Story: The Trojan Pawn

The Trojan Pawn

I checked my watch anxiously; 7:23 and he still wasn't here. “Back of seven” he had casually replied when I had pressed him for a time, smoothly covering my eagerness with not wanting to fill the hollow chess pieces too early. I should explain: we were to have the second of our “alcoholic chess” games this evening.

At the first event, a week prior, it had gone gloriously; Frederick, using the black pieces filled with whisky, had launched a series of early sacrifices which I was impelled to capture and thus drink the contents of, to attempt to make me too drunk to think straight. Although this ploy was inevitably slightly successful, he had failed to factor in that I had eaten a mix of three raw eggs and some olive oil beforehand, an old Russian stay-sober trick. He left himself with such a deficit of material that I very nearly accidentally overpowered him. Luckily for my plans however, I kept myself together long enough to permit him to “tragically” back-row mate me with his one surviving rook, pleasing him immensely. Gullible fool. That game had been no more than a dress-rehearsal for tonight but it had served its purpose. I, of course, feigned much outrage at the manner of my king's demise; he happily agreed to a rematch seeking, no doubt, another free drinking session.

Last time we had tossed a coin for starting colours – this mechanism was the primary reason I needed a trial run at all – it ensured opposite sides on the return; no point risking a random colour in the real game and falling foul of my own designs....but more of that later. Also it let me gauge how he would play and my plan required that – not that Frederick and I had not played before but this was half drinking-game and half real chess.

As I mused on final details I studied the board. All was set up – Vodka filled the white pieces, Whisky the black ones. The rules for this format were well-documented – half a measure of spirit in each pawn, a single in the minor pieces, a double in rook and king (this latter the loser would quaff as punishment rather than the captor) and a treble in the queen. You take it, you drink it. I had found the set on a well known internet auction site and paid £37.50 for it – a reasonable investment I felt, plus it wasn't the usual shot glass affair these sets tended to be – it was a fairly cleverly crafted set where the pieces all had a hole in the top of the heads and compartments inside, albeit crude glass for the detail. They were filled by means of a small funnel up to marker notches in each piece.

Finally, a knock at the door shook me from my reverie. I quickly knocked back one of my raw egg concoctions that I had waiting in a glass then strode to the door. Opening it, I greeted Frederick warmly and he me, no doubt for different reasons. We moved through to the study where the board awaited, after hanging his old duffel coat up in the hall cupboard.

Frederick probably merits some introduction here. He was, like myself if I am completely honest, shabby in appearance, but slightly heavier build than me, with a moustache straight from the seventies. His clothes always smelt of cats, vile creatures which he had four of, largely his excuse for seldom leaving his house.

We had both played with a chess club in Paisley for many years and had for the past 18 months been collaborating on a book of chess puzzles – mate in four moves, that kind of thing. Initially, Fred had been quite insightful and ingenious but lately he had left a lot of the work to me; his problems had become sloppy and his attitude half-hearted. He would still talk to me about “our book” but more and more I felt less inclined to recognise any part in it as from him. He was drinking more heavily, for one thing; not that, coming from the West of Scotland, I was any stranger to the bottle but he was generally drunk most days now. From being a relatively close friend, he had gradually assumed a position of contempt in my mind. I could recognise this in myself and dislike it, but that's just the way it was. Why should I let this buffoon share in the credit for what I now felt was my book?

I am sure from what I have told you, you will be aware of my intent. I had come up with one last “help-mate” problem, a poisoned pawn variation, if you like. On the web I had found a supplier of Potassium Cyanide suicide pills and ordered one. This pill had been dissolved in the whisky in my king's rook pawn, the one on the h7 square. At some point, I was sure, Frederick would attempt a “Greek Bishop” or the equivalent, a sacrifice at h7 to attempt to mate my king; to that end I planned to leave the pawn undefended. Rather than force him to take it and kill himself, I intended to lure him – the idea seemed more elegant to me. I even felt I was being more noble in allowing the former puzzle-master this final control of his destiny.

So we sat to play. “Watch your back rank, this time” he quipped. I caught myself about to grind my teeth and forced a grin. He opened, as I knew he would, with pawn to king four; I replied with the French defence, an attempt to gain counter-play in the centre and on the queenside but at the expense of allowing (encouraging!) an attack on my king. Play progressed. I traded my dark-squared bishop for his knight and a pawn each in the centre, as much to start the flow of drinking as for the position. We both castled and the middlegame started to develop for real.

Frederick began to shift pieces through to the kingside – I challenged the centre but without any unanswerable force. He paused, clearly weighing something in his mind; I waited, my mind was set. I had subtly avoided transferring my pieces to the defence of the kingside and was just waiting for the inevitable sacrifice at h7. When he spoke, I almost didn't recognise his voice; it was the old Fred talking, not the alcohol-sodden wretch I had grown accustomed to hearing in his place.

“Joe” he began, “I'm glad we have had these games. I've not been doing my life or our book justice for a long time. The thing is, Joe, I have bowel cancer. I don't have much longer and I've been letting the drink do my living for me.” I think my jaw must have dropped at this. I started to stammer some words of contrition, an apology for fate springing routinely to my lips. He held up one hand and went on “After tonight I plan to sober up and maybe pour what I have left of my mind into working on this book with you. It's been the only thing I have been able to cling to in my lucid moments. By the way, mate in five moves.”

What happened next will haunt me the rest of my life. I was sitting stunned at the magnitude of what he had said and did not take in his last words. He played Bxh7+ and in one fluid motion captured my h7 pawn and swept it to his mouth, drinking the contents. I gasped as it sank in. All I could do was watch as my true friend seized his chest and started to collapse in front of me. Within 30 seconds he was dead, falling from the chair to the floor. I cursed my own stupidity – I could have bought Amyl Nitrate to protect myself in case of accidents, being the antidote, but trusted too much in my own infallibility...now because of my arrogance I could not undo my monstrous crime. My mind was numb; many things flickered across it, memories of Fred and the puzzles he had given me for our book – oh yes, if I did it now we would both take credit. I laughed bitterly...hadn't he, after all, put his last energy into making that last mate in five moves?

Sick though I now felt, part of me realised I had to continue with my original twisted plan. Rigor mortis would kick in after about three or four hours and I would have to move quickly. I had typed up on my PC a suicide note which basically outlined a lack of will to live...I modified this now to include the awareness of cancer and printed off a copy, wearing thin medical gloves. His printer was the same type as mine – we had wanted to keep it consistent for our book. No need to sign this, I felt, just pop it in an envelope and stick it in his coat pocket, along with a small plastic bag with the remains of the suicide pill capsule in it. I pulled his coat over his arms and supported his body out the door to my car in the driveway. As usual in Scotland in winter it was pitch dark already outside and even if someone had observed me they would only have seen someone helping a drunk to the car. My only slight worry was being pulled over by the police for driving erratically but I guessed I could take it slow and careful. It was not far to Fred's place, an uneventful drive but my heart was pounding.

I had my gloves on again as I got out of the car, Fred's house-keys in one hand and supporting him with the other arm and made it to the door unchallenged. Inside, I put him in his favourite armchair, cleared the chessboard from the little table in front of it and staged the suicide note, the nearly empty bottle of whisky and the empty potassium cyanide capsule where the board had been. I took one last look round then tore myself from the scene, stifling a sob. The evening certainly had not gone as I had expected. Or it had but just had not felt the way I thought it would.

I drove around for about thirty minutes after leaving his house then realised I was in no emotional state to go home. I spotted a pub and decided to get a stiff drink. Parking round the corner, I walked in and approached the bar. “Good evening sir” says the barman, “What's your poison?”

Ah, you should know your readers! Should have used "Knob Creek" instead of "Whisky."

dumb!

 What is dumb?

you. duh!

 I can only assume by the quick-wittedness and eloquence of your statements that you are in every way my intellectual superior.  Please, share your wisdom, great one - in which ways in particular am I found wanting mentally?

the story doesn't make any sense. thanks for saying i am smart. 

huh

huh

hm

what

I think that's your problem, mate

I like the idea of writing a story like this as opposed to staging a story in a game.

I enjoyed it. Oh, and whether this was intended or not, I laughed out loud at, "I had come up with one last “help-mate” problem, a poisoned pawn variation, if you like."

I guess its okay

but.....

That was a "fun" ending to the story. I enjoy stories that don't quite spell everything out for you or have an ironic twist.

ok

Thanks Ivan, Jason, Brian.  Woke up, got up, cheered up.

 Yes, it is amazing what some people will do for a member point.

weird?

 Fatmaster I have looked at the stuff you have posted - threads you have started in particular - without being insulting, I would maybe recommend you stop posting and start playing chess.