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Grey

Two men sit facing each other across a hall. One is dressed all in black, the other all

in white. Hoods cover their faces.

They sit in thrones, and at their right hand is a chessboard, with one half of the pieces.

Black, for the man in black, white for the man in white.

In between them, across the hall, an army is gathered. Each soldier stands on their

own square, in the chequered pattern across the floor. They stand in stony silence,

weapons held ready. The front line of each army is faceless. Clad only in the matt

livery of their commander, their faces are blank and shapeless, clothes lacking

ornament. When one of them moves, they move as one.

At each end of the rear row stands a military man, grizzled and strong, his uniformpristine and his head held high. They stand like sentinels, staring down the line.

Beside each of these men, stands a young man, tall, handsome and arrogant. Next to

him is a regal warhorse, barded with gold plate and colourful lace. The men puff out

their chests, and their eyes are shining gold.

Then stands a holy man, with eyes of fire. His robes flow to the ground and his face is

hard. He preaches to the men in front of him, his voice booming out over the field,

echoed by his counterpart on the other side. His weapon is a whip, long and cruel.

At the heart of the army stand the King and Queen. The Queen is tall and mighty, her

robes lavish, and she rides a chariot, towering above the surrounding troops. Eyes are

averted from her out of deference. Her King stands besides her. He is old, and bent

over, his weight rested on a walking stick. His face is faded, and scarred and torn, like

an old treasure map. When he moves, he moves one shaky, unsteady step at a time,

stick held in one hand and a silver dagger held out in front of him, like a ward against

all evil. He faces his opposite number, and their eyes meet.

***

A man hunts the streets. A knife is clasped in his sweaty hand, and he grips so tight

that his hand is banded with white. His walks quickly, eyes flicking from side to side,

constantly aware. He wears a black hooded top, and the hood hangs over his face. In

the early hours of the morning the street is silent, and his footsteps ring out through

the still air.

The man is skinny and wiry, his hair jet black and his chin, poking out of the shadows

of the hood, is unshaven. His hands are rough and calloused, and his clothes are

inexpensive, jeans ill fitting and torn, and spattered now with mud from his progress

through a playing field on his way.

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His breath mists out in front of him, mushrooming out a silver cloud, which instantly

dissipates, and spreads away. Then another gust, as his heavy breaths speeds up, his

stomach cramping and gripped with anticipation.

The neighbourhood is a quiet, pristine suburban one, and at any time other than the

twilight hours the man would have seen badly out of place, an oasis of imperfection ina desert of manicured lawns and expensive water features.

In the distance, thunder rolls, like gods playing dice in the heavens.

***

At the sides of the hall, drummers are lined up, huge round drums before them and

beaters in their hand.

As one, the beaters fall. Once, twice, and then over and over again, the rhythm takingover everything. The game has begun.

The man in the white moves first. His hand moves without hesitation, lifting one of

the pawns and sliding it forwards. In front of him, a foot soldier lifts his spear on the

front rank and marches forward onto the square in front of him.

The man in black then follows, sending out his own pawn, who in turn strides out to

the centre of the board, facing his opponent.

Another pawn forward, then another, building a new front line, until the white bishop

raises his head, and strides out, his whip cracking around his feet. It searches out an

opposing pawn and he strikes without a blink, and metal tip gouging into the soldier,

again, and again, until he falls in a mess on the floor. The bishop slows, then stops

totally, standing erect over the body. He sets his steely eyes towards the rest of the

black forces, and behind the line, a knight looks back. He mounts his horse and

charges.

***

The man is approaching his destination now, a house up ahead. It does not lookremarkable, its lawn as neatly trimmed and cropped as every other. As he reaches it

he begins to sweat more and more, and it turns to an icy bath in the cold. His head

prickles, and the knife in his pocket feels like a dead, numb weight. He reaches the

gate. Puts his hand on the top, the cold metal stinging his bare hands, and pushes it

open. It opens without a creak, and he stops for a second.

He looks down the pathway, up to the door, and for a second just stands,

contemplating the step he is about to take.

And then he makes it, forcing his leg to co-operate, lift up, and then the second foot

follows, pushing him on. His shoes grind on loose bits of gravel on the path,scratching beneath him, and then he reaches the door.

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He knocks.

***

On the white side of the board, the king lifts his head. He strides forth onto the board,stepping around the bodies of his men, through the battle. The black king is waiting

already in the centre of the board, dagger held ready.

Then the white king stops. He commands a pawn to step forth to confront the black

king. The black king looks, in shock for second, then resolve. His knife plunges

forwards.

***

It was the woman. She opened the door. And now the mans knife is slick with blood.

He steps into the house, and closes the door behind him. The woman in front of himlies motionless on the floor, blood pooling beside her, and eyes open in horror.

A voice from upstairs calls out. The man looks up the stairs, and all shaking has gone

from his hands. His resolve is clear now, and he steps onto the stairs, bloodstains from

his black clothes falling onto the cream carpet.

He sees a bedroom door open; advances.

The kings stand face to face, and the whole battlefield stops to watch. The men at

each end move away from their boards, and stand. Each picks up a sword, the man in

black and the man in white, and the battlefield before them disappears. They run

towards each other, blades held high..

..and the man steps through the door, seeing through the gloom a man lying

beneath crumpled white covers..

.and the two swords meet, and the men keep running, pushing past each other,their colours fading. The white darkens, as the black is shone by an inner light

..and the knife falls into the man on the bed. The man who had raped him and

abused him as a child. The knife brought bloody justice to him as.

..all colour is lost, and the white and the black are now just grey, and there is no

morality, no sides, no light and no dark.

Grey.