"Kitty"

"'It'd Be Shrewd Not To: Money Saving Tips for the Budget-Conscious Traveller'", Ryan muttered, examining the cover of the chunky paperback that had monopolised Lisa's attention for the last twenty minutes. "Ah, so that's why we're not in the Maldives.'

Lisa tipped her head and eyed him over the lens of her sunglasses. "You're burnt," she said.

He flipped the camera on his phone to check his face. Beet red. With a grunt, he hoisted himself up onto his elbows, squinting down the beach towards the lapping waves, where Bailey and Sarah frantically fortified the crumbling wall of a dilapidated sandcastle. Despite their dogged efforts, the structure's fate appeared to be sealed.

Shelmouth Beach boasted no golden sands nor tropical backdrop, its Devonshire shores instead decorated with decadent piles of rusted crab cages and tangled fishing nets, around which sandy-bottomed boats lazed on the tide-revealed sand like big-bellied walruses basking in the early afternoon sun. What Shelmouth lacked in luxury, it exuded in character.

“Tide’s coming in,” he observed. “Shall we make a move?”

“Sounds good."

“Bailey! Sarah! Lunchtime!”

Once they were dried and dressed, the four of them zig-zagged towards the promenade, steering between the beached carcasses of fishing boats, stepping over algae-draped mooring ropes, and giving a respectable berth to the innumerable encampments of their fellow beachgoers.

Bailey's inevitable moan sounded right on cue, just as they passed the pier.

“Daaad, I wanna go on the 2p machines.”

He deferred to Lisa. She grinned and shrugged; as good as a signed permission slip.

“Alright,” he said. “One pound each, understand? Once it’s gone, it’s gone.”

Inside, a multitude of heavy machines lurked in the shadows, their mechanical bulks differentiated by delightful depictions of comic book heroes and primetime cartoon-channel protagonists; pretty veils of innocence and allure. A chaotic melody of wacky electronic soundbites bounced off the walls, drowning out the monotonous buzz of the busy ATM keypad in the corner. A thin, grey console facilitated the swap of a wallet-friendly £1 coin for a heavy pile of grubby copper shrapnel, the whirring of the mechanism audibly sniggering at him as it did so. 'You ain't seein' that again, pal,' it sneered, puffing out his borrowed allowance as though derisively blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke into his face.

“Sarah—here you go, that’s yours. Bailey, I’m afraid I’m all out of cash—"

“Oh what! Dad, that’s not fair!”

“Just kidding,” he smiled. “Here you go.” The machine dumped out another load, and Bailey took it. “Which one first then? Spiderman, Monopoly, Hello Kitty…?”

Lisa took Sarah to Monopoly. Bailed opted for the nearby Hello Kitty machine, so Ryan stayed with him.

Behind the heavily reinforced, alarm-protected glass casing, a pile of 2p coins teetered deceptively over an apparent precipice, a tantalising hair’s breadth from tumbling into the metal outbox beneath, were it not for the hidden adhesive that fixed them to the shelf. Above, a raised platform slid gently backwards and forwards, covered too in coins, but more sparsely. A complicated set of flashing lights and illustrations plastered well above head-height advertised the existence of some kind of jackpot; a sequence of events barely comprehensible to himself, but perhaps, he reasoned, crystal clear to the arcade's prevalent demographic of recent nursery alumni. A tiny sticker at the machine’s base--partially obscured by the paw of a smiling anime kitten--confirmed that the machine was legally certified as rigged, and would pay out according to an adjustable percentage, which was set entirely at the establishment’s discretion. Delightful toys, they were; fond, nostalgic staples of the British seaside holiday.

“Go on then,” he said, shaking the bowl of coins as he handed them to Bailey. “Turn this lot into a house in the Algarve.”

Bailey released the first of them into the plastic chute. It rattled about, then landed flat on top of another, imparting a non-effectual result on the machine's ecosystem. The second did exactly the same.

“Time it,” Ryan said. “Look, you want to release it… now.”

“I don’t like this one,” Bailey moaned, looking around impatiently. “I wanna go on Spiderman.”

“It’s not the machine, it’s… look, come here.” He took a coin from the bowl and held it in place. “Ready? You need to let go of it… now!”

The little copper coin rolled down the chute. It rested on its edge for a heartbeat, then the shelf slid outward from beneath it, and it tumbled onto its side, heads-up. The shelf reeled itself back in, physics combining with the backboard to nudge the coin into the fray, displacing one of the incumbents from the top shelf and sending it toppling onto the lower level.

“See? That’s what you want to—"

“Dad, look!”

Like the first little snowflake of an avalanche, his demonstrative effort unwittingly triggered what might have been the greatest disturbance ever witnessed within the glass casing of the Hello Kitty coin-pusher. The long-dormant discs of dull copper shuddered, as though a beast had awoken beneath them. They lurched inward in a colossal implosion, like sand sucked into a sinkhole. A great landslide ensued; an almighty bronze waterfall, gushing over the edge of the shelf. The metal tray chimed with the sound of riches, the lights of the machine flashing in a way that nurtured the soul.

Boing boing boing… JACKPOT! Ring-a-ling-a-ling!

Bailey stood back, aghast.

Ryan’s heart raced.

Every parent-accompanied punter in the arcade was looking their way. A miracle had come. The Hello Kitty gods—usually so stringent, so cruel—had seen fit to nourish their humble lands with a bounty of plenty. A great rain of copper flooded the dusty plains, awash with glistening motion. Empty-bowled families rejoiced around them, worshipping the downpour, revering the existence of such a blessing after their own long, hard seasons of draught.

When the tray finally stopped rattling, Bailey found the strength to speak.

“How much, Dad?” he asked, hesitantly, wondering if, in that moment, life as he knew it had changed.

Ryan carefully counted the coins out into the bowl, his hands trembling, the watchful eyes of the arcade glued to the back of his head. The sound of metal ceased, and his hands hung still. He stood and slowly turned, the silence of held breath altering the acoustics of the room.

“One pound forty-six,” he confirmed, breathlessly.

Silence endured for one uncertain moment, then a man in a wheelchair began to clap. Gradually, others joined him, until whoops and cheers surrounded them. He held the bowl aloft, his arm around Ryan’s shoulder, beaming proudly, endorphins jetting around his bloodstream like nothing he’d ever known, or would ever know again.

That night, Ryan couldn’t sleep. A phantom roar of applause teased his ears in the dull quiet of the bedroom, and the greasy scent of old copper seemed to leak from the fibres of his pillow. The perpetual motion of a perspex shelf slid back and forth like a metronome in his head; with every surge forward, the deepest part of his soul clamoured reflexively for the sound of falling metal. He tossed and turned through the early hours, until a broken sleep carried him to the dawn. Tired and agitated, he awoke the kids and began to prepare breakfast.

The sound the Cornflakes as they impacted the ceramic of the bowl fired up some synapse in his head.

“Ryan? Everything OK?” Lisa asked, filling the kettle at the sink beside him. He'd poured flakes all over the worktop.

“Sorry, yeah,” he mumbled. “Wasn’t concentrating.”

She frowned. “They both asked for Coco Pops, by the way.”

The sun was out, shining down on another glorious Devon day. After breakfast, they headed for the beach again, laying down their towels in their favourite spot. The kids scattered to commence their ill-fated endeavours of castle construction, whilst Lisa returned to her verbosely titled economic travel guide. Ryan sat upright, already sweating, growing uncharacteristically irritable at the sand between his toes. He looked around the beach, taking in the sights and sounds, willing himself to relax.

The messy hoard of fly-tipped crab cages still littered the beach, entangled in an impossible knot of pubic-hair-like fishing nets that nobody had bothered to remove. Fishing boats greedily took up the space around them, sun-bleached, pungent, and rotten, no doubt intended to lend a rustic, quaint aesthetic to the place, but achieving such an effect no more effectively than the nearby bin of stinking dog waste.

What if Bailey didn’t want to go to the arcade today? Would he be subjected to another sleepless night? Another day spent fantasising over the unparalleled high of that jackpot whilst allowing the next dose of euphoria to pass to some unappreciative stranger? What were the odds set at? One jackpot per day? One every two days? Did it even matter? His immaculate timing had seemed to lay waste to such constructs; it would be foolish not to go back.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, tapping Lisa on the thigh. “Nipping to the loo. Want anything?”

“No thanks,” she said, squeezing his hand without looking up from her book.

He glanced as his sports watch. He’d made it to the arcade in four minutes. Spinning a tale of a poorly stomach and a quick look around the shops would buy him another twenty. The watch face also noted that his heart rate was running 40bpm higher than usual, but he put that down to the brisk walk here.

He made his way over to Hello Kitty—currently being clumsily fed from the sugary fingers of a young couple—and waited by the machine, stealthily observing the frequency of her—it’s, Ryan, it’s—pay outs. He darted away to trade in a couple of pound coins for change, then cursed as he returned: the couple had moved on, and a grandmother and grandchild had swept in before he’d had the chance. After clawing a few frigid payouts from Hello Kitty's out-tray, the dismayed duo departed, and Ryan pounced eagerly.

For the first time since leaving the arcade yesterday afternoon, the world seemed to settle down. He pinched that first coin between his fingers and feeding it between her puckered lips, where it rolled and landed impeccably, teasing 6p from the shelf with such ease that the very notion of pre-determined odds was reduced to a malicious conspiracy theory, concocted by the bitter defeated.

No, something magical was at play here.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, patting her glass casing with his warm, sweaty palm.

And she must have missed him too.

Boing boing boing... JACKPOT! Ring-a-ling-a-ling!

His reward came with almost romantic inevitability, the sweet song of metal serenading him from beneath. He gathered the spoils and turned around, beaming expectantly, holding his plastic bowl aloft as he had yesterday. This time, though, the wary glances of parents took the place of his former applause. A mother collected her daughter from the machine beside him and led her away. A few captivated children pointed his way, drawn by the flashing lights and the thunderous jangling of coins, only to have a hand placed on their back, and their glances diverted elsewhere.

Let them be jealous. This buzz was everything. He was alive.

Throughout the remaining week of the holiday, he disappeared multiple times each day, easily shirking his childminding obligations at regular intervals on the guise of a stubborn case of diarrhoea. The arcade was open 10am – 9pm and, in the confines of this small seaside town, he was never further than a stroll from that sweet release. Time after time he visited her, swapping more and more of his worthless pound coins for the sweet nuggets of copper that that he and Kitty passed between them.

 The evenings were the easiest; after dinner, when the kids were in their pyjamas watching the telly, ready for bed, he would pop out to fetch a nice bottle of wine for him and Lisa, all too easily convincing her of his intention to take the scenic route along the seafront, where he alleged to watch the sun set from the pier. Into the quiet arcade he would go, parting with as many coins as he could, forgetting at times that he even was chasing that jackpot; that he wasn’t here to simply drop coins into a slot for all of eternity, lost in the mundanity, the simplicity, the mindlessness of the act.

The final day of their holiday arrived. Early the next morning—before those arcade doors opened—a 4-hour drive would take him far away from Kitty, and their acquaintance would abruptly cease. He proclaimed that morning that his diarrhoea had become chronic, and insisted that he couldn’t leave the apartment. So, Lisa left him with yet another pack of Imodium, and her and the kids went down to the beach themselves.

As soon as the door clicked shut, he got dressed, loaded his wallet, and went to Kitty one last time.

He stayed with her all day, glued to the glass, only returning after sunset, spinning a desperate web of lies consisting of a trip to the doctor’s surgery, a dead phone, and the curious coincidence of bumping into an old friend, who insisted that they go for a couple of beers. Lisa was concerned, but she bought the story.

They packed their cases and went to bed.

The next morning, he drove his family home. Within minutes, the sleepy seaside town slid out of view in the rear-view mirror, lost to a bend in the winding coastal road. A weight lifted from his shoulders, as though he’d awoken from some strange, twisted nightmare. He eased his foot down on the accelerator, took a long, deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“I spy, with my little eye,” he began, grinning as the kids perched excitedly on the edge of their seats.

A few days had passed since Cornwall.

Ryan the Senior International Accounts Auditor had promptly disowned the persona of Ryan the Serial Hello Kitty Coin-pusher Patron, and life had very much resumed as normal. Without the arcade’s proximity, without its irresistible convenience, he’d been released from whatever grip had clasped him so firmly for the duration of that peculiar week.

It was all a very distant memory until Thursday morning.

The kids were still off school, both staying at their friends’ houses. He was reading the Financial Times, tucking into his marmalade on toast, when Lisa sat down beside him in her dressing gown. She stared at him intently; a sombre, thunderous look on her face.

“What have I forgotten?” he asked. “Ah, Christ, was I meant to put the bins—"

“I need you to tell me who Kitty is, Ryan.” Her voice was firm initially, then began to shake. “I need you to tell me what happened on holiday.”

“I don’t—what do you mean, I don’t know anyone called—"

“Don’t take me for a fool, Ryan.”

She threw six unopened packets of Imodium down onto the table: the same ones he’d hidden in the lining of his washbag.

“Those awful bouts of diarrhoea you had in Devon? All those late-night walks? That visit to the doctors and the mysterious pint with a friend?”

She shoved her iPad in front of him, their debit card statement displayed on the screen, and slammed her finger down again and again, highlighting several clusters of transactions.

“Eight hundred pounds of cash withdrawals in the space of a week? How do you explain that?”

“I…” he frowned. “You don’t normally look at the…”

“No, you’re right, I don’t. But when my husband gets back from a holiday where he spent half of the week completely unaccounted for, and he starts muttering something about some woman called Kitty in his sleep, a woman gets curious, Ryan. She gets very curious indeed. Tell me where you were. Tell me…” she thrust the iPad in his face and stood aggressively from her stool, “who she is!”

He closed the Financial Times and pushed aside his plate of toast.

All things considered, there was only one dignified course of action available to him here.

Because, on balance, no matter how despicable infidelity might be, was a faithful husband who lovingly uttered a pet-name for a Hello Kitty coin-pusher in his sleep not worse?

“I’m so sorry, Lisa,” he said, his head dropping to the table in dismay. “It was a stupid fling, that’s all. I promise it’ll never happen again.”