her.

“23-34-45,” he says. “Expresso bongo.”

“12-98. Codpiece.”

Bitch.

“98-42. Kettledrum.”

“23-111. Herringbone.”

“1-1.  Pont l’Eveque.”

“45-7. Kippered.”

“Christ, woman, have you done nothing else all day?” he shouts, thumping the kitchen table. Small flecks of mashed potato fly up and splatter his face.

“What would you rather I did?” she says, smiling at him.

They do not speak for the rest of the evening.

Later, in bed, he clears his throat.

“89-2,” he says. “Langue de chat.”

She doesn’t respond.

“89 – ” he says again.

“I’m tired.”

“Oh.”

He has an idea. He turns over towards her and touches her on the shoulder.

“Do you fancy – ” he begins.

“I said I’m tired.”

“Oh.”

He dozes fitfully, brain spinning, until the noise of the dawn chorus becomes too loud to ignore.

Jonathan Pinnock has had over a hundred stories and poems published in places both illustrious and downright insalubrious. He has also won quite a few prizes and has had work broadcast on the BBC. His novel “Mrs Darcy versus the Aliens” will be published by Proxima Books in Fall 2011. He blogs at www.jonathanpinnock.com and he tweets as @jonpinnock.