The Last Card

by Kolton Lee

  Meena wore her hair short like a boy. Despite being large hipped, she was not really overweight, she was just short - five feet three inches - and pear-shaped. She was by no means a classic beauty. But as Wha Gwan stared at her dark eyes and sunken cheeks he had to swallow deeply to stop the love he felt for her welling up from his stomach and pouring out of him in a howl of – what? rage? fear? vulnerability? Wha Gwan felt all of those things. Everything he’d ever felt for Meena in those two years that he had been seeing her poured up from his stomach and jammed his throat.

  ‘Let it …’He coughed to cover the emotion that caused his eyes to water. ‘Let it out, Meena, you’ll feel better.’

  But Meena wouldn’t let it out. She merely lowered her head as the tears flowed freely, miserably, down her cheeks. Wha Gwan rose and scooted round the table. He slid a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  Joseph, the Roti Shack’s Trinidadian chef, glanced over at the two of them from behind the counter and shook his head.

  ‘If dere’s anyt’ing I can do you know de two a you only have to ask. You know dat, don’t you?’

  Wha Gwan acknowledged the kindness with a wave. He then leant into Meena and spoke softly.

  ‘Your father’s gone but your mother’s still here. And your brothers. They need you to be strong. Especially your mum, Meena, you know she’s going to struggle.’

  Meena finally responded to Wha Gwan’s words by leaning into his chest and burrowing her face into his padded coat. When she finally spoke, she aimed the words at the ‘J’ in ‘Jersey’ on Wha Gwan’s coat.

  ‘He was always a fucking bastard; a selfish, mean, irritable bastard.’ Meena stopped and gasped as though the effort of finally formulating words had tired her out. ‘But he was our bastard; my bastard. And now he’s gone.’

  Meena burrowed her face deeper into the ‘J’ of Jersey and clung to Wha Gwan as though he was everything she had in the whole world. Wha Gwan looked down at the top of her head, smelt the slightly garlicky funk coming from her hair, then looked up and out on to Shepherds Bush. Life ebbed and flowed in front of the Roti Shack, but Wha Gwan saw none of it. No. His thoughts were filled with revenge. Whoever had killed Meena’s father was going to pay. If it was the last thing Wha Gwan ever did, Dipak’s killer was going to pay.

  13.

  Ade stared out, concerned, as the black Wrangler Jeep turned off Brentford High Street and into North Road. Dunstan drove slowly down the quiet road and turned the Jeep left into a small car park, pulling up at the edge of the estate. Through the darkness Ade could see four tower blocks, but only one of them was of interest. Its name was on its side in big letters; Maudsley House. Perfect.

  Ade and Dunstan were still in West London but as far as Ade was concerned they might as well have been in the Cotswolds. This was about as far west that you could go and still call it London. Ade didn’t like it at all and it showed on his face, but this was something that had to be done if honour was to be restored. If it meant coming out to ‘country’ then so be it. Ade was nothing if not professional. Dunstan abruptly turned off the in-car entertainment and the sounds of the ludicrously-named P. Diddy died with the engine. Ade looked over at his friend but Dunstan kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  ‘Back in five.’

  Dunstan nodded but said nothing. Ade opened up the hidden compartment in the passenger-side door by pressing the pressure-release point. The compartment clicked and sagged open. Nestling inside was a small bag of salted cashew nuts underneath which was an Israeli-built, black and shiny, semi-automatic, Desert Eagle. Although the weapon was Ade’s, it was kept in Dunstan’s car because Ade refused to keep it in his. He pulled it out and tucked it under his jacket. He folded his long body out of the Jeep with difficulty. This is a nice ride, he thought, but too small for a man, you know? A Wrangler Jeep was a car for a boy. That’s why he drove a Range Rover. Top of the range, racing green. And whenever Babylon came with their foolishness, pulling him over for no reason, he always had his papers ready. In the glove compartment.

  As Ade climbed out of the jacked-up Jeep he stepped straight into a puddle, splat! You see, Ade thought, that’s what happens when you drive a car like this. He slammed the door shut behind him and, stepping on to the kerb, he shook the rainwater off his buckskin, tan-coloured Timberland boot. The trouser leg of the olive-green Armani suit that he wore was also wet. He looked back at Dunstan with a scowl, but Dunstan just silently shooed him on his way.

  With one wet trouser leg Ade set off, heading towards the tower block on the Green Dragon Lane estate. The Desert Eagle was a big weapon made bigger by the silencer screwed tight to the gun’s muzzle. Ade liked it because it was big and flashy and when people saw it pointing at them it frightened them. He liked that. He had it nestled under his jacket, tucked into the top of his trousers. He kept it in place with one arm held close to his side. It was a good job he had on his good suit, the new one. Coming all this way out to country where you didn’t see too many black people, he didn’t want to look too conspicuous. Ade was barely twenty-one and the suit had cost him over £3,000 pounds. The trousers were so baggy the bottom of the legs trailed over and under his sixteen-hole Timberlands. The jacket was so roomy a family of badgers could have moved in. The look was topped with a black, high-neck John Smedley and a close cropped hair cut, a number one. No fade, no markings, no bullshit.

  Ade didn’t roll with the high step that Dunstan employed but he was equally bad. Nobody messed with Ade. Ade had always been big for his age and from as early as he could remember he had been aware that he was a Nigerian, from the Yoruba tribe. Yoruba were warriors according to his father and that’s what he had told the boys he had grown up with in East London.

  But it was only when he’d begun hanging out with Dunstan, two years ago, that his reputation really began to pay dividends. Dunstan was in the recreation business, dealing recreational drugs. Dunstan needed a man to roll with when he went about controlling his growing empire. He and Ade had first become partners and then become friends. The two were now almost inseparable. Ade and Dunstan moved together and people didn’t mess with either of them.

  By now Ade was at the foot of Maudsley House. He and Dunstan had done their homework. Eric Griffin lived on the fifteenth floor, flat 15G. Ade approached the entrance of the block and indiscriminately slapped about six or seven buzzers. Amongst a flurry of ‘Hellos’ ‘Who is it?’ and ‘Oi! Stop —’, one of the block’s tenants kindly buzzed back, releasing the door. Ade quickly pulled the security door open and slipped inside.

  The ground-floor hallway gave off the familiar stench that Ade was used to from a life lived in public housing. This may have been ‘country’ but it smelt just like the inner city: piss, alcohol and stale cigarette smoke. Ade slapped at the button next to the lift. Only then did he notice the sign that read ‘Out of Order’. Shit! Ade silently cursed. His experience told him to call the job off. If he were to walk all the way to the fifteenth floor there would be much more of a chance that he would be spotted. The whole job would take that much longer. On the other hand, Akers needed to know that he couldn’t take the piss. Not with his boy Dunstan. Ade looked at the foot of the stairs. Also, if he did the job now, then he and Dunstan wouldn’t have to come back. And that was the clincher. He started walking.

  Ade walked with a slow tread, a methodical pace. He didn’t want to attract any more attention to himself than he had to. He had no idea how many black people lived in this building. So his approach to Griffin’s flat was unhurried, quiet and relentless.

  Ade arrived on the landing of the fifteenth floor. He peeked through the glass of the fire door that led into the hallway of flats. All was quiet. He opened the door, walked through. The first door he looked at was 15A. He kept on walking. B, C, D, E, F … G. The solid wooden door had the picture of an aggressive, barking British bulldog on it with the line ‘Say Hello To My Little Friend …’ In another context Ade might have smiled at this but not now. He was here to work. I
nside the flat he could hear the television blaring and laughter from someone inside. Griffin. Ade knew it was Griffin because he was alone in the flat. Ade and Dunstan had done their homework. Ade stood squarely in front of the door, undid the top button on his jacket so that it now hung open, and pressed the door bell.

  Moments later he could hear Griffin’s tread as he came to answer. When it stopped Ade knew that Griffin was looking at him through the spy hole. This was nothing to worry about because anybody who lived in a council flat automatically looked through the spy hole before they opened the door. Ade smiled, showing his gold tooth, and waved.

  Ade heard a chain being taken off and a bolt being withdrawn. The door was pulled open, a smiling Griffin standing on his welcome mat in a white vest and underpants. The vest was stained yellow round the arm holes, and had drops of what was probably curry on the front. Griffin’s underpants were bunched up round his genitals. His legs were whiter than his underwear, stork-thin and covered in thick, black hair. Lovely. Griffin was holding a foil dish of what smelt like Chicken Biryani.

  Griffin was an unpleasant looking man, no doubt about it, and that made what Ade had to do next that much easier.

  ‘Ade, mate! What you doing round here?’ The question was not aggressive, Griffin seemingly pleased to see the man who was going to kill him. The question was asked in a spirit of friendship, camaraderie. Although Ade was lower down the pecking order than Griffin, Griffin was pleased to see another of Alan Akers’ employees.

  ‘I wanted to have a chat with you, Eric.’ Ade did not want to have a chat, he wanted to be on the inside as quickly as possible. He stepped into the hallway of Griffin’s flat, whipped out the Desert Eagle with one hand, grabbed Eric Griffin’s throat with the other. He used his boot to close the door behind him. With one arm now locked stiff in front of him, ending in Griffin’s throat, the other with the Desert Eagle pointing at Griffin’s fore head, Ade frog marched him backwards, through the hallway into the living room. Eric, of course, had no more interest in his food and promptly dropped it. His face wore an expression of shock, fear and hurt, all at the same time.

  As they entered the living room Ade glanced at the television. Playing on the screen was The Little Mermaid. Ade turned back to Griffin.

  ‘You sick bastard!’ Griffin’s eyes bugged as he struggled for air. He waved thin arms about, reaching, clawing for Ade. Ade squeezed his neck that much tighter, looking at Griffin as though he were some kind of insect. Ade looked around the flat. It was a mess. The television – a huge one – was in one corner with an old sofa slumped opposite. That was it. Spread all over the floor, however, were old newspapers, beer cans, take-away food boxes, piles of clothes and other rubbish. Ade forced Griffin through the debris towards the french doors on the far wall. As his eyes bulged, Griffin’s mouth worked, opening and shutting, gasping for air. One of the doors was ajar and Ade used Griffin’s shoulder to nudge it open.

  The wall around the balcony was waist-high. They were at the back of the block, away from the road. Beneath them was the car park. Griffin was struggling furiously now, desperate to extract himself from what he had finally realised was more serious than he could imagine. But it was far too late. Ade had been prepared to use the Desert Eagle if necessary but Eric Griffin had made that null and void. With the gun pointing in Griffin’s terrified face Ade pushed him over the balcony. Over the side of the building. From the fifteenth floor.

  Ade could still hear the scream as he walked quickly back through the french doors. The move against Akers had begun.

  14.

  It was late as H, Boo, Sharon, Sammy, Shampa and Blackie spilled out of the G-spot and into the cool of the night. The Kings Road was quiet, hardly any traffic. Despite the nightmare of H’s day, his night had been a good one. In fact, the night had been good for all the West End gamblers. For once they were all winners and the competitive element that usually that existed between them was absent. ‘Good-byes’ and general sentiments of good will were sincerely meant. Sammy headed for his mini cab and the drive back to East London, while Sharon and Boo walked off towards into the West End. H, Blackie and Shampa headed towards H’s Mercedes, parked on the corner of Flood Street.

  In the afterglow of success H’s mood was surprisingly sombre. In truth, he’d had a very good night, far better than he could have expected given the events of the day. Perhaps he’d had a good night because of his day. H had arrived in the session late and immediately begun taking chances that he wouldn’t normally take. Some of the gambles he’d taken had verged on the reckless. Had he been playing strictly professional gamblers no doubt he would have been made to pay. However playing with three fish at the table meant that there was a constant flow of money. The fish had entered inro the spirit of H’s game, allowing their egos to rule their heads, but they couldn’t hope to compete with his level of play. The overall effect of H’s presence at the table was to make money for all the West End professionals.

  Had the mood been less euphoric, H probably would have registered the significance of the metallic blue, BMW Z3 Roadster sitting opposite Flood Street, or recognised the beautiful woman inside. But he didn’t. It was H’s first big mistake of the night.

  ‘How much?’ Blackie asked with a grin. Not only had there been no trouble in the game so Blackie’s night was easy, but Ghadaffi was so pleased at the level of tax the table had taken that he’d said he would use Blackie and Shampa again while his usual Houseman was away.

  ‘About eighteen hundred,’ H replied.

  Blackie slapped him on the back. ‘Seen, man, seen! Is a good night! Why you face favour a donkey, it look so long?!’

  H gave a grim smile. ‘Blackie, let me ask you something: tonight was a good night … but what about tomorrow? I mean, don’t you ever think you’re getting too old for this?’

  Blackie could see where this was going and gestured to Shampa.

  ‘Wait in de car fo’ me, no baby.’ He kissed her, and watched her walk back past the club to Blackie’s huge, old Volvo.

  ‘Of course we too old, man! But das not de point!’ They walked on, arriving at H’s car and leaning up against it. ‘You know me, H, we know each odder a long time. Me is a man dat like to work; I been a driver, I work construction, I do lickle factory work; an’ I serve my time as a guest of ’er majaesty.’ Blackie paused, looking closely at H. ‘But ’ear now: dis las’ time inside people is tarkin’ ’bout ’ow England change up now under dis Tony Blair. De people fling out de set a Tory dawgs and t’ieves and dey tarkin’ ’bout how England is a meritocracy. Well kiss me foot, dey may be right! I’m not a clever man so I don’ know. But what I know is dat for you and me, as black people in dis country, maybe we is part of a, of a los’ generation.’ Blackie looked away as though he felt guilty about what he was saying or he wasn’t sure if he was talking out of turn. He corrected himself. ‘Whedder is Tony Blair or Gordon Brown … de Labour Party cian’t do nutten for me, at least. I too old, I too black an’ I too nasty! But gamblin’ is somet’in’ I love. I might still get to be rich one day, you knowa mean?’

  H just listened. He didn’t agree with everything the older man was saying but he recognised that Blackie was speaking from the heart and paying the man respect meant listening and thinking about what he had to say.

  Looking back, H would wonder how he had failed to notice the shadowy figures hiding by the side of his car.

  ‘Everyone wants to be rich,’ H said ‘but there has to be more to life than that.’

  Blackie just laughed. ‘I live de life an’ I ’ave my dreams; what more you want outta life?’

  H thought about that for a moment. ‘Beverley’s moved out. She’s taken Cyrus with her.’

  ‘Lawd, God, me sorry to ’ear dat, sah! Me really sorry.’ Blackie patted H on the back with concern.

  ‘I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later, the way we were going.’ H paused as he thought about what he was saying. ‘What I need is a regular life, Blackie. A regular job,
regular hours.’

  ‘’Ear what; I spen’ a large parta my life looking for a regular life, you know! You t’ink I come from Jamaica lookin’ dis kinda work? No, sah! When I come to dis country life was hhharsh and hhhhard! Dey didn’t want us when we come ’ere fe look work. Calling you a ‘black bastard’ an’ all dis shit. ‘Go ’ome you black bastard!’ You know ’ow many times I did hear dat? Under de circumstances one ’as to mek choices and mek you own way in life. In de bes’ way you cian. When water run down a hill an’ you block it off, de water still haffu run. I don’ know how I start in dis business, I cian’ remember, but for me now, gambling … allows de juices to flow, seen? It brings … light. And what is a life widout light?’

  H kept his silence. He looked at Blackie’s battered teeth, the scar on his forehead and his generally battered, gnarled appearance. Blackie’s words were simple, unembellished and to the point. But H knew there was a wealth of experience beneath them that he wasn’t talking about and he didn’t need to. Blackie continued. ‘Relax you’-self, man. Y’ave a good win. Enjoy it becau’ dis is as good as it gets. Go ’ome, sah. Ketch some sleep.’

  H pulled him into a tight embrace. He suddenly felt emotional but he didn’t know why.

  ‘G’night, man, sleep well, yeah? And thanks.’ H watched Blackie walk quickly away, back on to the King’s Road and his own car. Suddenly somebody shortish and heavyset stepped towards him. It was a man wearing a long, padded coat, with half his hair in a caine row style, the other half loose. H turned away and bent to open the front door of his own car. At that moment the Z3 Roadster from across the street suddenly roared to life. Its engine kicked in and its headlights sprang on, full beam. As H looked over, the roadster swung round in an arc and pulled up alongside him. The driver, a beautiful woman, lowered the window. It took H about a second to recognise her. It was the woman that he’d seen in Alan Akers’ office. She was alone.