Correspondence Chess

Unfortunately, it happens sometimes, and more often these days, that an elderly tenant dies with no next of kin. In these sad, lonely cases, the council has to enter the property and clear it of possessions. When I say the council, I mean Tracy and me, who deal with this sort of thing amongst our many other tasks.

On that grey autumn morning, we waited in the rain as the locksmith opened up. The small, narrow house was the same as all the others in the street, the usual council house. The door popped open, the locksmith stepped back, his work done, and we entered.

When you get inside one of these places, you don’t know what to expect. Some of the tenants were hoarders in life, and there is rubbish and broken furniture piled high in every room. Some have kept animals or fed pigeons, and the place is full of filth and vermin whilst other places are clean and homely. And sometimes, as on this occasion, the property is depressingly empty, with bare walls and a few meagre possessions.

The deceased was Istvan Szabo, an old man who’d been born in Hungary but had fled to the UK many decades ago. Istvan had clearly died with very little to his name - one ancient TV, a signed black-and-white photograph of the Hungarian national football team, some unopened tins of pilchards, old clothes, a pile of chess magazines and a battered chessboard.

As Tracy threw clothes into bin bags upstairs, I stopped to look at the board. I play beginner chess online and have an amateur’s interest in the game. I recognised the pieces were laid out in the opening of a game - white had advanced the king’s pawn to E4, and black had responded with the Sicilian defence. Had the old man been practising alone, or did he have a friend on the estate we didn’t know about - a chess partner who for some reason hadn’t come forward?

Suddenly, on a whim, I made a move for white, picking up a knight and swinging it out to F3. I don’t know why I did it - perhaps I wanted to make a gesture of respect to the dead man, or maybe I was just too tempted by the position? I then turned to unplug the television, but as I did so I heard a scraping noise from the board behind me.

Glancing over my shoulder, I expected to see Tracy in the room, but she wasn’t there, and I could hear her singing as she worked upstairs. Glancing again at the chessboard, I noticed something had changed. Black had responded to my knight’s move by pushing forward another pawn. But of course, that was impossible; I was alone in the room. I must have been mistaken, but then the board made no sense, Black would have made an extra move. However, to be sure, I shoved a pawn forward, tempting Black to capture it, before heaving the TV out of the house and into the back of the van.

When I returned, I went straight to the board to set my mind at ease that nothing had moved. But once again something had changed. Not only had black’s pawn moved diagonally, sitting in the square I had just moved to, but my white pawn had been removed and placed neatly beside the board.

Not trusting my senses, I pulled out my phone and took a photo of the board. And then, for good measure, I switched to video mode, filming the board as I responded to black’s move by taking his pawn with my knight. I waited for something to happen, eager to record anything odd. But then I heard Tracy shout from the bedroom, “Oi Dave, give us a hand to shift this will yah!”

Grumbling to myself, I headed upstairs to help carry. After a few minutes of huffing and puffing down the stairs with boxes, I got a chance to check the board again. This time I had a photograph to compare the current state of play with. And without a doubt, something had moved - black had developed one of his knights.

Now I was certain either I was suffering from a delusion or the pieces were moving themselves. If I had told Tracy, she would have assumed the former - but I was sure there was some kind of technology or a magic trick at play - something with magnets and a computer, perhaps. Quickly I swiped the pieces up and folded the board, placing them inside the box. As I did so, I noticed the old, worn box had a faded print on it - an illustration of a man in a turban and furs sitting behind a cabinet full of cogs and gears, playing chess.

Now I can honestly say I have never swiped anything when on one of these jobs for two reasons - firstly, it just wouldn’t feel right, and secondly, most of it is old junk. But on this occasion curiosity overcame me; I needed to know what was going on. I wanted to be alone to examine and test the board. And so quickly I sneaked the small box into my backpack and got on with clearing the place.

That evening in my flat I took the board out and had a long look, taking my time scrutinising every detail. The pieces were hollow, made of some early plastic, with felt bases peeling off from the bottom. I peered inside several of them but found them completely empty. The board itself was made of cardboard with dog-eared corners and coffee stains - it didn’t seem thick enough to hold any mechanism other than perhaps the latest thinnest silicon chips.

On the reverse was what looked like a different game. Ten circles connected by interleaved lines arranged in a geometric pattern. Inside the circles and on the lines were what looked like Hebrew letters - some old Eastern European Jewish board game, perhaps? Had Szabo been Jewish? There was nothing in the paperwork or his home to suggest that, but what did I really know about the old fella?

Perplexed, I set up the game from the photograph and memory as it had been in the dead man’s house. This time I tried something different - an illegal move. I picked up a rook and moved it over some pawns to take black’s queen. Suddenly there was a loud knocking noise, as if somebody had rapped their knuckles on the coffee table I was playing on. Startled and slightly embarrassed, I quickly moved the pieces back into place. Feeling I should make amends, I now made another legal and sensible move for white and waited. Nothing happened...of course it only moved when I wasn’t looking. I shuffled off to the kitchen to make some supper - letting the board have some privacy.

Now, as expected, when I returned, the position had again changed, and that was how I became drawn into the game. Over the course of that week, I’d make a move every night after work. Sometimes I’d talk out loud to the board, going through the game and how I understood it was developing - trying to draw it into some more conversation. Sometimes I’d address it as friend, other times as Istvan. But it never replied and made no sound after that first fearful knock, letting its playing do the talking.

And what play. Soon the board led by a bishop; I couldn’t castle and was pinned back into my own half. I’d really have to improve if I were going to beat it. And so, things went until she arrived.

That Thursday night I had just climbed into bed after a takeaway curry, my mind still full of the game and how I could avoid losing when the doorbell rang. It was late, about half twelve, and I wondered who it could be - a neighbour in trouble or something more sinister? I threw on my dressing gown, put the chain on, and opened the door a few inches. Standing outside was a small pale young woman dressed all in black, old-fashioned clothes. She looked aggrieved.

“David Johnson?” she asked, her voice clear with a slight Eastern European accent.

“Yes?”

“You have something that is not yours. You are going to lose, and you do not know what the stakes are.”

“Now look here, how did you get my address? I don’t know what you want; it’s late, and I’m not letting you in.”

“There isn’t much time, he is going to-”

I didn’t let her finish slamming the door in her face, pulling the bolt across and retreating back into my flat. She didn’t ring again but instead dropped something through the letterbox. It was a business card. On one side was printed a word in Hebrew script, a telephone number and an address in Seven Sisters. On the other, written in biro, was simply NxF2 - a chess notation for a knight taking a pawn on the square F2.

Somewhat worried, I switched on the lights in the living room and surveyed the game again. So, if I moved my queen as I planned and then black took the pawn on F2 with his knight. Couldn’t I just take it with my king? No, the black bishop covered F2 - that would put me in check. And with the knight there, I was forked, forced to either lose my queen or a rook.

Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep that night. The next day I called in sick and just sat on the sofa staring at the game board. My mind was now filled with fog, and I couldn’t think at all - there seemed no way to win. And so reluctantly I dialled the number on the card.

“Esther speaking” It was the same voice I had heard last night.

“What are the stakes?” I blurted out.

“More than you can afford. But we can help you; you can’t win, but we can help you reach a stalemate. You need to bring it here. The board is from the Sitra Achra, the other side. You are in great danger.”

“What if I stop the game - throw the whole thing in the bin?”

“That will only make things worse. He hates bad losers even more than cheats.”

“When can I bring it?”

“Now, do not delay; come to the address on the card.”

Moving as if in a dream, I got dressed, packed up the board again, and headed to the tube. A grim determination seized me not to submit to the will of the board, not to let it win, to frustrate it. Heading to the station, I wasted no time. It was late in the morning and the rush hour had ceased. I walked along the length of the platform to get an empty carriage, moved the discarded copies of the metro from a filthy seat and sat down - my rucksack containing the cursed game board between my knees.

Just as the alarm rang before the closing of the doors, a dishevelled wreck of a man, stinking of his unwashed body and piss, staggered into the carriage. The old tramp took a swig from a can and then threw himself into the seat opposite mine.

“You fucking idiot,” he slurred.

I averted my gaze. The doors now locked shut, and the train began to move, too late now to move - only three stops.

“Look at me!” he shouted. I continued to stare at my feet. “You should have castled when you had the chance; now you’re fucked, and he’s coming for you.”

“What? What did you say?”

“You never stood a chance in the first place, sonny. What are you rated as - twelve hundred, maybe? He’s a clever bastard; you’ll never beat him.”

The tube pulled into Black Horse Road station. I stood up to leave and get the next train.

“Where are you going - this isn’t your stop!” he called after me.

On the next tube, I rode in a busy carriage the last two stops, very glad to get off and make it up the escalators and into the light of day. I followed the directions on my phone past an imposing Catholic church and left into the suburban streets. Most of the other pedestrians were Hassidic Jews, men in black coats and perfectly cylindrical furry hats, women in headscarves and wigs.

I stopped in front of the address marked on the card - 36 Norfolk Avenue. It was a nineteen-thirties house onto which ugly stone cladding had been added. This must be a hoax I thought, but having come this far, I went ahead and rang the doorbell anyway. An old woman answered - before I could introduce myself or explain, she ushered me through a dingy hall into what looked like a dining room.

Seated at a circular wooden table in the centre was Esther. A black lace garment was tied around her eyes, blindfolding her and her hands were laid palm down on the table. Without moving, she said, “Place the board on the table just as it was.”

I started to set up the board upon the table. “I didn’t know Mr Szabo was of your faith.”

Esther appeared irritated by the assumption “And what faith is that? We are not with the rabbis. And no, he was not of our faith; in fact, precisely the opposite.”

“Sorry, no offence meant, I don’t know much about this sort of thing.”

“Or chess evidently.” She snapped back.

I placed the last piece upon the board.

Now, a little gentler, “Sit upon my right-hand side and hold my hand.”

Confused, I did as commanded. The light in the room seemed to dim. Without being able to see the board at all, Esther put forward a hand and moved a piece. And then, to my astonishment, before my eyes, a black piece dragged itself across the board.

Esther mumbled something in a tongue I couldn’t understand, but I recognised the name Raphael and the word “Ashmedai” repeated again and again. Then she made another move with her queen, and now black was suddenly in check and on the defensive. This time the black king sidestepped a square, slower this time. Esther didn’t hesitate to raise her hand to the queen again. The black king moved back to his original place, and Esther followed. Again, and again, three times the same moves were repeated - stalemate!

There were three loud knocks upon the table, the lights flickered, and I thought I could hear an anguished scream as if from far away.

Now evidently exhausted, Esther removed her blindfold and placed her head upon the table. “Now go,” she whispered, “you are free.” I didn’t know if she spoke to me or some spirit in the room, but I needed no more encouragement. I grabbed my bag and rushed from the room, out of the front door into the street, glad to be free of that cursed board and chess altogether.

As I walked back to the tube, I thought to myself, “I might take up sudoku instead.”