"Close" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cole Martina)

Chapter Ten

Trevor Renton was tired, tired enough to leave the table, but he couldn't. He had seen off the two biggest wallets in the game with no trouble at all, more fool him, he realised now. The four other men at the table, none of whom were known to him, had played with seemingly unlimited amounts of money and were nothing more than ice-creams who he should have taken out of the game in the first two hands. They were nothing more than three mediocre players and a thieving ponce.

He had not bothered with them before because he had been too busy concentrating on the real gamers. But now he was convinced that they were on the scrounge, were after his pot; he had started with a fifty on tap and that had turned into a little over a hundred grand. He wondered if he was getting too trusting in his old age, but then again this had been a proper game. No one involved in the set-up had been suspect and he had been assured that the players were good for any debts incurred. Now though, he was not so sure. He had a shit-detector that was telling him that he was about to be scalped and there was not a thing he could do about it. He was a sitting duck and, ironically, this crowd of fucking morons held all the fucking cards.

Not that he would say any of that out loud, of course. He had far too much intelligence to accuse anyone of cheating at this table, not without the back-up of at least a fucking platoon of Vietnam veterans or a large crowd of serial killers. He was aware of the fact that this really wasn't his table in any way. It wasn't on his turf, for a start, and there was no one left that he knew or trusted as he had taken them out of the game. He was in a quandary of fucking Homeric proportions; he knew he was going to be had over, and worst of all, by a crowd of cunts he had seen as so worthless he had not even listened to their fucking names. He was far too well known and far too respected to have to worry about things like this.

He was backed by some of the biggest names in criminal history; he went into the massive games with their money on him as bets, that was how good he was. He had assumed that this lot he was left with were just the usual bystanders you got in a big game. All hoping to have a bit of luck and when they lost their few quid they'd sit back, swill the free booze and watch the real card players at work. And it was work to him and his ilk. This game should have been something these blokes would have wanted to tell their mates about, the big card game they were in. For once in their life they had sat with the best and that was usually enough for them. He had done this lot a fucking favour and a half, he had knocked out not just the daydreamers, but the real players as well. But no one, it seemed, was being encouraged to stay and watch the climax.

The other players had just been escorted out the door; he had come back from the toilet to see them leaving under duress. The alarm bells had started to ring then and he wondered what was to become of him this night. Players always stayed; they wanted to know where and more importantly with whom, their money would finally end up. It was the way you brought yourself down to earth after you left the table. Any addiction brought your dopamine levels up sky high, it was what made you stay there and play in the first place, it was also what kept you there afterwards. Just because you knew you had to leave the game didn't mean you couldn't enjoy it anyway. For most of the real players, watching a good game was the nearest thing to being back in your seat. For the addicted gamblers, not the real players like him and his colleagues, it was the dopamine their brains created that made them stay at the table when all they possessed was lost. It was the dopamine that kept them out all night and made them throw in car keys or their houses; that was what addiction was about.

For him and other professional card players it was about more than the thrill alone, it was about beating the odds and making a pile. It was about keeping your head when everyone around you was losing theirs. It was about winning, calmly and with dignity.

He had noticed the other players being ushered from the room but he had a poker face and no one knew that he was bothered or that he had sussed them out. He smiled a small, knowing smile that he had perfected many years before and he sat back in his seat cursing himself for his honesty and trust.

The man with the large belly and the crooked smile who, he suddenly realised, was scheduled to win all his money, was grinning and mugging with such an undisguised expression of glee that even Helen Keller would have sussed out that she was going to be ripped off.

The man waved him into his seat with a smile that made Trevor angrier than he had ever been in his life and said with barely disguised menace, 'I hope you ain't fucking off as well, Trev. We want a chance to win our money back, eh, guys?' The other three laughed as if he had just told the funniest joke in recorded history. It wasn't in Trevor's nature to cause trouble. He lost with aplomb, a certain cachet, he made sure of that. It was part of his reputation, why people didn't mind sitting in with him and why he was well past this kind of scam.

Trevor had never once questioned another player's tactics or agenda since he had been in the big league. He had never caused a scene of any kind or been the catalyst for anything even resembling trouble. But he was going to cause trouble after this little lot. He was going to cause fucking murders when and if he finally walked away from here. So he smiled and yawned, and he decided that he was going to have to lose gracefully and give them his marker. He had been around long enough to know when he was being shafted and he had been shafted royally by this shower of shite.

He was unable to leave the game, he knew, because these so-called players, who, incidentally, looked like a parody of Dean Martin and the rat pack, had more or less told him that if he went home now they would not be too thrilled. There was no actual spoken threat but then there wouldn't be, would there?

He would lose to them if that was what they wanted; the money was nothing to him, he only ever wanted the game. The game was all that mattered to him and for a few seconds he toyed with the idea of wiping them out completely. Playing them for all they were fucking worth. Fronting it out and wanking them off, but he knew he was playing for his life. Mister fucking Agreeable was going to take his poke one way or another. Only his calm exterior and a big loss would guarantee that he would walk out of this place in one piece.

'What do you want, Trevor? Anything you need you just tell me, OK?' The young man who was serving the drinks was a handsome and, suddenly seriously nervous, little fucker.

Trevor guessed, rightly, that he had only just sussed out the situation and was not happy about being witness to anything that might drag him into the world of violent retribution. He was eighteen, top whack, and he was so naive he probably thought Debbie Harry was a natural blonde. Collar and cuffs.

Trevor grinned and shook his head as if he was happy as a sandboy. The three gooners and the ponce all ordered large drinks and that in itself told Trevor that he was dealing with fucking amateurs. He wanted to scream out at the top of his voice, 'Have me over if you must, but don't fucking rub it in and make it so obvious. Have a bit of respect.'

Trevor was more gutted at the way they seemed to think he was such a cunt that they could just mug him off. He would have had more respect for them if they had just robbed him; an honest robbing would have been preferable to this barrage of insults and foolishness. They were making him feel like a prat. Any real card player worth their salt went off the drink once the real money was on the table for the simple reason you never knew what might be in it. Certain people got lairy when they were being wiped out. The Faces were the worst of them all; they honestly believed that you were scrumping their fucking wallets somehow.

Trevor had made a point of never playing Faces unless they had the proper in. He insisted on a guarantee that they were real players. Which meant, of course, that they were happy to lose their money. Most criminals, especially bank robbers, were not natural losers. It was the nature of that particular beast that they tended to take money, not give it away to some bloke with a smile and a better hand than they had. Some had even been known to come back later in the evening with a shotgun and a chip on their shoulder bigger than Mount fucking Rushmore demanding their money back, convinced they had been short-changed. You couldn't do a lot about that, you certainly didn't remind them that they had been in a proper game with serious gamblers, not playing poker in prison for fucking peanuts, nine times out of ten with people who had no intention of losing to them. Somehow, that conversation never seemed to come up.

No one accepted a drink. A real pro got up during a break and then watched the fucker being poured out. In his world the barman would have the fucking sense to open a new bottle in front of his face; it was accepted, expected and it stopped fights. He was being rolled by a herd of fucking imbeciles. Big imbeciles admittedly, but fucking drongos all the same. The real insult was that these fucking Keystone Cops thought he was buying into this fucking lunacy. Really believed that he had not cottoned on.

In all his years, Trevor had never, ever, been treated like this. Oh, he had seen the chancers and he had observed gooners in his time. When he had first come on the scene he had been offered fortunes to be one. He had refused; he wanted to win fair and square. Gooners were players who were ornaments until the final sting. There was never a gooner of course, in the singular, because a good card man would wipe them out in no time. Gooners worked together so that, like now, when he had knocked out the real players and the pot was a small fucking fortune, they would sit at the table and work together against him. He was expected to believe that they were better players than him, that his luck had gone on the trot faster than an ex-wife with a pools win and an ex-paratrooper for company. He was so insulted that he was determined to make these cunts work for the jackpot. Then he would congratulate them and leave with dignity and a fucking raging hard-on for all their arses. The bar boy winked at him and he wondered if, on top of everything else, they all thought he was a poofter.

'Not long till me party.' Pat Junior's voice was proud and filled with longing for the day to finally arrive.

Billy Boot, Pat's long-time friend and Lance's arch-enemy, was almost as excited as he was at the thought of the party. This was the party to end all parties as far as he was concerned and he was thrilled that Pat was going to be the lucky recipient of such a wondrous event. Everyone within earshot was straining to hear the conversation and all those invited had been bragging about it for ages, with the girls discussing their outfits at every opportunity. Lance kicked a football that had rolled near him back to the boys who were playing with it. He was good at sports and he kicked it with all his considerable strength, knowing that it would slam into one of the younger kids who were waiting patiently for its return.

He was spot on and the ball hit a seven-year-old lad on the side of his head. He was a hardy perennial though, who rubbed his ear furiously, forced away the tears that were filling his eyes and carried on with the game, even though his face was crumpling by the second with pain and cold.

'I bet that hurt him.' Lance was laughing at the boy's predicament.

'Course it hurt him. You meant it to. It's freezing today so that must have really stung.' Lance shrugged as if he had no idea what Billy was talking about before saying loudly, 'You're right, it is cold, ain't it? Hope my old coat is warm enough for you, Bootsie.'

The boys were in the school playground in their usual place by the school gates. The weather was icy cold, and their coats were buttoned up tightly against it. Patrick knew that they were better dressed than any of the others and he accepted that, appreciated it. He also understood why his mother passed their old clothes on to other kids in the school. It was her way of helping people out and it was accepted in their world.

Unlike Lance, he had never felt the urge to point that fact out. Now he could feel the heat of Billy's humiliation as if it was happening to himself.

Lance was sneering at Billy, taunting him as he always did and Billy Boot was not going to put up with much more of it. Lance had never understood when enough was enough; he always had to push everything and everyone to the extreme. He spent his whole life causing upset and hurting people without a thought for their feelings or their circumstances. They had both been to Billy's house and Pat knew that Lance had seen how hard up they were. Billy had six younger brothers and three older sisters and a father who was always in the pub. He battered Billy and his brothers regularly and, without a second's thought, Billy's sisters were also beaten, but generally only on a Friday or Saturday night when he came home from the pub looking for his wife. Even though he knew he wouldn't find his wife, and knowing exactly what she was up to, he would smack his daughters around instead.

Everyone knew, including her husband, that Billy's mother moonlighted weekends around King's Cross. She had to, someone had to pay the bills. Billy's father would come home drunk, kick up a stink and then rob her of whatever money she had. She would put a few bob in her bag and when he had taken that she would have a bath and tell the girls that, as always, the bulk of her earnings were with Lil Diamond. Patrick had been married to Lil for about a year when he heard one of the neighbours, a hard old bird who had buried her husband and three of her children during the Blitz, telling one of her cronies, 'You know who that is don't you? Lil Diamond's husband.' He had been amused by the fact that in the Irish community women were always known by their maiden names.

It was Lil's reputation as a Brodie wife and a respectable woman that kept Billy's father from demanding all his wife's money from her.

Though Billy's mother and her extracurricular activities were never talked about openly, everyone knew about them; the teachers, the police who came when she was being battered and even the little kids around and about. But because she was also a great friend of Pat's and Lance's mother, no one said a word about it to her face. It was a strange set up. You could whore in the streets in front of your home, as long as you were doing it for your kids and, even more importantly, your kids had to look as if you were flogging your arse for their benefit. If the kids were still running round with their arses hanging out of their trousers, and you were seen to be doing all right yourself, then, and only then, were you treated like an outcast. So, if you had half a brain you sorted the kids out. Feeding and clothing your children was paramount to these women; all they were and all they did was for their families. It was the most important thing you could ever do.

Those who had a husband who provided were revered. If your old man had gone on the trot, or was a useless ponce, you did the best you could; robbed him while he slept off the drink on pay night or, like the abandoned women, you moonlighted. Some of the women who were alone for a while eventually acquired lodgers, and these lodgers were treated with respect and would act the part for years. It was all about how things looked to the neighbours, not about how they actually were.

If your kids were taken away, you were finished. Go on the bash by all means; no one thought the worse of you for that. As no one signed on, the bash was considered almost respectable, whereas going on the Social was considered outrageous. Once you went to the Social Security you invited the government into your whole life.

And if, God forbid, you let your kids go into care, which, since the sixties, had become everyone's biggest fear, you were out. You were dragged out of your home by your hair, battered, spat on and left with no option but to do a runner. Now there was a new breed arriving in the flats and houses: young women with babies and no husband in the frame at all. Girls who lived off the Social and had no shame, like it was their right. The dole was supposed to be an interim measure till you got another job but now it seemed, with the seventies, it was a fucking lifestyle! It shocked and annoyed the women who had never claimed a bean even when they were on their uppers. Now, by all accounts, girls were getting pregnant just to procure for themselves council flats and a few quid off the State. These young hussies were shameless about it, and the older women were starting to be nervous because more than a few of these so-called unmarried mothers were daughters and nieces of people they knew.

The sixties were over, the seventies were more than halfway through, and these women who were scandalised were only young, yet most looked older than their husbands. It was a new age for them and, as they ran one woman out, another one arrived with a child and no wedding ring. They saw these girls have a child without a thought for the fellow involved and, in their hearts, they admired them for their independence and their guts, even while they blasted them for living off the taxpayers' money. Still, as long as they looked after their children, they were tolerated. If they didn't, they were taken to task like any of the others.

Billy and his siblings were more than aware of what their mother had to do when she went out of a weekend. Billy could not remember when or how he had found out about it, but he had seemed to know all his life. He hated his father and he loved his mother, although he loathed what she had to do to keep them clean, fed and with a roof over their heads.

Billy knew that his mother was respected for the way she kept her family and that Lil was great mates with her. This was how Billy came by Lance's old winter coat and other bits of his wardrobe.

Billy was sick of having to wear other people's clothes and sick of having to live with a drunken father and a whoring mother. One of his sisters was pregnant so she was going to be another one of those unmarried mothers, and he knew that once that was common knowledge, Lance would slaughter him for it.

'You can stick the coat up your arse…'

Billy's voice was heavy with shame and embarrassment. He forced the words out between his teeth and he felt so fucking full of hatred for himself and the whole world that Lance could feel it coming off him in waves. He was frightened of Billy for the first time ever; he knew that he was capable of hurting him this time.

Billy was clenching his fists ready to have a fight. He wanted a fight, he wanted to crack Lance's head open for every slight he had endured from him and for every fucking man his mum had serviced. He wanted to draw blood for every time his dad had beaten him or his brothers because he had pissed up all his money.

'Come on then, Lance. Let's have a straightener, shall we?'

Billy could feel a great black hate that was finally bubbling up to the surface. He could kill a man now, let alone a boy.

Pat Junior, as always, stepped in and tried to keep the peace.

'Fuck off, Lance. That was out of order.' He pushed his brother out of harm's way.

Lance grinned. 'It was a joke, Pat, that's all. And he is wearing me coat. So what. I don't give a toss; he's welcome to it.'

Billy was still white-faced and stiff with anger. He knew that Lance had meant for his words to be heard by all the other kids standing nearby and he also knew that he had achieved his objective. They were being stared at by the majority of their classmates. Billy knew that most of them were in the same boat as him; money was tight in their households too, but it was the principle of it. He knew Lance had wanted to show him up and he had achieved that. Billy wanted to rip Lance apart and he knew he was more than capable of doing just that, but he didn't want to fall out with Patrick because they were best mates. Lance, as usual, took advantage of that and now Billy was feeling the full force of Lance's beaming smile and his convincing act of being contrite. The black hate was gone now.

'You are going to have to develop a sense of humour at some point, Bill.'

Lance was smiling again, that even-toothed, amiable smile that made him look like an innocent. Billy didn't answer him or even acknowledge the smile. Instead, he turned his back on him and spoke to Pat, but the words were for Lance's benefit and they all knew that.

'Your party is going to be the biggest event of the year for us lot, everyone is talking about it and you deserve it. The whole fucking thing is amazing. Is it true you've got a proper disco?'

He knew it was true. He knew more about the arrangements than Lance; Patrick Junior had discussed it with him at length. And Pat understood Billy's desire to push Lance out of their little circle. He did it himself at times but it was hard because Lance, as much as he was a pain, was still his brother.

Over the last few months, Patrick Junior had experienced a growth spurt and now he was taller and broader than his younger sibling. He knew that this annoyed Lance who had always used his size to his advantage at every opportunity. They were both big for their ages and Pat was growing at what his mother jokingly called an alarming rate. He was head and shoulders above his classmates and he was also finally towering over Lance. This had done wonders for his self-respect as he knew his father was proud of his increasing size. He had always been able to batter Lance when it came to a fight but there had recently been a real shifting of positions between them. Lance had always looked the stronger of the two but now that was not so evident. Their father had even pointed it out to them both. He had told Lance that he was big-boned like his paternal grandfather whereas his older brother had the same solid build as himself.

Pat Junior was his father's double all right; even he could see that. He was proud to be so like the man he loved and adored and he was determined to be just like him in every way possible when he grew up.

'It's a party, a kids' party and you lot act like it's some kind of fucking big event.' Lance's voice was hard and the jealousy he was feeling was threatening to erupt. Pat Junior knew that Lance was finding it difficult to accept the fact that he was having a big party for his tenth birthday. Lance had always been jealous by nature and Patrick, who was untroubled by envy or greed, was unsure how to react to it most of the time. He knew that Lance would be having his own party when his tenth birthday came around but, like everything else, Lance wanted his to be first. Lance only saw Pat's party as something to top when his turn finally came. He was already planning his own party and thinking of ways to make sure it was ten times better than the party his brother was going to have.

Lance didn't understand that Pat's party would be merrier because all the people going actually liked his brother.

Lance didn't make friends easily, and Patrick Junior always looked out for him although he knew that Lance resented that.

Pat Junior understood how he felt to an extent; all his friends with younger brothers were in the same boat. Being the youngest was hard enough but Pat Junior knew that Lance was aware that his mother preferred him and that had to be hard to live with. Even he knew that his mum preferred him to Lance although she tried not to differentiate between them. But he also knew that Lance was the apple of Nanny Annie's eye and that she loved him enough for everyone.

But Lance was unhappy a lot of the time and Pat Junior was sorry about that. He wished he could make things better for him. Nanny Annie might be all over him like a rash but it was his mother poor Lance needed, and Pat Junior wished he could make that happen. His mum loved him, and he loved her, the twins were everyone's babies, even Lance was mad about them. But his mum only pretended that she loved Lance and it was awful to watch because she was actually fooling no one. Least of all, poor Lance who knew that all the pretence was for his benefit.

Billy was still waxing lyrical about the party when Father O'Donnell rang the bell that heralded the start of their school day.

Pat Junior and Billy walked in together and Lance, as always, hung back as if walking in with them was like admitting a defeat of some kind.

Mick Diamond was feeling rough. He was always telling people he had a cold coming on, but he didn't. The reason he was red-nosed and feverish was because he drank too much. He looked around the flat that Annie now lived in, thanks to her daughter's generosity, and wondered at the way life threw you a curve when you least expected it.

That Lil could have ended up like she had still amazed him and he wished he had been a proper father to her when he had the chance. Now he was at Annie's mercy and she still made him pay for every fucking slight or wound she felt he had inflicted on her during their marriage.

She was still his wife though and she permitted him access to her house and her body when the fancy took her. It didn't bother him; he could shag a fence with a few drinks inside his belly and, knowing him, he probably had at some point. He knew he had fucked some horrors in his time, drink did that to a man. Beer goggles they called it on the telly. He called them pub fucks but he never remembered until he was reminded of it by someone who had obviously not drunk as much as him. He took their word for it though, as he usually had a feeling that there might be a grain of truth somewhere. Some weren't bad either, it was a shame that he was so drunk they never registered. He only went back to their places because they had more drink, no other reason. He would go home with Larry Grayson if he had a drink for him.

The thought made him smile and Annie, as always, was quick to question him about it.

'What you got to laugh about?'

Mick smiled at her then.

'I was just thinking about those kids, Annie. That Lance is a case, ain't he?' He knew how to push her buttons and he pressed them to his own advantage on a daily basis.

'He is not happy about this party they are having for the boy. It's ridiculous spending all that money on a child.' Her voice was both disgusted and full of admiration at the same time.

She loved telling her cronies about the arrangements, knowing that it was the talk of everyone around and about. But she was also genuinely shocked that so much money was being spent on a ten-year-old.

Mick understood the reasoning, though he didn't say that to Annie, of course. Lil had never had a real birthday in her life until she married Brodie. Not even a card or an acknowledgement most years. He didn't blame himself for that; she was, after all, nothing to do with him. But now he wondered why Annie had not attempted to mark the day for her only child. He would not have allowed it if she had, but he was not about to admit that to himself or anyone else.

Now he guessed that Brodie, who had been dragged up himself, and Lil were making sure that their children had all the things that they hadn't. Pat Junior's tenth birthday was being treated like some kind of milestone in the boy's life. Mick was going to the party though, he was determined on that. He still pretended to people that everything between him and the Brodies was hunky-dory and he knew he had to show his face there to keep up the illusion of family.

Annie assured him that he was invited, along with her. She had cleared it with Lil by all accounts. He was interested to see what it would be like. The kids were nice enough, even he had to admit that. Especially those girls, the twins. They were as sweet as candy and, although he would never admit it, he loved the way they smiled at him on the rare occasions he saw them.

Lil had done all right for herself, he had to give her credit where credit was due. He admired her for the way she had pulled herself up in the world and for the way she had tamed a wild man like Brodie. He remembered now that when she had started developing he had made a point of catching her in various states of undress and had felt her up a few times. Mick stopped his mind going any further, he was not going to go there today.

Lil had developed enough of a body to attract any red-blooded male but he had not thought back then that she would have known how to use it and keep a man interested in her for as long as she had. Four kids and one on the way and Brodie still acted like she was his first girlfriend.

'Are you listening to me?'

Mick Diamond was brought back to the present by his wife's strident voice.

'Course I am!'

'Well, what do you think then? I heard that Dennis Williams was on the warpath again. He is a nutter, him.'

Mick nodded. 'True, Annie, very true.'

He watched her as she cooked him bacon and eggs. She was a good old stick was Annie, really. She was just a miserable bitch and he knew he had contributed to that over the years.

'How is Lil anyway?' Mick asked about her because he could not think of any other topic of conversation and he knew Annie was after a chat

Annie smiled. A rare smile that made the years drop from her and softened her face so that she looked almost beautiful.

'She ain't a bad girl really, Mick. There's plenty worse than my Lil.'

Mick was so flabbergasted at her words that he forgot to swallow and nearly choked himself in the process. As he coughed like a TB patient, Annie slapped his back for him and he was saved from saying anything that would have alerted his wife to the shock and absolute amazement her words had caused him.

Annie, though, was more than aware of the effect her words had had on her husband and she finished off the breakfast in silence.

She wasn't going to enlighten Mick about why she had changed her opinion of her daughter because he would only use it against her in some way. But the fact that Lil could still find it in her heart to make sure that her mother was solvent as she approached old age, despite her upbringing, had really affected her.

To know that someone cared about you was a new and wonderful feeling for Annie.

As Mick had battered her down and broken her spirit within months of their marriage, she had done the same thing to poor Lil, blaming her for the abortion that her own life had become.

Lance made up for a lot with her; she had seen that boy born and felt, for the first time in her life, what love could be. She had experienced the selfless love that a mother should feel for her children, though she had never felt it towards her own daughter.

When Lil had called her into the kitchen the day before and handed her the paperwork to her little flat, she had been speechless. Even more so because she knew that Lil would have had her work cut out convincing Patrick Brodie to give her a penny sweet, let alone the roof over her loaf of bread.

Lil had explained that it was in her name but that the solicitor had written up a contract that stated it was Annie's until her death and only then would it revert back to her daughter. This, she knew, was so that Mick Diamond didn't get a look in and she could understand that. He was capable of bumping her off if he thought he would get his mitts on a few quid.

When Annie arrived home she looked around her. For the first time in her life, she was secure, really secure, and she wondered at how lucky she was that her only child had her best interests at heart, despite everything. She had made herself a stiff drink and then she had found herself being bombarded with memories of every little thing she had done, or, if she was honest and more to the point, not done, for her daughter.

It was only now that she was finally understanding what other women had taken for granted. All you really had in the end was your kids. Rich, poor, beggar or king, the children you had were the only people who cared about you in the end.

The knowledge that she was set up for the rest of her life had also given Annie a confidence that she would never have thought she could possess.

Whatever else Annie might have thought about her daughter, she would always appreciate what she had done for her. Even more so because she had done it without any kind of fanfare whatsoever.

Mick Diamond watched the changing expressions on his wife's face and knew from long experience that something of moment had occurred. What that might be, he had no idea. He would have to bide his time and ferret it out of her gradually. He was a patient man, he could wait.

Whatever it was, it had to do with money. That was the only thing that brought a smile to this woman's face. Other than Lance, of course, but he didn't count.