The Last Card (13 page)

H
had his fight at the Grundy Park Leisure Centre in Cheshunt, Hertfordshire. It was scheduled as a six-round contest against ‘Spider’ McKenzie, a bald-headed bruiser from Aberdeen. He had a tough chin, he had long arms and he fought dirty. At this level of the professional fight game there are no television cameras, there are no celebrities in the audience, there are no glamorous women around. For H, each bout was becoming more and more like a
Victorian
freak show; about entertaining a screaming mob eager to see violence. Once H had taken the elbow to his face, just above the eye, the spring drained from his legs. The illegal blow was seen judging from their cheers the illegal blow was seen by the entire audience, but not, apparently, by the referee. H no longer heard the crowd’s desperate baying for blood.

The stripped fluorescent lighting was harsh. H sat on the stool under it in the changing room, his back against the wall. The cut above his right eye was plastered, but the sweat from the fight still came out of his skin as little, tiny pinpricks. He held his arms out in front of him and Matt unlaced his boxing gloves and cut the white sticky-tape that bound H’s hands.

Matt discarded the tape in a nearby bin and picked up the bucket of iced water. Next to it was a brown envelope.

‘Where’d you want your money?’

‘Just leave it here.’ H gestured to the floor next to him. Matt dropped the envelope and H plunged both hands into the bucket. He waited until Matt was stood behind him rubbing his shoulders down with a towel.

‘Can I ask you something, Matt?’

‘Course you can, mate.’

‘You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t serious …’

‘How much?’

‘Fifteen thousand pounds.’

‘How much?!’ Although Matt had been here before he was stumped by this figure.

‘I know, I know, I know, I know …’

‘I can’t put my hands on that kind of money, H! And to be honest …’

‘Don’t! Don’t be honest.’ Coming on top of the honesty aimed at him by Beverley’s mother, H had had more than enough honesty for one day. He took one of his hands out of the water. With dripping fingers he picked up the envelope and opened it. Inside was the princely sum, the magnificent total, the gargantuan amount … of £300: a cockney carpet.

H looked at the crumpled, used notes. It was all the money he had in the world but it was still nowhere near enough for Alan Akers. On the other hand … it was just enough to secure a place at VJ’s poker table in Whitechapel.

D
unstan was vex. He tried to centre himself as he sat in the front seat of his Jeep, building up a nine-rizla super-spliff. A Japanese Origami master would have been proud of it. To construct a spliff of such architectural complexity, such splendour, gave Dunstan a sense of peace and well-being at least equal to the lick the mighty herb would give him once he’d torched it.

Dunstan’s head bobbed to Mad Lion’s wicked, old skool lyrics on ‘Play De Selection’. The music was waging a war with his ear drums. The terrifyingly loud one-drop, bass-line beat was so intense the reverberations rattled his ribs and his heart seemed to pump and bounce to the music of its own accord. To Dunstan, the music was sweet and calming.

Dunstan’s head rocked to the reggae, his afro bobbing just behind the beat. It waved like the leaves of a palm tree in a gentle Hawaiian breeze. As Dunstan worked on his spliff and listened to Mad Lion’s ruff and gruff, dance-hall chanting, he could feel the
vexation
gradually lifting out of him.

Dunstan glanced over at Ade sitting next to him. Ade neither seemed to be listening to the music, nor was he building a spliff. He stared ahead of him with a fixed and rigid expression. Dunstan could feel the hostility emanating from Ade like heat from an oven.

‘Wha’ ’appen to you?’

‘Nutten.’

‘How you mean “nutten”?’

‘I said nutten, didn’t I?’ Ade said this without turning to look at Dunstan. It took some of the heat out of his snapped response and Dunstan was glad of that. He liked Ade but, cha! he didn’t want to have to get nasty and tell him about himself.

‘Man, you should take up some yoga or somefen; cool you nerves.’

Ade turned to look at him. Having finished building his spliff Dunstan enthusiastically licked it together.

‘What did you say?’

‘Said you should take up some yoga or somefen. Chill you out a bit.’ Now that the spliff was finished and with the music pumping, Dunstan was relaxed enough to smile.

‘Wha’ are you talkin’ about? Wha’ de fuck you know abou’ yoga?!’ Ade was badly irritated and Dunstan took his time before answering. He took out his lighter and lit the end of his spliff, sucking on it greedily.

‘Come on, Ade, I’m jus’ winding you up, man. You cian’ take a joke?’ Dunstan held up the spliff for him. Ade made no move so Dunstan manoeuvred it towards the ashtray. He missed, and an ashy slagheap fell on the car’s pristine upholstery.

‘Fuck sake, man! I jus’ clean up de car yesterday, you know’t I mean!’ Ade eyed his misfortune with a broad grin.

‘Dat’ll fucking teach you!’ Ade snapped. He leant over and snatched the spliff from Dunstan’s hand. ‘’Bout youa chat ’bout yoga!’ He took a short pull on the spliff and let it out quickly. He handed the spliff back to Dunstan. Dunstan knew that Ade was not a man to smoke too much ganja and rarely in public. Ade’s theory was that it dulled the mind and slowed reactions. But once in a while he liked to indulge himself. They had time to kill while they waited for Paul Akers to show.

Paul Akers, the fool, the man they had come to kill, was the cause of the present vexation between the two friends.

Earlier that day Ade had been chilling in his council crib with
Janet
. Ade had his own place because his uncle worked for the local
authority
in Hackney and was a senior member of the housing department. It was widely known amongst certain circles that for a not-so-small fee Mr. Isiakpere would make it his business to put any name he chose at the top of the list for available council flats. Since Dunstan was far too busy running his recreational activities on the streets of East and
North London to learn how to pronounce ‘Isiakpere’, he often referred to Ade’s uncle as ‘Boo-Boo’. Being something of a diplomat however, Dunstan refrained from referring to Ade’s uncle as ‘Boo-Boo’ when Ade was within earshot. Unfortunately, earlier that day, Dunstan, annoyed with Ade, had forgotten his manners.

Dunstan had driven over to Ade’s in his Jeep, expecting to pick him up so that the two of them could drive over to Streatham, meet up with Paul and do what they had to do. Dunstan was keen to take this business with White Alan to the next level. Tonight.

He’d expected Ade to be ready and waiting. What he’d found was Ade, still in his underwear, sprawled on his sofa with a nearly naked Janet, watching
Scary Movie 2
.

‘What kin’a fuckrise is dis! We’re suppose to be down outside Caesars in half an ’our!’

‘Er  … yeah, yeah, I overslept.’ Ade looked at his watch. It was just after ten. Still half asleep he rose and stumbled from the room.

‘You ’ave to come into de place screamin’ and shoutin’?!’ This was Janet. In just her bra and knickers she sat up and glared at Dunstan, completely unembarrassed by her state of undress. As Dunstan looked down at her it occurred to him that he loved to put a woman in a headlock and drag her down as much as the next man. And he had to admit Janet was fit like a butcher’s dog: she had long slim legs, a tight arse and ebony skin; she had her hair fixed with long, braided extensions. Yes, Dunstan thought, she was well fit but he still didn’t care for her too tough. In his opinion the woman was so hasty she was feisty and no matter how fit she was, man is man and man has his business to do.

‘Yeah, well das wha’ being in business is all about, you get me!’ Dunstan fixed her with an evil eye. ‘Too many black people come like dis is joke business; dis is not joke business, you know!’

‘Yeah, well dis is our home, you know’t I mean, I don’t like you jus’ walkin’ in here giving orders! Wha’ about some privacy?!’

‘Listen Janet, don’ let me ’ave to get ignoran’ on you, you get me? You t’ink say you fit so dat give you license to run race wid man!’ Janet continued to glare at him. A few seconds later she shook her head, a gesture which seemed to indicate nothing but pity and contempt for Dunstan. She rose, picked up two half-finished bowls of peanut soup from the floor and sauntered from the room. Dunstan’s
eyes, squinting, followed her every step of the way.

‘Don’ even bodder to try flex wid me, Janet! Dis crib ain’t even yours anyway!’

Janet stopped and turned. ‘Wha’ you talkin’ abaht?! Ade’s uncle gave dis to us, dis is our home!’

Dunstan showed her an evil smile. ‘You mean Boo-Boo? You should shu’ you mout’, bitch, coz Boo-Boo soon gone get ketchup! You t’ink say dem council man dere can go on wid dem teefing ways for too long?! Nah, man, I don’t t’ink so! Dey soon come and take back dis flat!’

Ade had been coming down the hallway, tucking his shirt into his trousers and had heard his uncle referred to as ‘Boo-Boo’.

‘And anyway, dis is Ade’s place, not yours!’

Janet decided to take another tack, one she’d tried before and knew to be effective.

‘You’re not jealous, are you Dunstan?’ Her voice was now soft and seductive. ‘I know you’d like to sleep wiv Ade but..?’ Janet didn’t have time to finish her thoughts on Dunstan’s sleeping arrangements. He stepped towards her looking to give her one slap in her neck bone. Janet saw it coming and scooted towards the door, colliding with Ade as he came in from the hall. The bowls of soup she was carrying bounced off his chest, the soup poured down his front and the bowls crashed to the floor.

It was only when Dunstan and Ade were on the way to Streatham that Ade complained that his Salvatore Ferragamo trousers were ruined. Still vex himself, Dunstan asked if Salvatore Ferragamo was the crusty Italian man who ran the chip shop by the traffic lights on Mare Street.

Ade exploded in ire. He did not appreciate Dunstan’s brand of humour and he did not appreciate Dunstan referring to his uncle as ‘Boo-Boo’. And if there was any more of this kind of fuckrise he would have to reconsider his friendship with Dunstan. Dunstan could deal with Paul Akers on his own. And there you had it. They both understood the root of the argument and it had nothing to do with being late or peanut soup.

Since the argument about Ferragamo, neither had spoken a word. But Dunstan built up his super-spliff and calmed down. He looked at his friend.

‘You all right now? You cool?’ He smiled. Ade smiled back.

‘Don’t smoke too much of that shit, man, we got work to do, you know.’

‘Don’ worry about it, every t’ing cook and curry.’ Dunstan’s demeanour became serious as he paused, thinking about what to say next. The powerful sensi worked through him and he felt easier. ‘As soon as we tek dis man out … I wanna bust a move on Alan.’

‘So we’re gonna do it?’ Ade’s smile broadened.

‘Yeah, we’re gonna do it.’

‘Okay. I didn’t hear you mention anything about globalisation for a while so I thought, maybe, you gone cold on the idea.’

‘Nah, man, I’m down. But it’s all abaht timing, innit? You can’t fuck up a move like dis, because you only get one shot, you know’t I mean?’

‘For real …’

‘I’m jus’ t’inking abaht dat man, Gavin. White Alan’s slave. You t’ink you could take him?’

‘You even need to ask?’

‘You de man, Ade. Dat’s why we make such a good team.’

It was now 1.43am and the Jeep was still parked opposite Caesar’s on the corner of Streatham High Street and Amesbury Avenue. Dunstan and Ade had long finished the spliff and the two of them sat smoking cigarettes as they kept their eyes peeled on the front of the club. People had been leaving in ones and twos since about one, so Dunstan and Ade paid rapt attention.

Their diligence paid off. Paul left the club with another man, about the same age. Dunstan and Ade looked at each other. Dunstan could tell from the shrug of Ade’s shoulders that he didn’t know the second man. As far as they knew he wasn’t part of Akers’ gang. As far as they knew.

Both men were in high spirits, laughing together as they left the club and turned on to the high street. Shit! The Jeep was across the road, facing right: the opposite direction! Dunstan gunned the engine and swung out to the traffic lights at the end of the block. They were red. While Dunstan kept his eyes on the lights, Ade peered behind him, watching Paul and the man with him. They turned down a side street.

‘Fuck sake, man, they’ve just turned a corner!’

‘Just keep your eye on that corner!’ The lights changed to amber. Dunstan performed a dramatic U-turn that had his wheels screaming. They raced back past Caesar’s, one eye on the look out for Babylon. They passed the end of the block and Dunstan dropped the Jeep into second, slowly approaching the turning Paul had taken. Barrhill Road – short, quiet and residential. The Jeep eased around the corner, picking up speed as it made its way down to the T-junction at its end. Another quiet, residential, street. Which way? They looked to the left. Nothing. They looked to the right. A little way down the road a long, low XJS was parked up. Standing next to it, no more than ten metres away, was Paul Akers.

Paul was at the open door of the Jaguar, bending as he spoke to the driver. The man with him leant with his back against the rear door. Dunstan slowly drove round the corner; there was nothing else he could do. Staying where they were would immediately have attracted attention. Despite their youth, he thought to himself, despite their bickering, despite the sudden and unexpected emergence of their quarry round the corner, Dunstan and Ade were good at what they did.

As they drove past, Ade leant down to the concealed compartment in his passenger door. He pressed the pressure point to release the cover. He pulled out the Desert Eagle. He lifted it up to the level of the window, and as the Jeep cruised past the Jaguar, Ade let fly. The man with his back to them danced as his body was riddled with bullets. Paul had a split-second warning. As the bullet flew towards him Paul dropped to the ground and rolled away from the car.

Having supplied the XJS with a new ventilation system, taking down one man and possibly taking out the driver, Dunstan stopped the Jeep, engine running.

Inside, he and Ade craned their necks, their eyes wide, searching for Paul. No sign. Where was he? After the explosion of gunfire there was now silence. The engine idled, dogs barked, lights were going on in the houses in the road.

‘Did you get him?!’

‘Reverse! Go back!’

‘Did you fuckin’ get him?!’

‘I don’t know!’ Silence, heavy breathing. Nobody moved by the smoking, ruined Jaguar. In another nearby flat the light snapped on.
Curtains were twitching. Dunstan slammed the car into reverse, raced it back, screeched to a stop. Ade peered out of his window. Silence. Nothing. His eyes searched the Jaguar, straining to see under it, behind it. Still nothing. He opened his door. About to step out. Wa-wa, wa-wa, wa-wa, wa-wa! It was faint but they could hear it. Babylon coming! Dunstan rammed the Jeep into first, slammed his foot down, popped the clutch. The back of the Jeep smoked as the huge wheels screamed for purchase. Purchase found, engine roaring, still in first, Dunstan and Ade tore into the night.

Blairderry Road was once again quiet. More lights came on now, more curtains twitched, bodies were silhouetted in the bright glass. A window opened and an elderly man looked out, squinting into the night. His eyesight wasn’t what it used to be and he leant forward, peering into a dark and blurry world. Had he taken the trouble to find his glasses, he would have seen a nearly-new XJS with its front door open, a number of its windows shattered, and the windows that remained splashed with blood. The old man would have seen the body of a black man, balding, probably in his mid-30s, lying face-up, half in and half out of the driver’s seat. If the elderly man had been able to stand it and continue looking, he would have seen another man, a white man this time, about the same age, lying outside the car. This man too had been hit with bullets, in his back, on his arms, through the centre of his right temple. His broken body lay awkwardly across the pavement leaking the evidence of its abuse.

As the street slowly came alive to take note of the aftermath of the American-style drive-by, a figure, not seen by the old man in the window, lay huddled in his neighbour’s front garden. The figure, wearing a dark suit, crushed himself under the welcoming leaves of a well-manicured hedge. The fact that the figure had his elbow embedded in a relatively fresh dog turd in no way changed the gratitude with which he cleaved to the shadows of the hedge. The figure was Paul Akers and he was shaking, shaken and had his eyes wide open. Unlike his two colleagues, Paul Akers was very much alive.