How many more would die this year... for Charades?

The Judges always appeared after the fights were over. When everyone was dead. Every year the Scot-Blocks would meet the Albion-Blocks in a pitched battle to the death for their sport. 'Charades-Hooligans', Channel 99 News had called them; people who failed to understand that it was only a game. People who took each subtle gesture, each syllable, each film with six words in the title so seriously that they were prepared to die for it. The streets were already crimson with blood, and the semi-finals had barely begun. All the Judges could do now was to pick up the pieces and hope that the luck-less contestants had no more fight left in them. Load up the bodies in a sweet-smelling truck bound for Resyk. Few Judges dared break up the riots. None would enter the Scot-Blocks at night. There was even a rumour that Judge Dredd himself had whistled and driven past a fight between two drunken Scotsmen. It's said that even he was afraid to confront then', but this was only a rumour. It probably wasn't true.

Aman screamed like a girl from the direction of the teetering edifice that was Albion-Block and the Judges squinted up at the sky as a window on the fifth floor shattered into fragments. A broken bleeding body landed at their feet, still twitching.

'Huh-he tore out muh-my heart...

The Judges leaned forward to examine the gaping hole in the man's chest. They studied his clothes. The cuban heels. The mauve, flared trousers. The tight wool jumper. His face; worn, yet tanned. The swept-hack mound of brillo-pad hair. The likeness was unmistakable. 'Who did this to you, citizen?' they asked the clone of Lionel Blair.

Blair coughed on his own blood as his eyes clouded over, approaching death. He glanced down at his ragged chest, chuckling for a moment at how ridiculous it looked. He tried to talk, but could only whisper odd, quiet syllables. The Judges leaned closer still. 'What's he like? Can you give us any clue as to who he is?'

Blair stretched out his hands, palms upwards. 'Song?' one of the Judges asked hesitantly. Blair nodded vigorously, and the Judge smiled smugly. 'Three words,' said the second Judge, catching on fast. Blair's eyes bulged encouragingly as his hands fluttered like small birds above his shattered rib cage.

'First word's "Hey".'

'Second word. Sounds like swannee "'Nonny?"'

'Third word...' Blair ground his teeth furiously as the Judges looked on. 'Gnaw?' The second Judge looked blank.

'No,' said the first. 'It's "Naw" - like in the old Scottish folk song. "Hey Nonny Naw".' Lionel Blair looked pleased for a moment, then died very suddenly

Upstairs the Judges found the room from which Blair had been thrown. More Charades-Hooligans? They scanned the walls, even now dripping with ectoplasm. The furniture was alight, and all the mirrors had gone black 'Hey Nonny Naw', the first Judge said under his breath. Three Albion-Block citizens had been found dead this past week. Stranger still, each had been clones of television personalities from the twentieth century. First had been Barry Took, who was found face-down in a rad-waste lake. Next was hubbly Liza Goddard, brutally beaten to death with a walking stick and left to die in a bed of ectoplasmic fluid. The Scot-Blocks certainly had motive for the killings, but had they the means? All experienced Charades experts would be key figures in the approaching finals, but this was just too weird The Judges cordoned off the building.

Then they called Psi-Division.

The Scot-Block vs. Albion-Block games was a tradition dating back almost one hundred and twenty years; since the First settlers had arrived from Brit-Cit and the Cal-Hab zone In those days, of course, they were allowed to play football but the first games resulted in a spate of appalling deaths, an the Judges banned the sport what only in its third season. The game was replaced by blow football, but even this prove to be deadly, inciting the fans to chilling acts of violence, invading the pitch and so on. This was particularly distressing since the pitch was a four by five foot coffee table in someone's living room.

The annual game, eight years previously, became Charades. At First this proved very successful, with only a small handful casualties; but as the years passed, support for the game, at first fanatical, became lethal. Charades-vandalism became a familiar sight. 'Charades-casuals' would tattoo the names 'Gareth Hunt' or 'Bernie Winters' onto their arms, waving patriotic flags to the games. What had begun in a living-room expanded and grew into full-blown matches in stadiums packed with citizens from the Cal-Hab ghettoes and Brit- Cit, all wearing team colours and threatening the chunky-jumpered Chairman ( who was notorious for giving one team a film title like 'The Sound of Music', while giving the opposing team a fiendishly difficult music title, like 'Itsy-Bitsy-Teeny Weeny-Yellow-Polka-Dot-Bikini').

a forensic team were snapping photos of the room in Albion Block when Anderson walked in. She cracked a couple of jokes, but nobody laughed. There were no ornaments in the room, no photos, absolutely nothing to indicate that the victim had led any kind of life. He was a clone, bred solely to take part in the games. He had never had a family, or even friends. Charades was his life, and he had trained night and day to perfect his craft. Anderson ran a finger along the black glass of the mirror, feeling the cracks.
'It was something old. Something terrible that did this.'
The other Judges looked up as she began to tremble. Her eyes fluttered closed as she whispered, as though in conversation with someone or something unseen; then snapped open, wide with sudden fright. Anderson drew a long, shuddering breath before she spoke.
'Do the words "Hey Nonny Naw" mean anything to you?'
Lionel Blair's dying words. Anderson paled, as realisation of what they were facing dawned with a spectral chill. A creature famed for its eccentric anecdotes and murderously unfunny songs. The scourge of the Royal Variety Show. Another brief psychic flash; a premonition of scraggly white hair and gnashing false teeth. With terrifying certainty, Anderson knew they would have to face Sir Harry Lauder himself.

I t was the eve of the Big Match. Ricky McFulton, Scot-Block team manager, reclined in his comfy chair as he poured a glass of illegal whisky. He scrutinised the contract he was holding; signed in his own blood. A pact with The Beast. Yet, mused Ricky, what cost his own soul, when weighed against the importance of the game; against Charades? The Brit Cit team, with their marshalled ranks of twentieth century TV personality clones, had won the annual event seven years running. Something had to be done before they reached the Grand Slam. With the help of some Celtic Druids on the fourth floor of Billy Connolly Block, McFulton had evoked the twisted spirit of Sir Harry Lauder; one by one, he had destroyed the best of the opposing team, as Harry tore the living hearts from their bodies.

Ricky sipped his whiskey and smiled.
Elsewhere, in Jon Pertwee Con-Apts, Una Stubbs ( the only surviving member of the English team ) did some Charades exerices. She had been placed under 24-hour security, for fear of an attempt on her life. Anderson watched as Una groaned with concentrated effort, stretching her finger muscles one by one, rapidly skipping between one, two, three syllables Choosing numbers at ramdom. 'Concentration and a clear mind,' she trilled. 'That's all it takes'.' At eleven twenty-four, all the glasses in the room began to chime.
The chiming grew intolerably louder as Una, Anderson and the Judges covered their ears, mouthing silent instructions at one another. The chiming grew in volume and pitch, reaching a frequency beyond the range human hearing. Then everything exploded. Windows, glasses, cups, saucers; clocks, watches, strip-lights, vid-screen. Everything shattered, then froze in mid-air. Like a photograph. Then the apartment went dark...

Anderson held Una's hand in the pitch-blackness. Both squinted as a bright light appeared, widening, and a man with a small, crooked stick stepped out of it. He was wearing a kilt.