Allow me to tell you a little bit about the empty warehouse that is number Ten Barnaby Way, for it has something of a colourful past. During the 1980’s it was the home of ‘Mega-yo,’ the largest producer and distributor of yoyos in Great Britain. If you’ve owned a yoyo in the past twenty years, chances are it came from there. In 1996, four years after Mega-yo’s collapse, the warehouse became part of the ‘Bed and Breakfast’ murders investigation, when the bodies of two tenants of the same building were discovered bundled together in a packing crate by a passing tramp.
And as recently as 2002, the dank, bleak interior of the now derelict building proved the perfect location to film certain scenes of the gritty British gangster movie ‘The Good Boys.’ I saw it. It was shit.
But as of the last six years, Ten Barnaby Way has been used for nothing, save for the home of thousands of pigeons, as documented by the amount of shit on the walls and floor. And as the venue for the game.
The game, no one ever told me its name, if it even has one, has been played once a week for the last six months or so. Only the five players ever find out about its existence, and to be a player, you have to have earned it. Or at least, everyone else had to.
I was invited to play, I don’t know why, I never asked. To be given an invitation is to accept. I was the fifth player. I was the wild-card.
I was also the last to arrive, and as I crossed the vast floor of Ten Barnaby Way, I saw the faces of the four other players, illuminated by a single lamp that sat on the middle of the pentagonal table.
From what I could tell, the table was placed bang in the centre of the warehouse. The floor stretched away into darkness in all directions, and only the battering of the wind against the corrugated iron walls let me know that there was any world outside at all.
I took my seat at the table. Directly to my left was the master of ceremonies; a massive man in an expensive suit. As soon as I sat down, he stood up. Condensation escaped his mouth as he talked.
“Good evening gentlemen. Thank you for coming. As we are all here, we shall begin the game presently. But first some housekeeping.”
He removed from his back pocket a single piece of paper.
“As some of you may know, last week’s topic was films that have colours in their title. This raised some controversy as to what constituted a colour, and while it may be argued that black and white are only colours in an achromatic and non-achromatic sense, for the purposes of the game, they are acceptable, hence both White Christmas and Black Christmas were allowed.”
The two men opposite me nodded slightly.
“However,” he continued, “After more discussion, it was decided that The Shawshank Redemption was not acceptable.”
He remained standing. Despite my Parker jacket, I had to try hard not to visibly shiver. The four other men around me seemed as still as rocks. Only their eyes appeared to move as they sized me up. I can’t imagine their conclusion was favourable. They were all older than me, and seemingly more ready to die.
“So without further ado, let tonight’s game commence.”
He pulled out another piece of paper.
“And I can reveal the tonight’s topic is; 'comedy duos'.”
From the back of his trousers, he pulled out a large handgun, loaded it, and pointed it at the head of the man to his left. I had never seen a real gun before, and found it hard not to get taken in by its beauty.
“Go,” he said simply.
The man whose head the gun was pointing at thought for a moment and then said; “Morecombe and Wise.”
“Good, you.”
The aim of the gun moved to the head of the next man.
“The Two Ronnies.”
“Good.”
Again the gun swung one man to the right.
“French and Saunders.”
It was my turn. In the speed the game had moved around the table, I hadn’t thought about any answers. I looked at the barrel of the gun, about one foot away from me. From what little I knew about firearms, I reckoned that a shot from it would remove my head completely and leave it across several metres of floor. The man holding it looked at me with no hint of malice or violent intent, just the urge to carry the game through to the end.
“R-Reeves and Mortimer,” I blurted out.
“Good.”
Now it was his turn. He placed the gun under his chin, his finger resting gently on the trigger.
“Armstrong and Miller.”
The game had made one complete sweep of the table, now it was the first man’s go again.
“Hale and Pace.”
“Good.”
“Noble and Silver.”
“Yes.”
“Adam and Joe.”
“Good.”
Damn, that was the one I was going to say.
My go again.
“Errrrr.”
“Five…four…three…”
He was counting down, and I was pretty sure what to.
“Little and Large.”
“Very good.”
Again he placed the barrel of the gun under his chin.
“Newman and Baddiel.”
Round three.
“Cannon and Ball.”
“Punt and Dennis.”
“Walliams and Lucas.”
This time the one I prepaid hadn’t come up.
“Laurel and Hardy.”
“Whitehouse and Enfield.”
Round four.
“Baddiel and Skinner.”
This did not go down at all well. The man to my right spoke.
“May I ask for clarification?”
“Of course.” Said the man with the gun.
“Are we allowed to use the same man twice? David Baddiel came up before.”
The offending player retaliated.
“It's two separate comedy acts.”
“Yeah, but comedians work with different groups all the time, are we allowed to mention any collaboration ever?”
“No of course not, but Baddiel and Skinner, and Newman and Baddiel are two separate entities in their own right.”
The debate continued. During the brief respite I look down at my watch. My hand is shaking too much to make out the time clearly, but it was about ten o’clock, ish.
Letting out a deep sigh, I begin to wonder what I was doing here. I never even asked what the prize was. Things seem so much more inviting when you’re drunk.
“Aaron?”
All eyes stared at me.
“I’m sorry?”
“we’re taking a vote, what says you?”
“I think Skinner and Baddiel should be excepted.”
“Well I say it shouldn’t. That’s three to two against. Sorry Mac.”
Mac lifted his hands in protest.”
“Wait a-”
The gun fired. Mac’s body instantly hit the floor. Flocks of pigeons took flight in the black distance. For a moment no one, including the MC, moved. The bang of the gun rattled in my head long after it had stopped echoing off the walls.
The MC reloaded and pointed it at the man next to the now empty chair. He had flecks of Mac’s blood on his face, all outward appearance of coolness now gone within him. His bottom lips visibly trembled.
I looked at his eyes and knew, knew that in the bloodshed just witnessed, he hadn’t used the time to think of a duo.
“Five…four…”
“Erm, ermmm.” A tear rolled down his cheek.
“Three…two…one.”
“Oh…ermmmm.”
Again the gun fired, the bullet hitting him square in the face, crushing his nose, and turning bits of his head that really should have been internal, external. For the briefest of seconds I saw the whole of one of his eyeballs.
His body gurgled and rasped before eventually slumping off its chair and onto the floor. Like Mac, the last sound he ever made, was the wet squelch of meat hitting concrete.
“Ok lets continue.”
The gun was now pointed next to me. but unlike the last contestant, he was ready with his answer.
“Frost and Pegg.”
“I’m sorry, who?”
“Nick Frost and Simon Pegg, you remember Spaced or Shawn of the Dead?”
“Oh, yes, I do remember, very good. Ok you.”
For the fourth time, the gun was pointed at me.
What was that programme form the nineties I used to like?
“Five, four.”
It sounded a bit like that source.
“Three, two.”
He was counting faster now.
“One.”
“Lee and Herring!” I couldn’t help but shout.
“Yes, well done, a near miss.”
The gun found its way again under the MC’s chin.
“Right, my go.”
He said nothing.
“I can’t actually think of one myself.”
“The countdown,” the man next to me said.
“Yes, of course, my apologies. Five…errrm”
I watched him intently as he both struggled to think of a duo, and counted down to his own death.
“Four...three…errrrrrrrrrm how about…oh no, not that one…two…one.”
He pulled the trigger. The top of his head exploded like a party-popper. The pink mist remained in the air as his body fell to the ground. As he fell, the gun left his hand, bounced on the table, and hit the lamp, plunging us into total darkness.
All I could hear was the heavy breathing of my last remaining opponent. Was it over?
I felt like I was being snowed on, but with a shudder knew that it was only the blood and brain from the MC falling back towards the earth.
After a moment, the lamp plinked back on. The other man had found the switch. We both looked at the table, now sprinkled with a light dusting of human remains. On it was the gun.
Tentatively, he reached out a hand and picked it up.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said.
“We have to finish the game.”
In one move, he reloaded it and pointed it inches from my face.
“Five…”
“Wait.”
“Four…”
“It’s your go.”
He stopped counting.
“My God, you’re right.”
With that, the barrel of the gun rested on his temple.
I started counting. “Five…”
“Kiernan and Hemphill.”
“Who?”
“From Chewin’ the Fat.”
“Chewin' the Fat?”
“Yeah.”
“What is that, some sort of sketch show?”
“Yeah, it’s massive in Scotland.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“No, it was never that big here, it’s good though, you should check it out.”
“Oh, I will.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
“Will you take me word that there is a comedy duo called Kiernan and Hemphill?”
I nodded. “Yes, it doesn’t seem like the kind of name you’d make up.”
“Quite.”
Yet again, the focus of the gun’s attention changed.
“Smith and Jones.” I couldn’t believe that one hadn’t come up earlier.
“Oh yeah.”
Back to the temple.
“Five…four…three…two…one.”
“Ren and Stimpy!”
“Ren and Stimpy?”
“Yeah?”
“The cartoon characters?”
He nodded.
I thought about it for a moment, could they be classed as a comedy duo? They had certainly provided me with much laughter when I was a child. But then, they are both fictional characters, and the game specifically called for 'comedy' duos, not cartoon ones.
“I’m sorry, I can’t in good conscience except Ren and Stimpy.”
“Oh. Shit.”
He pulled the trigger, and the left half of his face disappeared.
I sat alone, surrounded by four disfigured bodies.
What do I do now?
I half expected someone to appear from the darkness with my prize, grinning and offering me his congratulations.
No one came.
Was there anybody there, hiding in the black, watching me?
I felt no relief at having won, and certainly no sense of victory. The only thought that crossed my mind, other that fact I had just almost died, was the fact that four people, had. It is a curious feeling, being surrounded by dead bodies, not one I would recommend.
The wind continued to batter the thin walls.
Under the circumstances I took the most sensible course of action.
I stood up, and ran away. Very fucking quickly.
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