The Roll Under the Air Hockey Table

The Sea Star Arcade never really sleeps. Even at ten in the morning, the doors are still locked. The machines hum and blink to themselves like a room full of tired animals. Dilan loves this hour. He walks along the sticky carpet with a ring of keys, checking coins and switching on screens.

He is twenty-three, and he has worked here since he was seventeen. Everybody says he is the best technician the pier ever had. Everybody also asks him the same question, which is when he plans to do something else.

This morning he has a letter in his back pocket that he has not answered. A company in the city offers him a job fixing game machines. It comes with a proper salary and a desk. The letter has been there for nine days.

At the far end, the cleaner is pushing the heavy air hockey table away from the wall. She stops and bends down.

"Dilan, come and look at this."

Under the table, in a nest of dust and old coins, lies a small black plastic tube. Dilan picks it up and shakes it. Something rattles inside. He pulls off the lid and finds a roll of camera film. It is the old kind that people used before phones.

"Somebody's holiday photos," the cleaner says. "Probably twenty years old."

"Why would anyone leave them here?"

"They were never left. They fell." She wipes her hands on her apron. "Give it to the manager. He decides what we do with lost things."

The manager is in his office, eating an apple over a pile of invoices. He looks at the tube for about two seconds.

"Film," he says. "Nobody can use that any more. Throw it away."

"It might have pictures on it."

"It might have a lot of things on it. It is also under a table that was last moved before you were born." The manager waves a hand. "We are not a museum, Dilan. Bin it."

Dilan walks back across the arcade with the tube in his hand. He stops beside the bin and holds the tube over the opening. His fingers will not let go.

He is not sure why. He only knows that someone once held this roll. That person thought it was important enough to keep in a small black case. It would be strange to see it end up in a bin next to a paper cup.

He drops the tube into his pocket, next to the letter from the city.

On his lunch break, he walks to the photo shop at the end of the pier. A man with thick glasses takes the film, turns it over twice and smiles.

"I have not seen one of these in a long time," he says. "The roll is old. The pictures may be pale, or they may be nothing. But I will try."

"How much?"

"Ten pounds. Come back on Thursday."

Dilan pays and goes back to work. For three days he checks his phone and pretends he is not thinking about it. His workmates tease him about it. On Thursday, he runs to the shop before it opens.

The man hands him a thin envelope. "Eighteen pictures came out," he says. "The rest is dark. I think you will like them."

Dilan opens the envelope on the pier railing, with the sea flashing behind him. The first photograph shows the front of the Sea Star Arcade. The sign is newer and brighter, and the paint is fresh. The second shows a row of boys in front of the old racing game. They are about sixteen. They are all laughing, and they are pulling silly faces at the camera.

In the fifth photograph, one of the boys stands alone in front of the machine. He holds up one hand. His other hand is on the wheel. On the screen behind him, large yellow letters show the name MAG and a score of 99,990.

Dilan looks up from the photograph. He knows that name. It has been at the top of the old racing machine for as long as he can remember. In all his years at the arcade, no one has ever beaten it.

"MAG," he says out loud. "Who are you?"

He asks the cleaner. She does not know. He asks the manager, who says the name was there before him. He asks the regular customers, who shrug. A boy who plays the claw machine every afternoon says it must be a ghost.

Dilan does not give up. He takes the photographs to work every day and shows them to anyone who stands still. On Saturday evening, he is still carrying the envelope when a man walks in through the front doors.

The man is about thirty-five. He wears a dark coat and holds the strap of a travel bag. He does not look at the machines in a casual way. He looks at them like someone who is checking whether they remember him. He walks slowly down the aisle, past the air hockey table. Then he stops in front of the old racing game.

He stands there for a long time.

Dilan watches from behind the counter. Then he sees the man lean forward and read the top of the screen.

MAG. 99,990.

Dilan's heart starts to beat faster. He crosses the arcade before he can change his mind.

"Excuse me," he says. "Is that your name?"

The man turns. His eyes are kind and a little surprised. "It was," he says. "For about ten years. My name is Magnus. Why? Does the machine still work?"

"It always works. I fix it." Dilan takes a breath. "Nobody has ever beaten your score."

"Really?" Magnus laughs, and the sound is warm. "I was eighteen. It took me a whole summer. I came to the arcade every day, and I spent all my pocket money on coins."

"Did you take pictures here?"

The laughter fades slowly. Magnus looks at him carefully. "I took one roll. The night before I left for university. I carried my camera everywhere that summer. But I lost the finished roll somewhere in this room, and I never found it again." He pauses. "I still think about it. My friends and I never took a better picture than those."

Dilan reaches into his pocket and holds out the envelope.

For a moment, Magnus does not move. Then he takes it with both hands, as if it might fall apart. He opens it. He looks at the first photograph, and then the second. His face changes, quietly, in many small ways.

"That is Kofi," he says in a low voice. "And that is Sam. We said we would meet here every summer. And then we never did." He touches the picture of himself, and his voice breaks into a smile. "Look at my hair. Who allowed that?"

"The roll was under the air hockey table," Dilan says. "The cleaner found it. The manager wanted to bin it. I took it to the photo shop."

Magnus looks up. "Why?"

Dilan thinks about the letter in his pocket, and about the nine days he spent not answering it. He thinks about all the people who leave and all the people who stay.

"I think it wanted to go home," he says.

Magnus is silent for a moment. Then he puts the envelope carefully inside his coat. He feels in his other pocket and takes out two coins.

"Show me whether the machine really still works," he says.

Dilan takes the coins, slides them into the slot and presses the start button.