The Last Card (20 page)

He turned to look at her.

‘Win the fight.’

‘Me? Beat Mancini!’ H’s voice was incredulous.

‘Hey. Isn’t your game all about self-belief and confidence?’ Nina now turned towards him. ‘Alan’s already got me; don’t let him get you.’ H stared back at her and as Nina stared back, she felt
something
stirring but she wasn’t sure what. She knew she was playing with fire here. She liked Hilary, there was no doubt about that. She just didn’t know how much she liked him.

‘I’ve got six weeks; I’ll need to get pretty damn fit if I’m going to beat Mancini.’

‘So get fit.’ Nina ran her hand through H’s dreadlocks. She ran her fingertips lightly over the stubble on his cheeks. She passed a finger over the softness of his lips.

And for the next six weeks, H worked his arse off. He got fit.

T
he gym was busy with boxers and while Matt watched from the ringside, H worked the pads in the ring with Nick. The
soundtrack
to H’s fighter’s dance was again the obligatory American rap. The musical mayhem was masterminded by the Bronx’s Tim Dogg regaling the gym with ‘Low Down Nigga’.

H threw combination punches at the pads on Nick’s hands. The pads were large, black, padded squares. In the centre of each square was a small white circle and it was this that H aimed for when he threw his punches. He danced in front of Nick, bobbing, weaving, moving his feet. Nick took two steps back, one to the side, the pads held up, one by his ear, the other by his chest. H followed him. Bap! Bap! Bap! He threw another combination, a left-right-left, working his body, moving, keeping busy. Nick moved again, one step back, two to the side. He moved his pads to keep H honest, both at the level of his chest this time. Ba-bap! Ba-bap! A left-right, left-right! Different combination, same lethal effect. H was looking good.

Since that night at Nina’s H had indeed made the time, and the effort, to ease his body on to a level of fitness it hadn’t approached for at least five years. The going had been rough but the hard work had paid off. As he one- and two-stepped around the ring, working the
pads on Nick’s gnarled and battered hands, H could feel a snap and bounce. His knees bent and snapped back with a youthful vigour that felt good. Really good. Every evening H had spent up to two hours stretching. Stretching! Easing his body into unnatural positions, working his joints, lengthening his muscles. Six weeks was not nearly enough time to really become fit but it was enough time to make a difference and that’s what H wanted to do. Because he knew that whatever shape his body was in by the time of the fight, his mental condition had to be better. He had to be feeling it and the only way to be feeling it then was to work his body now. H was going to be in the ring, alone, with Henry ‘Bugle Boy’ Mancini, a man with dynamite in both hands. He was as hard and as rugged a professional as there was. And as H well knew, the ring can be the smallest, loneliest place in the world if you aren’t ready for the challenge. Deep down, H was under no illusion that he could beat Mancini over twelve rounds. Not really. But … you never know.

The lives of H and Mancini had taken dramatically different paths since that summer night in 1998 when H had the world at his feet. Why? How had that happened? In the last six weeks, while pounding the roads of Battersea building his stamina, while skipping series of twelve three-minute rounds, while performing his crunches and his push-ups, his chin-ups, twists, bends, squats … H had had time to think. And what he thought was that the person to blame for the different paths taken by himself and Mancini – the only person he could possibly blame – was himself.

It was a painful realisation.

Looking back, H could see that on any objective assessment he had been a vastly more talented boxer than Mancini. He’d had almost everything. He had hand speed, foot speed, he was blessed with an athlete’s body, his hand-eye co-ordination was way above average, he could take a punch and he had a boxer’s brain. He could think on his feet, he could change his strategy in the middle of a fight. The one thing he didn’t have was a huge, knockout punch, but nobody has everything. And yet despite this formidable arsenal of talent, his career had slipped while Mancini’s career had gone from strength to
strength. Why? All Mancini had going for him was a big punch and a chin like granite.

But, though H, who was the bravest, who wanted it the most? In a match-up of equal talents, who was going to be the last man
standing
? H had been thinking about this question a lot recently. He was afraid of the answer. It was one that had been keeping him awake at night.

It was this knowledge – which he had always had! – that was the root of his gambling. He knew that now. And once H had confronted this realisation, he knew this fight with Mancini was going to be his last …

A buzzer sounded for the end of another three-minute round. H stopped throwing punches at the pads on Nick’s hands and walked round the ring, blowing hard. Nick looked pleased and winked at Matt. He shook the pads off his hands and threw them to his son.

‘Can you manage a couple a rounds sparring before you finish, H?’

‘Whatever you say, Coach.’

Despite the scowl that was an almost permanent fixture on Nick’s face, H could tell that he was beaming inside. Over the last weeks of intense training H had thought about what might have been. How things might have been different if the kind of intensity he had brought to his work recently had been the same over the last few years. But he wiped that quickly from his mind. He had to forget what might have been and think about now. Nick’s face was as lined as an unmade bed and some of those lines had no doubt been put there by H and his attitude to training over the years. But what was the point of dwelling on what couldn’t be changed? H had one chance to redeem himself and he was taking it the best way he knew how.

‘Roight, you lot! Listen up! I need a couple a loive bodies up here now!’ Tim Dogg continued to display a loud and questionable
dexterity
with words and lyrics. Nick’s voice was drowned out and, as usual, he had to bellow and scream to make himself heard. Heads
immediately
snapped round as the music was turned off. The boxers waited for another of Nick’s regular outbursts to blow over.

‘Dere’s a fuckin’ tyranny of rap music in dis fuckin’ country and it’ll be de fuckin’ deatha me and de fuckin’ ruination of all
roight-moinded
people in dis fuckin’ country!’ Nick glared round the now silent room through narrow eyes. ‘Why de fuckin’ hell can’t you listen to de fuckin’ bagpoipes or sumten?! Sumten wid a fuckin’ tune or sumeten?! Jaysus fuckin Chroist!’ He continued to glare. ‘T’ank fuckin’ Chroist for de sound a silence! I need two people up here. Now! You and you!’

He pointed to Blood and one other. The rest of the gym slowly went back to life.

‘In you get Blood. And no punches to the head. You’ve got t’ree minutes.’ Nick climbed out of the ring while Blood, who already had his gloves on his hands and a sheen of perspiration from working the speed bag, climbed in. Nick called over to Matt. ‘Got the clock?’ Matt reset the clock and nodded to his father.

‘Roight,’ Nick looked between H and Blood. ‘Off you go.’

H and Blood circled each other warily, tossing exploratory jabs. Blood danced, keeping loose, looking good. H stalked. He
manoeuvered
Blood into a corner and delivered a flurry of combination punches, Blood danced away but no longer looked as casual as he had.

‘We’ve obviously been doing sumetun roight.’ Nick said to Matt. He turned back to H and Blood. Blood now snapped his jabs with more intent, no longer just tossing them. It made no difference to H. He ducked, moved, stepped, tucked; probing, covering up, jabbing. Looking surprisingly smooth, surprisingly fluid. Blood was spurred to greater effort, dancing with more purpose. This wasn’t the casual workout he’d expected. He feinted with his left, threw the right, bang! caught H in the face. Nick screamed at Blood, his face going beetroot red.

‘Keep ’em down! Keep ’em down!’ H shook the blow off, came back, aimed at Blood’s head, missed! Blood countered and H
shuffled
, sliding out of range.

‘Fuckin’ ’ell!’ The words burst out of Nick as though chased by a rottweiler. ‘Fuckin’ ’ell! When’s de last toime you saw dat?!’ It was a question that needed no answer and Matt didn’t have one because
the last time H had shuffled was too long ago for either Matt or Nick to remember.

Blood and H were now both dancing, using the ring, creating space. H caught Blood flush with a rising right. Bang! Blood hit the canvas. He immediately bounced back. Blood rushed straight back at H, his pride dented. Blood and H now stood toe to toe, exchanging furious blows. H then danced away, shuffled, moved, defended. Now Blood was the stalker, the chaser, off balance, pushing forward. And H was making him taste leather, catching him – bang! Taste that. Bang! Another. Each blow only made Blood come at him faster, losing composure, looking scrappy.

The buzzer sounded to end the round. But Blood pushed on,
oblivious
to the buzzer. H had played him like a boy and Blood wanted payback.

‘Toime!’ Nick called it and expected his boys to cool it down. They didn’t. ‘Toime! Toime!’ They still ignored him. The two battled on, H backing up, dancing, jabbing, moving; Blood pushed on, flailing, catching blows, losing it. Other boxers stopped their own work to watch the action. ‘Time’s up! Blood! H!’ But H continued to pepper Blood with jabs, his legs snapping back and forth as he moved; Blood was becoming angrier and looking increasingly amateur. Finally Nick and Matt looked at each other and, simultaneously, jumped into the ring and struggled to separate the two fighters.

With Matt holding Blood and Nick holding H, the two boxers looked at each other, panting heavily. Blood was scowling, still seeing red. But H … inside H was smiling. He was beginning to feel it again. What he’d been missing. It felt good. And someone was going to pay for the years of hurt.

G
reen-eyed Brenda had been peremptorily dismissed. The night before Gavin had returned home to Pampisford Road in Purley, to find green-eyed Brenda at the computer, dressed in the briefest of shorts, a bra and a ridiculously pink pair of Ugg boots. Which, in itself, wasn’t a problem. The problem was that Brenda was listening, as she often did, to a strange and particularly tuneless type of music, very, very loud. Apparently it was called ‘grime’. Whatever it was Gavin didn’t like it. He had tried to like it, he had listened while green-eyed Brenda had tried to ‘break it down’ for him. But the music seemed to be a lot of screeching and screaming in a super-fast manner that allowed you no discernible access to what it was about. Unintelligible.

After ten minutes, Gavin had asked her to turn the music down. Unfortunately, five minutes before, he’d refused her request for yet another quickie and green-eyed Brenda was in no mood to chat. She had told him to ‘mind your own business!’ She then added as an afterthought ‘You’re too old to understand!’

Gavin had been making his way into the kitchen when he’d asked the question and having heard the answer, was now making his way back out. ‘What did you say?!’.

‘You heard!’

In the argument that followed, Gavin decided it was time for Brenda to move out.

‘But I don’t have anywhere to g … I don’t have anywhere to go!’ Gavin heard the catch in her voice and knew that she was about to cry. What could he do? He was a forty-nine-year-old man breaking up with
his beautiful twenty-three-year-old girlfriend, for the sole reason that she was just … young. She was twenty-six years younger than him.

Gavin steeled his heart, grabbed green-eyed Brenda by the arm and lifted her out of her seat in front of the computer. His seat and his computer.

‘Let go of me..!’

‘Get your stuff and..!’ Gavin didn’t finish his sentence because whilst he had hold of her left arm green-eyed Brenda swung her right fist and punched him in the eye. With a howl, Gavin went down
clutching
his face.

Twenty-five minutes later and Brenda had most of her few
possessions
in two army bags and had arranged to move back to the house she had vacated just over two months ago. A car waited for her outside. A part of Gavin was sad to see her leave. He would miss her compact body, slim and childlike, and her green eyes which gave her an innocent quality that he liked. Green-eyed Brenda left with a wave and a tear. He watched, unseen, from the upstairs bedroom window as she climbed into the cab and was gone.

As he left the bedroom, Gavin glimpsed his own face in the mirror. He stopped and stepped back to look at his reflection. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and pushed a strand off his forehead. The purple swelling developing round his left eye was a problem that he’d have to explain away at work, but … Gavin smiled as he savoured the silence. He was looking forward to his first decent night’s sleep in some time. Still smiling, Gavin padded downstairs to make a nice cup of tea.

It was 8.15 in the morning and Gavin had enjoyed a wonderfully undisturbed night. But his tranquillity had been disturbed by an
early-morning
phone call.

Once again, Gavin had been called on for direct involvement with the kind of unpleasantness Alan seemed to be increasingly reliant upon. Gavin’s task today was to wait until the boxer’s son, his
five-year
-old, came into school and then kidnap him. It was what Alan wanted. His final insurance that H would take the dive. This was a major felony for which you could serve major prison time. Gavin
thought about the risk he was taking. He thought of the alternatives. Returning to work as a fitness instructor … no, he couldn’t.

Gavin reconciled himself to his situation by telling himself that it would soon be coming to an end. Akers would soon be going to be meet his maker. From what Nina had told him about Hilary, he loved his son with a passion. Gavin wasn’t proud of passing on to Alan what Nina had told him about the boxer’s son, but the way Alan had been acting, he felt he had no choice. He knew Alan was planning something but Gavin wanted to beat him to it. Get there first. The kidnapping of the young boy was a risky operation but once completed Hilary was sure to be looking for revenge and Nina would do what she had to do to make sure that the desire for revenge would translate into murder. Gavin could then step in and make the kind of money that he deserved to be making while no longer taking the kind of chances he was about to take.

Having thought it through, Gavin sat in his champagne-pink BMW, with its leather seats and its tinted windows, and allowed himself a smile as he watched the stream of mothers enter the school gates with their darling children. Almost all of them said their good-byes to their cherished ones and left them playing in the school playground. One or two stood chatting. They concerned Gavin slightly, but if he had planned his modus operandi properly there should be no need for violence.

Moments later Gavin saw Cyrus and Beverley get out of their car and make their way towards the school gates. Gavin’s smile
broadened
. Beverley and Cyrus were about twenty metres away when Gavin looked over and saw Emanuel take a .38 from his jacket pocket. His smile vanished.

‘What the hell are you doing with that?!’

‘Is eensurance pol-ee-cee.’ Despite being in the country for at least eight years Emanuel spoke with a thick Spanish accent, laced with the sound of garlic and tortilla.

‘No, Emanuel, we-don’t-need-insurance-policy. That’s crazy.’ Gavin spoke to Emanuel as though conversing with an imbecile. He now tapped the side of his head. ‘This-is-my-insurance-policy.
English-brain
-power. You can put that away.’ He pointed to the gun.

Emanuel shook his head vigorously. ‘Alan – he say bring gun. In case trouble. Is eensurance pol-ee-cee. Alan say so. If I no want to be
driver for ever,’ Emanuel sighed heavily, ‘I must use if ne-ce-ssary.’

‘We don’t need-the-gun!’ Gavin looked up. Beverley and Cyrus were almost at the school gates. Shit. He would have to go. ‘Just do what a driver does and start the engine when you see me come out of those gates. Okay?’

Emanuel nodded. ‘Okay. I understand.’ He put the .38 back into his jacket pocket, stroking it lovingly, mumbling something under his breath. Gavin shook his head. He was surrounded by negros, dagos, half-breeds and wogs. What was the country coming to? As Beverley and Cyrus entered the school playground Gavin opened the door. He didn’t leave the car just yet, he wanted to see Beverley back out on the street first. The children were allowed into the school building at 8.30am and it was already 8.19. Beverley was late so she wasn’t likely to hang around but that still didn’t leave him much time to do what he needed to.

Moments later Beverley walked briskly out of the school gates and back towards her car. Gavin climbed out. Looking back and forth along the road he crossed over quickly and made his way into the school. A night’s sleep without Brenda had returned the feeling to his legs and he moved, once again, with what he imagined was the freedom of a cat. As he entered the school gates, Gavin looked around and immediately saw Cyrus. He was playing with a group of six small children. One of them was kicking a tennis ball about while the other five chased after him. The playground attendant, a rather attractive young woman, stood casually by the school door.

To one side of Gavin three mothers stood chatting to each other. Gavin could hear them laughing as they spoke. One of them was olive-skinned, dark looking. Maybe she was Spanish like Emanuel. In fact, as Gavin looked around the school playground, a lot of the kids looked dark! Of the forty or so children – boys and girls – playing in the playground, over half them were non-white! Gavin’s eyebrows shot to the top of his head. How could that be?

But Gavin did not have time for ruminations on the state of a changing London. He was waiting for an opportunity, a moment of distraction, anything that would allow him to evade the eye of the school attendant. And time was running out. He looked at his watch. 8.23. Gavin waited.

And then the moment came. Responding to a call from inside the
building, the attendant turned and went in. Just like that! Gavin didn’t know how long she would be away from her post but he did know the time was now 8.28. He had two minutes! He steadied himself, took a couple of deep breaths, and then strode quickly over to where Cyrus and his friends were playing.

The tennis ball that the children had been playing with rolled towards him. He stooped and picked it up. There was an immediate wailing of disappointment from the children, the loudest coming from the biggest of them.

‘Oiy, mister! Can we have our ball back?’

‘Of course you can, son. I just want to have a word with little Cyrus.’ Gavin looked down at the small children with a beatific smile. He tossed the ball away and the five other children immediately ran after it. Cyrus however hesitated, looking up at Gavin.

‘Hello, Cyrus. You don’t know me but I’m a friend of your father’s.’

‘You know my Dad?’ The little boy’s eyes lit up.

‘I do and he asked me to give you this.’ After a quick glance at the door through which the school attendant had disappeared, Gavin moved smoothly into phase two of his plan. Time was short. He squatted down and pulled from his pocket a plastic model of
Spiderman
.

‘Wicked!’ Cyrus snatched for the gift. Gavin moved it just out of his reach.

‘But you can’t have it just yet.’ He replaced it in his pocket. He held up his hands as though he were a trainer and his hands were pads. He pretended to shadow box with the small boy. ‘Your father tells me you like to watch him boxing?’ The boy’s face fell.

‘I do but my Mum won’t let me.’

‘Well today, I have a special treat for you.’ He playfully tapped the boy on the cheek, encouraging him to punch his hands. ‘Your father asked me to pick you up and take you to see him training.’ Gavin backed up a little bit while the little boy threw a wild punch at his hand, narrowly missing Gavin’s nose. ‘He said your mother wouldn’t mind because you have been so well behaved recently and it would be a treat for you. You can play with the Spiderman on the way there.’

But just when it looked as though Gavin could rise and take Cyrus with him one of the boys playing with the tennis ball called out to him.

‘Come on, Cy! We’re losing!’ Cyrus looked round, his attention
taken by the children scampering after the tennis ball. Gavin sensed he was losing the boy. He almost panicked, grabbing the boy’s hand. He stopped himself however, pulling out the Spiderman. He waved it in front of him.

‘Here. Take it. You can play with it on the way to the gymnasium.’ The little boy’s hands closed round the toy. Gavin rose up, took Cyrus’s hand and, with a last glance at the school door, led him calmly from the playground.

One of the chatting mothers, a Middle-Eastern woman, peeled off and waved her good-byes. She looked over at Gavin and Cyrus and smiled warily at Gavin. Gavin smiled back. The woman looked down at Cyrus.

‘Hello, Cyrus, are you being a good boy?’

‘Yes, Mrs Slim.’ The little boy chanted her name back, his
attention
focused on the Spiderman toy.

‘And where are you off to this morning? You’re not going into school today?’ By now Gavin was at the gates. All he had to do was pick the boy up, run across the road, jump in the car and he was gone.

‘I’m just taking him to meet his father.’ The smile vanished from the woman’s face and was replaced by a frown. Gavin knew he’d said the wrong thing. He glanced over at Emanuel in the BMW and hoped to Christ he had the engine running. What he saw almost prompted bowel evacuation. Emanuel did not have the engine running. Emanuel was not even in the car. Emanuel stood outside, his right arm tucked not-so-casually into the left side of his jacket. He was looking right at Gavin with a meaningful stare.

‘Does Beverley know about this? I don’t think she would want Cyrus missing school to see his father.’

‘Everything’s fine. If you don’t believe me ask the school. It’s all been arranged with them.’ They were now out on the street. Gavin looked both ways and without waiting for the women to reply, he scooted quickly across to the car. He was almost dragging the boy by now. The woman stood on the kerb watching him, clearly suspicious. Gavin hissed at Emanuel as he opened the back door and pushed the boy in.

‘Get in the car and drive!’ He climbed in after the boy. Looking up he saw Emanuel cross the road to meet the woman. What?! Gavin
looked at him with horror. What the hell was he doing?! As he watched Emanuel slowly withdrew his arm from his jacket. There was something in his hand. The woman looked at it, then up at Emanuel. She began talking rapidly. Gavin climbed out of the car and made his way round to the driver’s side. Emanuel had left the keys in the
ignition
. If the stupid dago was going to shoot this woman right there in the street, Gavin wasn’t hanging around.

Just as he was about to start the engine, the woman turned and walked away. Cool as you like. Emanuel strolled back to the car. He met Gavin sitting in the driver’s seat.

‘What arrre you doing?’ He asked the question nonchalantly as Gavin stepped out of the car. Gavin didn’t answer, he rounded the back of the car and climbed in next to the boy.

‘What were you saying to that woman?’ Gavin demanded. Emmanuel didn’t answer. He started the engine and pulled smoothly away. As they passed the Middle-eastern woman, Emanuel waved at her and smiled. She waved back.

‘What did you say to her?!’ Gavin was almost shouting. He glanced quickly at the boy but Cyrus was playing happily with his new toy.

‘You not worry. I ask her the way to Old Kent Road. Then I ask her for telephone number.’

‘Her telephone number?’

‘Si. Yes.’

‘And she gave it to you?’ Even Gavin was surprised at the
simplicity
of the ruse. Emanuel turned back to look at him.

‘What you think? You no think Manny is good-looking?’ ‘Manny’ turned back to the road, a broad smile on his face. Gavin could see him in the rear view mirror. It was a funny thing, Gavin thought, but Emanuel had chauffeured him for almost two years now and Gavin had never really looked at him. He was kind of good-looking.