The Last Card (24 page)

Stars exploded in the darkness, like fireworks on bonfire night, rockets shooting, whistling, up into the black, roman candles flaring their red, white and blue streams, crackers cracking and popping, bursting streams of sparkles dangling, shimmering, hanging, falling, falling, falling …

T
he champagne-pink BMW eased along the quiet, dark,
residential
street. It approached a turning, a road on the left hand side. The driver leant down, squinting to see the name. Westcott Crescent. He stopped the car and looked at the small child asleep on the back seat.

The driver climbed out and opened the rear passenger door. He gently shook the child awake. He then helped him out of the car and pointed the way to his house. He waited until he was sure the boy knew where he was. He watched him yawn and toddle off, clutching a plastic Spiderman.

C
arrying his brand new holdall, H approached the bar at Roxy’s. He walked a little more stiffly than usual. Not because of the new shoes that he wore. And certainly not because of the new black, woollen suit, which did not have the extravagance of his lucky suit. No, the stiff walk wasn’t because of either of these things. The
bruising
on the left side of his face gave a clue but it wasn’t that. The bruising was the result of the blow H had received from Mancini which had sent him crashing to the canvas. It was the crash to the canvas that had done the damage. As H fell he’d landed awkwardly on his hip and it was this that hindered him now.

A small crowd of people gathered outside the club and H paused a little distance away. If his plan was to work, the timing was crucial. He pulled out his mobile and looked at the time on the front of it. 10.39pm. He tapped the ‘Menu’ button, went into ‘personal numbers’ and scrolled down the ‘Ds’. He came to Dragon. He took two, quick deep breaths before dialling the number.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Alice, it’s Hilary.’ H spoke through jaws that barely opened. ‘Is there any …?’

H heard a loud schtuups as Beverley’s mother kissed her teeth. H winced, holding the telephone inches from his ear. There was a pause.

‘Hello?’

‘Bev, it’s Hilary. Any …’

‘He’s here, he’s here, he just turned up, he …’

‘Is he all right?’

‘Oh, Hilary, he’s fine, he’s fine!’ H could hear the happiness, the relief, the excitement in her voice. A lump suddenly sprang to his throat.

‘He’s a bit shaken up, but, he’s so good, he’s such a good boy! I’ve put him to bed now and …’

‘Look, Bev …’ H was finding it hard to speak. Emotion constricted his throat, bruising constricted his jaws. ‘I’ve got to go now, but I’ll …’

‘But don’t you want to …’

‘I’ve got to go, bye.’ He hung up. He pressed the telephone to his bruised cheek, softly, moving it all about the tender area. They were his family but before he could see them again there was something he had to do.

He removed a slip of paper from his jacket pocket and dialled the number written on it.

‘Hello?’ The voice at the other end was deep.

‘Who dis?’

‘H.’

‘Yeah, man.’

‘Where are you?’

‘We’re not coming, cowboy …’

‘You’re not coming! What do you mean you’re not coming?!’

‘It’s Dunstan, man. He’s telling me I’m not a businessman, but when I throw back at ’im ’is own lyrics about globalisation …’

‘What are you talking about?! We had a deal!’

‘Easy, star, I’m working on a plan …’

‘What fucking plan?!’

‘You need to take some deep breaths …’

‘Fuck you, arsehole!’ H didn’t like the advice but he was following it anyway. Nobody said anything over the sound of H’s deep, forced breaths.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Can I talk?’ H gave a final deep breath.

‘Go on then.’

‘Right. Dunstan’s out. He’s not feeling it. And I need back up, so …’

‘I’ll be your backup.’

‘Sorry blood, I don’t know you. I talked to my man but he wants to put things off. He needs time to …’

‘That’s too late. It has to be tonight!’

‘Why?’

‘It just does. Trust me, I’m your backup, Ade!’

There was another silence.

‘I’m gonna go back and talk to my man. I’ll call you.’

Ade hung up. For a long moment H just stared at the useless mobile in his hand. Okay, okay, okay, think, think, think this one through. What to do now? That fuck Ade!

H thought about Beverley. For years he had failed to take
responsibility
for his actions; she always took responsibility for hers. Always. And suddenly H knew he loved Beverley but he was no longer in love with her. The sudden clarity of the thought took his breath away. He struggled to push the thought from his mind. Later for that. He thought about Nina. Sexy Nina, tough Nina. Whatever else you could say about her there was no way she would ever evade responsibility for her actions. So what was wrong with H? He had to take
responsibility
! It was as simple as that! He thought of Alan’s smiling face. He thought of Mancini’s smiling face. He thought of Beverley’s smiling face. He thought of Nina’s smiling face. He had to take responsibility for himself. Because, because … no one else was going to do for him what he had to do for himself.

He switched his mobile telephone off and jammed it into his pocket.

H then put the pain in his hip out of his mind and strode to the entrance of Roxy’s. After waiting for some people ahead of him to enter, he paid his money and went in. The atmosphere was busy and there was a party mood in the air. Easing his holdall in front of him as he made his way through the crowd of gays and transvestites, he approached the bar. He looked up at the Fosters’ clock at the back. It was 10.51pm.

He beckoned to the barman. ‘Where’s White Alan tonight?’

The bar man pointed up at the ceiling.

G
avin sat at the back of the office, a blank expression on his face disguising his tension as he watched Alan on the
telephone
. He glanced at his watch. 10.50 pm. Time was moving on. He had guaranteed Nina that he would have White Alan on his own by 11.00 and yet here he was with Ram, the Indian man next to him, quietly sitting in front of Alan like a couple of stale buns at a
children
’s tea party.

Alan hung up, a broad smile on his face. ‘Glasses, Ram, glasses. Three.’

The Indian rose and went to the antique drinks cabinet to one side of the office. He carried three champagne glasses to the desk. White Alan lifted a bottle of Dom Perignon out of the bucket at his side and made a big show of opening it. He filled the glasses,
inviting
Ram and Gavin to join him. He raised his glass for a toast.

‘Money in the bin, boys! What a life! The sporting life!’ His smile widened, his teeth glistening white.

‘The sporting life!’ Gavin and Ram chorused politely. The three of them sipped their champagne in silence. To Gavin, the moment felt anticlimactic. White Alan seemed to have no such feelings. ‘Now that is what I call a fooking pay-day!’ He sat down at his desk and beamed at his two employees.

Gavin again looked at his watch. 10.56 pm. He turned to Ram. ‘Go down and get us some Cubans, will you, Ram.’ Ram nodded, no doubt glad of any excuse to remove himself from the oppressive atmosphere of Alan’s office.

‘Toilet, Alan, back in a minute.’ Gavin stepped out of the office, closing the door quietly behind him. He listened to Ram’s receding footsteps as he descended the stairs. Gavin looked around in the dim light. And as he looked around a figure melted out of the shadows, carrying a bag. Gavin looked at him, surprised by the
sartorial
upgrade.

His eyes focused on the holdall. ‘Why the bag?’

Hilary held it up apologetically. ‘I’ve come straight from the fight. It’s got my kit in it.’

Gavin nodded, satisfied. ‘All set?’

‘He’ll be here soon. Give us fifteen minutes.’

‘Ten. You’ve got ten minutes.’ Gavin headed on down the stairs and spotted Ram turning away from the bar, holding a bottle of Dom Perignon and two Cubans. Gavin went over and took them.

‘Alan’s in a good mood. He says take the rest of the night off.’

Ram’s eyes lit up. ‘Are you serious?!’

‘No, delirious. Get lost before I think of something for you to do.’

Ram took no time at all to nod his thanks and disappear. Gavin now turned to one of the barmen, a young man in his mid-twenties who wore his hair in a slick pony-tail. Gavin thought the expression on his face looked vacant and babyish so he made a point of drawing his attention.

‘Hey, your name’s Graham, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m the manager. I work directly to Mister Akers. I’d like a tonic water.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yep. I’m watching my weight.’

Graham returned the smile that Gavin gave him with a weak one of his own. He turned to fetch the drink. Little did Graham know that within, oh, about ten minutes he, Gavin Bishop, would be replacing Mister Akers. He would no longer be the manager, he would be the owner. Gavin made a point of showing his face around and chatting to the bar staff while he waited for his drink because when the shit hit the fan and Alan’s death was made known, his alibi would be secure. ‘What me, boys? Why, I was down in the bar having a quiet drink with Graham.’

Gavin waited. He kept one eye glued to the entrance to the club, waiting for Ade’s appearance.

H
stood in the dim light of the landing and thought about what kind of man he was. He could think of few things more difficult than having had to take the dive against Mancini. It struck at the core of his identity. And yet here he was, about to do something far worse. Yet H knew that at this moment in time, right here, right now, he felt he was doing the right thing. However hard, however questionable.

H dipped his hand into his jacket pocket and took out his
talisman
. He rubbed its smooth edges with his fingers and pressed it against his bruised cheek. He then slipped it back into his pocket and, without knocking, walked straight into White Alan’s office.

Alan was sitting back in his chair examining the recesses of his gaping mouth via his hand mirror. He looked up at H almost as though he had been expecting him. H was rattled by this and hovered in the middle of the office, awkward, exposed. With Alan’s eyes following his every move, he put his bag down on the floor.

‘What are you doing here? Our business is over!’

‘I thought, I thought …’ H’s voice quavered and he coughed to cover the break in it. ‘I thought I’d pay my respects to a true sports fan.’

Alan stared, seemingly unsure how to react. He slowly put the mirror down in front of him. Noting the hesitancy, H drew confidence. He walked forward and picked up one of the empty champagne glasses on Alan’s desk. This invasion seemed to be the prompt Alan needed. He sat up in his chair and pulled himself forward, tucking his legs under the desk.

‘D’you mind if I have a drink?’ H’s voice was firm and resolute now.

Alan didn’t answer. Instead he removed his hand from under the desk, now holding a handgun pointing at H’s chest. A Beretta 9mm.

H made sure his only visible reaction was to look down, but inside, his stomach turned to water.

Alan gestured at the champagne. ‘Help yourself.’

Using all his will-power to stop his hand shaking, H picked up the bottle and poured himself a glass.

‘I thought your performance tonight was very convincing, Hilary.’ Alan seemed confident now, on top of the situation. ‘A shame it took little Cyrus to convince you to go through with it.’

H sipped from his glass, trying to contain himself and decide his next move. Since Ade had let him down and told him he wasn’t coming tonight H didn’t really have a plan. He knew what he had to do but he hadn’t thought about how he was going to do it, especially now Alan was pointing a gun at him.

‘How much did you make?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Yeah.’

Alan paused, a smile playing on his lips. ‘Put it this way; more money than you’re ever likely to see in the whole of your lifetime.’ He paused. ‘You know what? I admire people like you. Because without people like you, I couldn’t exist. You can’t have winners without losers and you are a loser. And your son, Cyrus, he’s another loser. And his son after him. If I were to kill you right here and now what difference would that make to anybody?’

As H stared at Alan, time seemed to stand still. All H’s fear seemed to lift from his body and he knew, suddenly, what he had to do. He sat on the edge of the desk, closer to Alan. He took a good long look at him, the man who had cut his ear with a knife, the man who had slapped his face, the man who had made him throw the fight, the man who now threatened his very life. And suddenly H
experienced
the clarity of intent that he had experienced in the ring with Mancini.

‘Are you a gambling man, Alan? I mean, when the odds aren’t fixed?’

‘No. It’s a fools’ game.’

‘True. But the feeling you have when you score a tight, heavy, bundle of notes … it’s fantastic.’ H laughed, lowering his glass. ‘It’s brilliant! It may even be as good as it gets, I don’t know. But you know what? Somebody once told me that gambling was for the “
emotionally
insecure”.’ H paused waiting for a response from Alan but Alan just stared blankly back at him. ‘Attempting to, artificially create, that buzz through gambling … shows a weakness in your personality. Or something. What do you think?’

Alan continued to stare at him with the same blank expression.

‘You’re not a gambler so I guess you don’t have any thoughts on that. But, you see, I think gambling is for the insecure. It really is. And I’m trying hard not to need it because …’ And that’s when H struck. His glass already lowered and poised, he now tossed its contents in Alan’s face, blinding him. With a swift jab H knocked his gun aside and, diving across the desk, grabbed Alan by the throat.

The force of H’s dive made Alan’s chair roll backwards and tip over. H clung on to Alan’s throat, his thumbs pressing down on his windpipe. Alan thrashed about, trying to smash H’s hands away; he bucked, he pounded H’s head and face, scratching and clawing at him, he kicked and snapped and snarled, he gurgled and gagged as he gasped for air. But H was used to fielding blows and he squeezed harder, knowing his life depended on it - to let go of Alan’s throat was to face failure and almost certain death. H clung on. Alan rose, fell back, scrabbled on the floor, clawing, paddling with his feet. His eyes watered, his voice rasped like a dying cancer patient. He pushed himself up the wall, all the time pushing, pulling, pounding H’s arms and hands. And still H clung on pressing, squeezing, choking. As the life slowly began to ebb away from Alan, H felt him thrash about with one last gargantuan effort, pummelling H’s face and head. H hunched his shoulders, raising his elbows to shield himself and fend off as much as he could. Still he clung on. The fight began to leave Alan; his blows weakened, his strength left him, his body sagged, his gurgling, bubbling, choking quietened. H saw his eyes roll back in his head as his body slid back down the wall, finally collapsing in a
crumpled
heap.

H took his hands from Alan’s throat and looked down at them, almost unable to believe what they, not he, had done. Where his hands had been were identical, red-raw prints on Alan’s flesh, as
though to directly incriminate him in an offence for which the maximum sentence was ‘life’. H backed away with horror, staring at Alan’s body, transfixed by the spectacle of death. But, what if he wasn’t dead? Slowly he leant down, dropping his ear to Alan’s nose and mouth. He tensed, holding his breath, to see if he could hear whether any life still lingered in the carcass. Nothing. He stood back, his flesh crawling. Almost all that could be seen of Alan’s eyes were the whites. Gingerly, delicately H plucked at one of Alan’s wrists. He felt for a pulse. Again, nothing. He let go and stepped quickly back, as though death were contagious.

H looked at a clock on the wall. 11.08pm. Jesus! He knew he didn’t have much time. He darted back round the desk, keeping as far away from Alan’s body as possible, and picked up his holdall. Above Alan’s body was the mirror that concealed the safe. Leaning with exaggeration over the corpse, his stomach revolting at the thought of touching it, H removed the mirror. He placed it quietly on the floor. Using the code that Nina had given him, H opened the safe. Inside were bundles and bundles of bound fifty pound notes, and two polythene bags – the size of common house bricks – of what looked like cocaine. Leaving the cocaine where it was, H scooped out all the bundles of cash into his holdall, taking no pleasure in the sight of so much money, still aware of Alan’s body lying at his feet.

Fighting a rising nausea, H swiftly picked up a cravat from Alan’s desk and wiped down all the surfaces he’d touched. He put the
champagne
glass with his prints on it into the holdall and left the room.