Fiction: The games you play

 I only ever met him once. We were high up, in the third tier of the Melbourne Cricket Ground. He arrived on his own, a square green cushion and a small backpack hanging from one hand, the other clutching a tray of three sloshing beers. Unfortunately, Jamie was a coffee drinker, so he was about to miss out, I thought. I didn't drink in those days.

There were thanks all around when he held them out.

'Stiff, Stewie,' I directed at his quizzical face as it peered resolutely down at the players below. 'He's a coffee drinker,' I volunteered. 'I'm Matt.' This was unusually gregarious for me. I didn't know the man, after all.

We shook hands. 'Michael.' He didn't look at me. 'And you don't drink?' Then, he did.

I shook my head, nonplussed that he could have guessed that. Not many people knew this, and I wasn't about to disclose the reason. My old man's wreck of a life can remain where it is. Dead.

'No. I've brought my own water.' I hesitated. 'Do we know you?'

'I don't think so, but in all truthfulness, I'm not sure. I took a chance. Almost got it right.' He dropped his pack onto the seat to keep it down. 'This seat is free, yes?' I nodded. A memory scratched. I shook it off with a quick shake of my head. I was beginning to overhtink it.

He zipped open his pack, pulled out a thermos, un-capped it, delicately poured a brown liquid into the lid-cup and, reaching precariously across my other two friends, handed it to Jamie.

'Hot, black and sweet.' He screwed the top back in. 'Cheers.'

We all stared at him as he skulled the beer. That was a seriously good guess.

'Who's playing?' His voice sounded disembodied.

'Bombers and Cats.' I can't remember who said it, but Michael merely nodded, lifted his pack, pushed the seat down again, placed his cushion under is skinny arse, and sat.

For a while he said nothing, gazing fixedly at one thing and then another, around the vast arena but always coming back to the preparations the players were making on that vast expanse of green below us.

The four of us, friends from work, albeit from different organisations, exchanged uncertain glances.

'Bombers and Cats. Is this a game or a war?' He turned to me and grinned. It was a tight-lipped slash across his face. I think I managed a smirk.

'Both,' volunteered Jamie, his Cats scarf and beanie conspicuously in place. So was my 2009 Anniversary hoodie. Stewie was a Bombers fan but Bec had the misfortune of being stuck with the Demons (her dad was a Life Member) so her enthusiasm for the the game was a tad diminished.

'A game,' she added. 'It's only a game.'

'Good. I won't have to take sides.' We all laughed at that. We knew when to close ranks, a trick of the trade, I guess.

It was the accent, now that I recall. It had a faint "foreignness" about it, a sort of relative-three-times-removed quality. That, and the fact that I don't think any of the others knew him. I didn't think I did either, but the accent reminded me of Europe so I might have been misled by the renewed scratching in my head.

But he had implied he thought he reccognised us so we went with it for the sake of "game-day camaradarie".

As I searched my memory for any sign of recognition, the siren blared and, with a huge roar from the crowd, the game began. We all joined in, even Bec. The best Michael could do was nod his head like a teacher who already knew the obvious, three lessons ahead of his students.

There were two things I remember about that day. The Cats won the game and Michael won the war. Except he wasnt there to witness the result of his victory. And, for a long time, I wasn't able to figure out what had happened ...

But there are some additional things I know now.

First, during the quarter time break, all three of my friends left their seats to go to the toilets and, for a few minutes after that, Michael and I were alone together.

Second, he said only one thing to me: Never confuse the games you watch with the games you play. It was the only time that he looked directly into my eyes. That look clarified the neurochemicals zipping around my brain.

Third, he stood, rested a hand on my left shoulder for a moment, closed it into a fist and pumped it gently, once, onto that shoulder, and left.

Four, I remained in my seat.

Five, the bodies of my three colleagues (they are colleagues in my mind these days ... easier to process) were discovered by Security about 5 minutes into the second quarter.

Six, Michael didn't return.

It's a face I won't forget, so closely resembling another face I had come to know over the last few months. Turning my head to watch him, I caught a glimpse of a green cushion secure in a tightly clenched fist as its owner vanished over the walkway and down the stairs towards the exit.

*

A man stands at the gate to the worksite at the entrance to the tunnel being bored into the rock. It's part of the Big Build Projects unfolding around the city. He wears his hi-vis vest open at the front, which makes him look thinner and weaker than he really is. A small backpack sits at his feet, and he has a walkie-talkie attached to his belt. Occasionally he speaks into it and then replaces it with a deliberate, practised movement.

A satchel is slung over a security fence close by. A portable toilet sits agaisnt the fence, as if stranded, a few metres away.

A truck turns towards him from the main road and comes to a laborious stop, engine throbbing. The man slides what looks like a tablet from his satchel, says something to the driver, swipes and taps a few times and relplaces it. He gives the driver the thumbs-up. 

The truck moves forward with a throaty purr. It's loaded with pre-fab concrete barriers of some sort.

The man watches it go. He pulls out his phone and looks once more at the screen. A news item. He has a few minutes before the next load. He reads again the names of the two Federal Police Officers and the one from Voctoria Police. He gazes once more at the faces that he knows belong to the people who were responsible for the death of his younger brother. He remembers all of them perched high up above the game. He remembers every word they spoke. His distant government would reward him for his patriotic act of revenge, justice and valour. His brother was important to them. He was important to him.

As for the fourth individual whose face does not appear in the news report, as for that man - his name is Matt, he recalls - Mikkel undestands that he will face confusion and doubt in addition to his recent grief. But he is sure that these feelings will pass. He is equally sure that this man, this curious and careful lawyer, will one day make sense of his unwise but cryptic message and then, on that day, Mikkel will have to find a way to neutralise him as well. Stupid and unnecessary.

The sharp blast of a truck's horn forces him to raise his head once more. It is a deliberate movement.

His day isnot yet done.