by Miles Hadley
‘Like shit they are!’ Razza retorted. ‘The only thing they’re descended from is the fucking Russian mafia, and everybody knows it.’
‘Same thing, in my book,’ Polly responded.
‘Polly…’ warned Archie.
‘What?’ she responded with a surprised laugh and snort, exacerbated by a bit of water in her nostril.
‘Sometimes I wonder if you aren’t a fucking Corbynite or something…’ began Archie.
There was a silence before Polly broke into fits of laughter and snorted again.
Archie looked at her puzzled. ‘Why are you laughing?’
‘I thought that you knew me better than that,’ Polly replied. ‘There is nothing wrong with Corbyn, anyway. Compared to the other lot, at least he has principles. Even Mother agrees.’ She yelled at Lavinia. ‘Don’t you, Mother?’
Lavinia was busy chatting to Julian Fairclough, who was lying on one of the other sun loungers, and had not heard the conversation. She looked at Polly in a confused manner.
‘What, darling?’
‘Never mind,’ said Polly resignedly.
Archie looked down at Polly. ‘If Corbyn had his way, he would grab everything your family has, and you know it,’ he said seriously.
She turned her back to him. ‘Well, I’m in. I want to visit Konstantine’s yacht.’ She gave another determined front crawl away from Archie and her brother.
The two looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Reluctantly, Archie responded to Zugalov with a text saying that they would love to visit.
‘Bloody Russians,’ he muttered as he did so.
***
As the trio boarded the Zugalovs’ yacht, Archie could not help but feel impressed and, indeed, a slight pang of jealousy. Much to his annoyance, Archie noticed that Polly was also taken by the size of the yacht and heard her note that it dwarfed all of the others in the little port. The captain of the yacht was English and was dressed impeccably in white shirt, trousers and deck shoes. He greeted Archie, Polly and Razza. A burly Russian bodyguard frisked them.
Zugalov was standing on the deck with Donna beside him. Archie loathed Donna almost as much as he loathed Konstantine. He hated her heavily made-up face. So tacky – so Essex. What was it about the county of three swords that caused it to be so… Essex? How on earth did such a county create such a unique micro culture within England? He developed a slight smirk as he listened to Donna’s Essex twang. She had turned her attention to his darling Poll and was bragging about a gold necklace that Konstantine had recently purchased for her.
For some reason, Donna began to talk about Kate Middleton. Maybe, Archie thought, she’s hoping that my dear, sweet Poll might know her and might be introduced. He was sick of people mentioning Kate Middleton. Yes, she was drop-dead gorgeous, but there was something rather flighty about her. Something a bit doors to windows. Something a bit air stewardessy. It was not just her mother, Archie considered. It was those hats that she wore, as well. The handbags, too – so middle class. Like something an old lady would carry – like dear ancient Queenie herself.
‘Shall I show you all around?’ asked Konstantine, with what Archie thought was a somewhat smug grin on his face.
Polly, much to Archie’s dismay, seemed enthralled. ‘Oh, yes please,’ she said.
Archie began to feel sick. There was a home cinema, indoor swimming pool, outdoor swimming pool, dining room, library, party room, games room, billiard room... It was just so in-your-face vulgar. Too fucking nouveau riche for words. Too fucking new build.
Back on the deck, a waiter approached to offer them all drinks. They had gin and tonics. Konstantine suggested that they should play cards. They began with gin rummy. Konstantine and Donna did not know how to play it, but Archie, Polly and Razza taught them.
Archie won the first couple of games. Razza won one. However, after a few more games, Konstantine began to win more and more. They kept a tally of the games. Donna was not doing too badly, either. Polly was last. It reached a point for Archie where he couldn’t bear to play the game any longer. At first, he became irritable. He ordered another gin and tonic. He had another and another. He then switched to his favourite single malt, Glendronach, and began to fume inside. How dare the nouveau riche Russian twat get ahead. How dare he!
Konstantine won the next game. Archie pretended to be pleased for him.
‘Beginner’s luck, mate,’ he said. However, after another Glendronach, he could no longer contain himself. His ears felt hot with rage. He chuckled at Konstantine and shook his head. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘you cheated.’
Konstantine remained expressionless and maintained his composure. It annoyed Archie so much that the man was a Meltonian, too.
‘What?’ Konstantine eventually replied.
‘I said that you cheated.’
Archie heard Donna giggle, for she was slightly inebriated as well.
‘Konsty,’ she said. ‘Are you cheating?’
Konstantine looked at Archie seriously. ‘No. I haven’t been cheating.’
Archie laughed and exclaimed with an angry, drink-enthused slur, ‘Oh, come off it, mate. Nobody wins that many games in a row without cheating.’
‘Archie,’ replied Konstantine steadily, ‘I can assure you that I was not cheating. How could I possibly cheat? I’ve only just learnt the game.’
Archie began to feel very wound-up. His ears were burning. That fucking Meltonian accent really pissed him off. He had no right to be admitted to Melton. Old boy? Never! Not on Archie’s fucking life.
Finally, Archie let it all out. He had lost control. ‘Oh, I get it!’ he shouted. ‘Not only does your family cheat with their money, but also at a piffling game of cards!’
Donna gasped in shock at Archie’s outburst. Polly looked shocked, too.
‘Archie, it’s only a game of cards,’ she said.
Razza suppressed a smirk and put on a serious face. ‘Steady on, mate,’ he said.
Archie stood up suddenly and slammed his cards onto the table. ‘No, I will not steady on, Razza. I refuse to allow this nouveau riche Russian twat cheat us. It’s just not cricket. It’s just not on.’
Donna looked up at Archie with a mixture of shock and a smile. ‘Are you serious?’ she asked, thinking that Archie was joking.
‘Of course I’m bloody serious, you Essex bint. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have thrown my cards on the table and stood up.’
Konstantine looked up at Archie and maintained his composure. ‘I think you’ve had too much to drink – so I’ll forgive you for the outbursts. But I strongly suggest that you leave.’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Mafiosa... we’re leaving... Aren’t we, Poll? Razza?’
‘Archie…’ Polly began to protest.
‘Yeah, come on mate,’ said Razza. ‘I think you’ve taken this a bit far.’
Archie stormed off the yacht. Polly and Razza tried to stop him, but then turned and apologised to Konstantine and Donna, while thanking them at the same time for inviting them. Razza gesticulated with his hand, explaining that Archie had drunk far too much.
‘Don’t worry,’ Konstantine said, apparently nonplussed. ‘It’s the drink. We shouldn’t have mixed them.’
14
Gary met up with Deano and Jamal on the field. It was a bleak piece of scrubland with rubbish and dog faeces strewn across it.
Gary asked Jamal how his mum was. Jamal replied that he had to call the mental health outreach team and that they had prescribed her more medication.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Gary responded. Deano gave his angry tick.
‘She’s calmer now, though,’ said Jamal. ‘Fucking cunts are gonna pay.’
‘Too right they are,’ Gary agreed. ‘Too right they are.’
‘Every time I look at myself in the mirror and see that scar,’ said Jamal, pointing to his face, ‘I’m remin
ded of those fuckers. Now, every time my mum reminds me about the mugging, I’m reminded of the fuckers.’
The trio found a half-deflated football and proceeded to kick it around. After a while, Gary grew tired and demanded a cigarette from Deano. It was one of his last, so the cigarette was shared amongst them.
‘Let’s go to Khan’s,’ Gary said finally. ‘Get some lunch.’
Deano and Jamal followed him to Bevan Road and to the grocery shop. Gary noticed there was fresh graffiti on the exterior wall. Sprayed in black paint were the words ‘Go home’.
The trio went into the shop and saw Mrs Khan, who looked like she had been crying. Mr Khan seemed to have even deeper and darker rings under his eyes than before.
‘All right?’ Gary greeted him.
Mr Khan nodded his head in stressed acknowledgement. He stood up behind the mesh and tried to watch closely the three of them as they browsed the food section. Gary got his Cornish pasty. Deano chose a sausage roll and a Coke. Jamal bought a steak and pepper pie.
As they left the shop, Deano looked back over his shoulder. ‘I’m not being funny, but don’t you reckon they’re going to close soon?’
‘What do you mean?’ Gary asked.
‘Fucking hell, Gaz, didn’t you notice?’ said Deano. ‘The Khans look like they’re going to have a nervous breakdown.’
‘They won’t be the first in this shit hole,’ Jamal commented bitterly.
Gary patted Jamal on the back sympathetically, before biting into his Cornish pasty.
‘Ah... that tastes fucking good,’ he said.
‘You and your fucking Cornish pasties,’ Deano laughed.
‘You and your sausage rolls,’ Gary laughed back. ‘You like a bit of sausage, don’t you, Deano, eh?’
‘Don’t you dare put me off my fucking food,’ Deano reacted.
‘How’s Michelle?’ Gary chided him.
‘We haven’t seen each other since...’
‘Since what?’
‘Since Jamal’s mum went psycho.’
Hearing the remark about his mum, Jamal suddenly became angry. ‘My mum ain’t no fucking psycho!’ he yelled, grabbing Deano by the neck and forcing him against a wall.
Deano, caught off guard, gasped for breath. ‘All right, Jamal. All right.’
‘You never, ever, call my mum a psycho,’ said Jamal, spitting the words furiously into his face. ‘Got that, cunt?’
Deano nodded and gulped. He had almost choked as a piece of gristle became lodged in his throat.
‘Calm the fuck down, lads,’ Gary said.
Jamal relaxed his grip on Deano’s throat, but still gave him a scowl.
Gary put his face up close to both of theirs. ‘Calm the fuck down,’ he repeated. Jamal finally relented and backed off.
The trio walked towards the alleyway. It was long and narrow. The walls were covered in graffiti. The wind had collected rubbish into the sides and, like the field, there were dog faeces everywhere. It stank of stale alcohol and urine; piss, which Gary and the Downtown Posse had become accustomed to.
As they walked down through the shade of the high fences and walls, Gary felt something. Something was not quite right. A cold shiver ran through him. As if they were being watched.
He heard something. It was footsteps. Other footsteps behind them. He looked around suddenly. There were two Death Squad members following them; their flick knives were out. Their dark, hooded tops obscured their faces. They were all dark except for their white trainers and the glint of their shining blades.
It was too late. They were upon them. Gary, Deano and Jamal tried to run forward, but their path was blocked by the appearance of three more Death Squad members, obscuring the light at the end of the alleyway.
Chaos ensued. Gary fought and he fought hard. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain on his head from the rear, and then the rain of punches and kicks as his weakened body fell to the harsh coldness of the concrete. Head on the floor. Body instinctively hunched up until all was nothing. Darkness. Blank.
15
Something held Archie back from wanting to go to Henry’s St Tropez birthday week. That something was his longing for Polly. She was due to sit for exams and was cramming like mad and writing a lot of essays. She was determined to get a first and to not fuck it up. Archie longed to be there should she need him.
Henry told Archie that he had booked the entire royal suite for one of the most exclusive hotels in St Tropez via his firm. It was to be a week of gambling, drinking and posing in the sunshine, whether on the beach or by the pool.
They had discussed driving there in an Aston, with Razza driving a Porsche, Top Gear style. However, they felt that they had better avoid being caught speeding and so decided to go in a private jet that Henry had booked via ‘With Pleasure’. In the sumptuously furnished plane were Archie, Henry, Razza, and three other bachelors called Hugo Guernsey, Freddy Bleddingfield, and Guilliame de Valois, a very wealthy French heir to a bank. He had been educated at Roche and had become good friends with Henry. He was known to be very well connected in French society. The de Valois family trust had recently bought Guilliame a pad in South Kensington in an effort to flee the Socialist French Government’s tax regime.
Archie and the party immediately headed for the restaurant Luxe, after having their luggage sent to the hotel. The restaurant was a favourite of Henry’s and they wolfed down delicious oysters and guzzled vintage champagne. Feeling even more peckish, they moved on to the mains. Archie opted for the wild duck pate for starters, suggested to him by Guilliame, followed by the wild game soufflé for the mains. For afters, he chose the crème brûlée before some aged cheese. By now, the bill had surpassed a couple of thousand euros. Henry knew the manager of the restaurant, so managed to wing a slight discount for his birthday.
Archie watched as the manager smiled at Henry. ‘With pleasure, Monsieur,’ he said, after being thanked. Henry laughed and gave him a hug. He was by now getting slightly inebriated. The group ambled down to the harbour front and mingled with a party of other jet-setters.
Archie smiled as the group were beginning to get a little raucous. He had a small camera with him and took some quite good shots of everybody. One shot he took was of Henry through the curvature of a champagne glass. He looked awesome, Archie thought, if a little distorted. Henry was dressed in a crisp white shirt and red trousers with brown Church’s brogues.
Archie noticed that Guilliame was beginning to get a bit leery and sleazy as the champagne took its toll. He had spotted a table of Italian ladies nearby, who were, Archie admitted, stunning and very elegantly dressed. They appeared to be having a quiet drink amongst themselves, but they had noticed the drunken party and Guilliame became convinced that they were eyeing the group up.
Archie watched him stagger over to their table and ask the ladies if they would like to join the men at their table. At first, they declined the offer and Guilliame came back with a disappointed look on his face, having just conversed with them in Italian.
Henry asked Guilliame what they had said. He responded, ‘They think that English people stink and that they would not ever be seen dead with you barbarians.’
Henry burst into hysterics. ‘Really? Did they really say that?’ He eyed one of the Italian girls, who seemed to be smiling back at him with her eyes as she sipped her wine. She leant forward in her group, said something in Italian and started laughing with the others.
Henry laughed again and yelled, ‘Fuckers! It’s my birthday as well!’
Archie noticed that Freddy had started to look irate and gestured for Henry to be quiet. ‘Shut the fuck up!’ he hissed.
By now, some of the older patrons seemed to be getting ready to complain about them.
Henry questioned Guilliame again. ‘Did they really say that, Valois?’
Archie looked at Guilliame, who started laughing. ‘No.
All they said was it was a very kind offer, but they were just having a quiet drink.’
‘Valois!’ exclaimed Henry. ‘You froggy fucker! You froggy fucker, Valois! Right! That’s it! Next two rounds are on Valois, and he also has to get that table of beauties over there a couple of rounds of whatever tipple they’re having, too! And...’
‘And...’ Everybody in the group, including Archie, began to imitate Henry, for his speech was now getting incredibly slurred.
‘And...’ he continued, ‘as it’s my fucking birthday, Guilliame has to somehow bloody insist that they join us for a night out this evening and join in the celebrations. Otherwise, birthday boy, moi,’ he pointed to himself, ‘will be sorely disappointed.’
The table cheered as the laughing Guilliame was sent on his mission to the Italian girls’ table. Archie and the others observed intently the expressions on their faces and their conversations. Eventually, Guilliame came back to the table and shrugged his shoulders in a disappointed manner.
‘I am very sorry to have to tell you, gentlemen, that...’ he paused ‘...the ladies have accepted Henry’s kind offer, on...’ Archie and the group all cheered in drunken merriment before Valois continued. ‘On condition that they get refreshed and meet us at Club Rialto at ten o’clock.’
Henry looked incredibly smug at this response and stuck his arms in the air. ‘Who is the fucking Daddy? Guys? Who is the fucking Daddy?’
‘You are, Henry!’ the group all responded and each of them high-fived him. He turned to the Italian ladies and gave them an exaggerated theatrical bow.
Archie watched as Henry put his arm around Guilliame. ‘Now then, de Valois, my knight errant. Will you kindly go back to the lovely shit-hot gorgeous ladies over there and explain to them that we gladly accept their condition... with fucking pleasure!’
As Guilliame went over to the Italian beauties’ table, Archie and the rest of the now drunken group began to chant, ‘Oggy! Oggy! Oggy! Oi! Oi! Oi!’
The table downed their glasses of champagne upon Guilliame’s return and all toasted at Henry’s request. ‘Italian totty!’
