The Break

by Ronnie O'Sullivan

  ‘And, as I explained, he is actually registered to play today as well,’ said The Topster. ‘Only we had some late entries, so he kindly stepped aside.’

  ‘But you can confirm that you have registered officially for this Tier Two tournament?’ the referee asked Frankie.

  ‘Er . . . yeah.’ Frankie nodded at Andy. ‘Just like he says.’ As if there’d be any other reason why he was here in the Green Room.

  ‘Yeah, which means he’s still also officially available to us as a reserve,’ said The Topster.

  ‘Exactly,’ Frankie said. Christ, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The Topster was actually planning to have Frankie go out there and play. Frankie stared daggers at him, feeling sick. He might have been playing better than ever, but he was still strictly second rate compared with all those lads out there.

  But maybe it didn’t matter, eh? Because who cared how much he lost by? So long as the TV crew still ran that slot, then the humiliation would be worth it, right?

  ‘And it’s Frankie James, right?’ said the ref.

  ‘Yeah.’

  The ref slid a folder out of his bag and quickly leafed through its pages. ‘Only your name’s not down here at all,’ he then said.

  Oh, bloody brilliant.

  ‘Ah, that’s my fault,’ said The Topster, suddenly clapping his hand theatrically across his forehead. ‘Oh, God, yes, I must have forgotten to post it.’

  ‘Post what?’

  ‘His registration. His fee. Owed to you guys, to GLOPSA, yes, I remember it now. It’s still there sitting on my desk.’

  ‘So your client here isn’t registered for this tournament?’ asked the ref, looking more and more dubious now.

  ‘Well no, but, or rather, yes, he was meant to be, but . . .’

  But the referee ignored him. Brilliant. A stickler for details. That’s all they needed. Frankie gritted his teeth, thinking of the TV crew still sitting out there.

  ‘Are there any other actual officially registered reserves here?’ the referee then said.

  ‘No,’ said The Topster.

  ‘Then the match can’t go ahead. And, under such circumstances, GLOPSA regulation 16c states that any other remaining player should get a bye.’

  Meaning bye-bye to their slot on the evening news too. Because Adam Adamson was the only player the TV crew wanted to see.

  But then a slow hand-clapping started out in the main club. Andy didn’t look remotely surprised. In fact, he just smiled as he checked his watch, like it might actually be something he’d planned.

  ‘Look, it just seems wrong,’ said The Topster, ‘to punish all those people waiting out there, and waste the time of that TV crew too, all because of my stupid mistake, not his.’

  The clapping got louder. Frankie spotted Spartak, peering back down the corridor at him, clapping himself. Looking quite the little cheerleader, in fact. The ref’s cheeks started to pink. The Topster spotted it too and moved in for the kill.

  ‘Look, is there any way we can . . . just overlook this hiccup for now?’

  ‘Well, that really is most irregular . . .’

  ‘What if I guarantee to have that paperwork and the cheque here by close of play? I can cab it back to my office and be back here even before the first session’s done.’ The Topster could do that? It was possible, Frankie supposed. ‘And his GLOPSA registration documents,’ The Topster said.

  Hmmm, the ones that didn’t exist . . . but The Topster’s smile never wavered. And, as the sound of slow clapping got louder and louder, the ref swallowed awkwardly and then snapped his folder shut.

  ‘All right, fine,’ he then said, ‘but I really will need those documents tonight.’

  ‘Good man, good man, and you’ll get them,’ grinned The Topster. ‘You’re a trooper, mate,’ he added, before firing Frankie a big thumbs up and telling him, ‘Game on, mate. Game on.’

  *

  As it turned out, humiliation didn’t even come close. Frankie’s opponent, Adam Adamson, won 6-0. A donut-ing. But it wasn’t all bad. Frankie at least managed a couple of thirty breaks. Enough to stop him feeling like a total plum.

  Well, almost, anyway . . . the only penguin suit he’d been able to find in time to wear – something that the ref had insisted on – had been the Old Man’s from back in the seventies. What’s all this then? Val Doonican night? some wag in the audience had shouted the second Frankie had stepped out . . . someone who’d sounded horribly like Detective Inspector Snaresby, to Frankie’s ears, at least.

  Still, Frankie had got plenty of home support too, to stop him feeling too bad. Xandra had even got a warning off the ref for being overly enthusiastic on his behalf. He’d earned himself a few scowls too, mind, followed by jeers. Tam Jackson being chief amongst them, of course, the prick.

  Meanwhile, Adam Adamson had been a total gent, not just in agreeing to the late change of opponent. As he’d shaken Frankie’s hand at the end of the match, he’d told him that, with a bit more practice, he might soon end up playing him again. Just as importantly, he said he loved the idea of the Soho Open and was already planning on entering it again next year.

  But the main thing was the TV crew. They shot their piece and it went out live. Meaning the Soho Open was truly now out there in the world.

  14

  If the first few hours of the tournament on Friday had gone by in a bit of a blur, the effect only got worse for Frankie over the next two days. Nothing to do with pills and booze this time, though. More like the insane amount of stuff he ended up having to do.

  By the time Saturday evening came round, and with it the quarter-finals, when Xandra asked him how he was coping, he told her he might as well have been in the middle of a bloody tornado, needing every ounce of muscle power and concentration at his disposal just to stop himself from getting blown clean off his feet.

  But it wasn’t all bad. Frankie was already getting bags of good feedback from the sponsors and punters and players alike. The ripples from the TV slot had gone out wide. A couple of newspapers had followed up in their Saturday morning editions, with more promising to do the same on Sunday. The Big Breakfast had been in touch with The Topster as well, saying they’d have the winner on next week, if whoever it was would play along with some kind of suitably whacky Channel 4 comedy snooker idea they’d cooked up.

  Equally good, or at least a bloody relief, The Topster had somehow managed to come up with that paperwork for the association. Frankie still wasn’t exactly sure how, but he’d hazard that somewhere along the line fraudulent behaviour and a photocopier had to have been involved. Just as well it had all been settled, though, because Frankie had already appeared in the press following the TV feature, earning him a phone message from Sharon, of all people, telling him well done, after she’d spotted his name in the Guardian over her poached eggs on toast.

  The only dark clouds still hanging on the horizon – or at least as far as the tournament was concerned – were Stephen Maxwell and Huw Watkins, Riley and O’Hanagan’s men. They were still progressing steadily towards the final in their separate halves of the draw, which wasn’t a problem in itself, in that none of their opponents had yet needed to be warned off. But what would happen when they did come up against the other top seeds – including Adam Adamson – they were likely to face? Frankie dreaded to think. Tam Jackson and his lads had become a permanent feature at the Ambassador, like gargoyles in a church, all of them permanently scowling and clearly primed to play their part in steering their bent seeds into the final whenever the opportunity finally arose.

  But even they were nothing next to the booming, crackling thunderhead of a storm cloud that was building up for Frankie on Monday night. The press was already full of it, the Sensation exhibition that was due to open on Thursday, and it was all Frankie could think of too.

  Was there any way he could get out of it? Short of suicide, he couldn’t think of one. But then, just as he was sitting down on Saturday night – to watch Adam Adamson play his quarter-fina
l that might just take him through to meeting Stephen Maxwell in Sunday’s semis – Frankie got a message from Spartak that finally brought with it a ray of light.

  *

  ‘There’s a kid outside,’ Spartak said, getting Frankie up from his seat just moments before the quarter-final’s first session began. ‘Says he’s got a message for you.’

  ‘What kid?’

  ‘Said you knew him. Name of Little Terry?’

  Frankie grimaced. Terence Hamilton’s nephew, then. Dougie’s little cousin. Shit it. What the hell was he doing here? Frankie followed Spartak back through the crowd and outside, listening to the announcer introduce Adamson and his opponent to a warm round of applause. Spartak pointed out the kid, who was waiting a little way down the street. Yeah, it was Little Terry, all right, all dressed up in baggies, like a refugee from Manchester, ’89.

  ‘And what can I do for you, then?’ Frankie asked, walking up.

  ‘Got something for you, haven’t I?’

  ‘From her?’ He meant Viollet.

  ‘Nah. Not this time. From him.’

  Dougie, then.

  ‘Well, then?’ Frankie asked.

  Little Terry stuck out his hand. Cheeky little toerag. On the make again. Frankie shook his head, digging into his pocket and peeling him off another twenty from his clip.

  ‘And I bet you still haven’t got any change either,’ he said.

  ‘’Fraid not.’ The kid couldn’t help grinning, just like before. He handed Frankie the phone. A Nokia. Like what Grew had been banging on about.

  ‘It got Snake on it?’ Frankie said.

  ‘Yeah.’ The kid looked surprised Frankie had even heard of it.

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘And it’s yours to keep,’ said Little Terry. ‘Compliments of the boss.’

  ‘Double nice. And that’s it, is it? Just a gift.’ Frankie doubted it.

  ‘Nah, he told me to tell you to hit autodial one.’

  ‘Auto-what what?’ What the hell was he talking about?

  Little Terry rolled his eyes. ‘Give it here. You’re as rubbish as my dad.’ He punched in a couple of digits, then handed it back.

  ‘Cheers,’ Frankie said, but already Little Terry was walking away, tucking that twenty safely away into his baggy jeans’ pocket.

  ‘Ah, good, Frankie James,’ a voice answered on the third ring. ‘My little cousin found you all right then, did he?’

  ‘Yeah, but listen, no offence, OK, but I’m right in the middle of –’

  ‘A quarter-final. Yes. Or the start of one, anyway.’ Meaning he had the place being watched, or someone actually there inside.

  ‘So how can I help you?’ Frankie said, walking round the block, out of sight of the club, and slinking back into the shadows of a doorway between two shops.

  ‘Well, it’s just, you see, I was thinking,’ Dougie said, ‘going back to that first conversation we had, about you carrying on making Tommy Riley feel like he’d got you on a nice tight leash . . .’

  ‘What of it?’ Already Frankie didn’t like the sound of where this was going.

  ‘Well, it’s just I wouldn’t want it to ever feel so tightly held that you felt you needed to obey him instead of me. Or indeed feel any loyalty to him over me whatsoever.’

  Christ, had he been talking to Listerman? What was he going to tell him next? That if he did, he’d soon find himself torn apart?

  ‘And I know Viollet was kind enough to show you,’ Dougie said, ‘our friend, there in the warehouse basement, who’d rather let us down . . .’

  Frankie’s heart thudded, even at the thought of it.

  ‘But what I don’t know,’ Dougie went on, ‘was if she also explained to you that it wasn’t only our friend who ended up down there . . . but also, sadly, some people he was very close to as well . . .’

  Frankie’s heart thudded even harder. Family. He meant family. Or friends. Or both. Not just Jack, then. But Slim. Xandra. Even the Old Man inside. He meant whoever he fucking well pleased.

  ‘You’re not going to have a problem with me,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Good. That’s just what I was ringing up to check. I just wanted to remind you of your . . . responsibilities.’

  ‘And if I do do it all?’ Frankie said. ‘Just like you want?’

  ‘Well then, I’ll be happy.’

  ‘Happy enough to give me that pistol back?’ Screw it. It was all Frankie could think of. He might as well ask.

  Silence on the end of the line.

  ‘Happy enough to think about it,’ Dougie said. ‘Or at least perhaps set a timetable around when that might become a real possibility. So long, of course, that in the meantime you continue working for me.’

  ‘And Riley?’ Frankie said. Because surely Dougie could see that too? How Frankie couldn’t just switch sides. Openly, like that.

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry about Riley. He’s not going to be a problem for much longer. I’ve already got all that worked out.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Another chuckle. Seemed like Hamilton was turning into quite the comedian. ‘You see, that was the other little thing I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We’re going to frame him.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, Frankie, that’s right. You and me.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For everything. For the whole Royal Academy job. We’re going to plant one of those stolen art pieces right there in his office for the cops to find, and then call them, so that it looks like it was Tommy who was behind it all along.’

  *

  Another day, another gangster . . . Forget a dog with two owners, Frankie was beginning to feel more like a tennis ball getting battered back and forth. And not by some Brit like Tim Henman either. Nothing so polite. More like Pete Sampras. Bosh, bash, bosh. Surely, sooner or later, he’d just pop?

  Sunday morning, 7 a.m., and it was Tommy Riley’s turn to give Frankie a call. Or Mackenzie Grew, anyway, who was then waiting right there outside the Ambassador Club in his red Jag come 7.30, when Frankie walked out through the doors.

  No banter between them this morning. Frankie just stared straight ahead. It was the drive back from the dog track on Friday that was partly to blame. The fact Grew, who was meant to be Frankie’s mate as well as one of Tommy’s top boys, hadn’t even tried speaking up for him when Tommy had told him his plan for fixing the Open. But it was more than that, it was Dougie Hamilton too. And that gun and that threat of the basement. And him using them to make Frankie switch sides. Frankie couldn’t get it out of his head either, how he’d be the one responsible for getting Tommy in the clink. Not that Tommy would know. Oh no, Dougie had assured him of that. Because what use would that be for Dougie, having his new full-time lackey a marked man before he’d even begun properly working for him? And then, of course, there was the small matter of wrapping up the tournament too. Frankie still had that to deal with. And with the semis and final all taking place later today. Yeah, he really had time to spare for this ride now, didn’t he? Not.

  ‘So what’s this then?’ Frankie said, as the Jag pulled up in a posh Chelsea street.

  ‘Tommy’s new gaff.’

  Frankie looked up at the building they’d parked outside. Bright white in the morning light. Four storeys high. Leafy green trees. Security gates out front.

  ‘What happened to his old place?’ The way he’d heard it, Tommy had always lived up round Warren Street, where he’d been born. Not that he’d ever been invited there himself.

  ‘Oh, that’s still there, and his Mrs with it . . . but this is where he’s going to be spending more of his own personal time from now on.’

  With her then. With Chenguang.

  ‘Surprised he’s not painted it purple then,’ Frankie said, not looking back to see Grew’s reaction, as he got out of the car and slammed the door shut.

  He got buzzed in through the gate by a person or persons unknown when he said who he was
. A bunch of slick-looking cars parked up in the flagstoned courtyard the other side. Mercs. Beamers. Nothing as classy as at Dougie’s riverside pad. From round the side of the house, he could hear the sound of drilling and shouting, and taking a quick dekko he saw it was a right old mess. Cement mixers. Builders. Laying down what looked like a tennis court.

  Walking again round the front of the building, Frankie swallowed the bile in his throat back down as he gazed up at the massive sandblasted edifice, rearing up into the blue sky. He had to keep cool. Just because Tommy had sent for him, it didn’t mean he’d somehow got wind of what Dougie had planned – did it? Nah, there was no bloody way, right? Yeah, just keep calm. No getting away from it, though. He did feel a bit of a twat about that snide joke he’d just made to Grew about Chenguang. He’d have been much better off remembering to re-pin that corsage she’d given him back onto his suit. No such thing as too much luck, as they said.

  The six-foot lump of battle-scarred muscle that was Tam Jackson opened the front door. Not even a hello. But, again, no point in reading too much into that either, eh? Frankie followed him inside. A big reception area. Chandeliers. Sofas. A wide staircase spiralling up. Nice. Nice and cool. Nice and cool and classy too. Nothing like Tommy at all.

  The nearest place like this that had any connection to Tommy Riley that Frankie had ever been to was Tommy’s high-end brothel – or Private Members’ Club as Tommy preferred to think of it – over in St James’s. But this felt more homely. Less to do with grubby money. Not even a reception desk with a girl taking payment for various sexual services. Not that Frankie missed it. That kind of thing had never been his style.

  ‘Through here,’ Tam grunted, opening a side door.

  A freshly painted staircase led down. A tap-tap-tapping noise echoed up from below. The sound of more machinery vibrating through the walls. What was it with gangsters and basements? What was wrong with roof terraces all of a sudden? Surely they’d have had a much better view?

  But, nah, Frankie took that back as he reached the bottom of the stairs and walked out into the basement that was midway through being converted. It was bloody epic. Brilliant. Cool.