The Last Card

by Kolton Lee

  H took off his jacket and threw it over the wooden chair, the only piece of furniture left in the room. He ran the cold tap in the kitchen sink and dunked his head under it, feeling the revitalising cold of the water. Unable to find a tea-towel, he grabbed his good, Lilliard jacket and used it to dry his face. Plus ça change!

  Feeling refreshed, H stared blankly out of the window again. Slowly he nodded his head, resigning himself to what he would do next.

  Dressed in jeans and a clean t-shirt, H opened the holdall he used for his training kit and stood before his boxing trophies. Carefully, he packed them into the holdall, zipped it up and left the flat.

  H knew of a pawn shop in Islington which would take the trophies. He wouldn’t get what they were worth, he knew that. But he also knew that for them to go, to justify their passing, that moment, that second, would have to be a new beginning …

  The rays of the afternoon’s weak sunlight had given up their struggle and now hid behind a quickly greying sky. Rain threatened. H looked at the pawn shop on the corner of St. John Street and Goswell Road. It was an old Victorian premises and H had been there a number of times in the past as his preoccupation with gambling had increased. On his last visit he’d pawned his Tag Heuer 2000 watch, bought with the winnings of one of his largest purses. It had been a particularly unpleasant occasion since he’d known he was unlikely to ever redeem it. He had sworn then that he would never be back. H navigated St John Street and cautiously entered the shop. The bell tinkled as he crossed the threshold. Fortunately there were no other customers inside; H was in no mood to face the panoply of London’s poor and disenfranchised – giving up their baubles, trinkets and the consumer goods that made struggling lives seem less of a struggle.

  A middle-aged man, pale and sour-looking, with thinning ginger hair, stepped forward. He eyed H with no particular warmth.

  ‘You again. What can I do for you?’

  Grimly, H lifted up his holdall and one by one, took out his most prized possessions. These were the trophies of a lifetime’s endeavour, the tangible symbols of hard-earned excellence; these few possessions gave much of H’s life meaning.

  The shopkeeper picked up, turned over, felt the heft of and closely examined each of the statuettes and trophies with meticulous, professional care.

  ‘I’ll give you a hundred pounds for the lot.’

  ***

  Walking with a heavy tread H approached the door of his good friend Blue. Despite being twenty-nine, Blue still lived with his parents in Willesden. The lash of gentrification that had affected other parts of the city had not touched this part of North-west London, but house prices were still rising quickly. It was fortunate that he got on well with his parents as there was little chance for a man like Blue to either buy or rent his own place.

  Looking up at the big Victorian house, H thought back to his relationship with his own parents, before they returned to Montserrat. Both had been young teachers when they came to England in the 1950s and had arrived at these shores with the zeal and enthusiasm common to most of that first wave of immigrants. At last! They were feasting in the bosom of the mother country!

  Unfortunately, the mother country had other ideas. The depressing weather, the frosty attitude of the people and the lack of job opportunities saw that initial immigrant zeal drift away into memory. Gone! Like the Caribbean sunshine!

  Joseph, H’s father, eventually settled into work in a paint factory. His mother, Sara, after a number of manual jobs, drifted into secretarial work in an unemployment office.

  These facts needn’t have blighted H’s life, but they had. Again, like most immigrants, H’s parents had wanted better for their son. They wanted him to have the kind of career they had been denied: a good, professional job as a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher. When H had first showed prowess as an athlete, his parents had been proud. Particularly his father. Joseph had loved to go to the fights and watch his son dance his way to victory. But as it became clear that Hilary, their youngest son, and the most academic, was gradually allowing the thrill of this game, this hobby, to take precedence over his studies, their pride slowly turned to annoyance. When annoyance turned to anger, H’s relationship with his parents became increasingly difficult.

  By the time Joseph and Sara returned to Montserrat H was barely in contact with them. He’d moved out some time before and was living in various short-term rooms paid for with part-time work as either a postman or as a builder, depending on the season.

  With all the career opportunities that England offered, H’s parents never understood their son’s lifestyle. In the days when H was winning fights and journalists spoke of him as a world championship contender, they found it difficult. But when things began to slide, when, having turned professional, H was mostly losing his fights, they were able to say to him ‘You see? I tol’ you dis fightin’ is not a t’ing for a man like you! Wid all you education! Why you don’ look a proppa job? Proppa!’

  Six years ago, both his parents had died in a road accident. That was the worst. And in a way, that was when H had realised that he couldn’t stop the boxing. For him to stop a piece of him would have to die. And with the loss of his trophies, a piece of him had.

  ***

  H knocked on Blue’s door. A moment later it opened and Blue stood before him, in white vest and jeans, tall and dramatic, locks hanging down his back. Blue embraced him in a hug.

  ‘Long time, man, how you doing, H?’

  ‘Not too good, man, not too good.’

  ‘Yeah? Come inside, talk to me, man. Tell me all your troubles. You know I’m gonna make them all go away.’ The two entered the house and walked through a hallway leading to the large kitchen at the back. ‘I’ve got a friend here but he’s going soon, then we can talk.’

  On the way through the hallway they passed the front room, where a photographer was taking pictures, Blue’s mother looking on proudly. H poked his head through the doorway and called over to the sprightly Jamaican woman.

  ‘Hello, Mrs. G, how are you?’

  ‘Oh, hello, Hilary, I’m all right, t’ank you very much.’

  ‘I see you finally made the cover of Good Housekeeping then?’ He nodded towards the tall photographer. Mrs. Groover laughed appreciatively.

  ‘Oh, no! Dis young man is a journalist. From The Voice. ’E’s doin’ a piece on … on, what was it again, young man?’

  The journalist stopped taking photos and turned to face H. They shook hands.

  ‘Hi. Kolton. I’m doing a piece for Black History Month on the aesthetics of the West Indian Front Room.’

  ‘Das right, ’is name is ‘Kolton’, not ‘Carlton’.’

  ‘The West Indian Front Room?’ H said, puzzled.

  ‘You know, the aesthetics of the flowery wallpaper, the colourful doilies,’ he waved a hand airily round the room. ‘The plastic that covers the sofa and chairs; where all that stuff comes from, why our parents, the first generation that came over from the Caribbean, designed their front rooms like that.’

  ‘Cool. I’ll look out for the article.’ H waved again at Mrs. G and went to join Blue in the kitchen.

  Blue stood at the cooker pouring hot water into two mugs. He handed one to H, and passed the other to another man, who was sitting at a round breakfast table to one side of the room.

  ‘H, meet Wha Gwan, Wha Gwan, this is H.’

  As H nodded at Wha Gwan and Wha Gwan nodded back, H looked at him closely. He had half of his hair tightly bound in a cane row style, but the other half was loose, a style favoured amongst the brothers in North London. H was sure he’d seen him before but he couldn’t remember where.

  ‘Is that fool from The Voice still doing his interview with your Mum?’ The question was squeezed through a scowl that seemed to grip Wha Gwan’s entire body.

  ‘Relax, man, my Mum likes showing the “nice young man” around. It’s not often she gets the chance to show people her doilies and t’ings, you know’t I mean!’

  ‘It’s a piece f
or Black History Month, apparently,’ said H.

  ‘Black History Month! That’s a joke!’ snapped Wha Gwan.

  ‘Like that’s the only time of the year our history’s relevant, you know what I mean!’ Blue added.

  ‘You know’t I mean,’ echoed Wha Gwan, with special emphasis. ‘Listen my friend, white people in this country, they don’t want people to know our history. They don’t even want people to know their history because it’s a history of cruelty, barbarity and exploitation. Pure and simple. Hmph! Black History Month!’ Wha Gwan dunked a digestive biscuit aggressively into his coffee.

  Blue looked across at H.

  ‘Wha Gwan is a Science Fictionist. He’s got a theory that White People …’

  ‘…Aren’t human like alla we.’ Wha Gwan needed no prompting to expound on his own theory. ‘They are another species of human altogether and their sole aim is to destroy the planet.’ Wha Gwan paused while he bit into the moist digestive. ‘They’re going to destroy it through the enslavery of other races; the black man, the yellow man, the brown man and the red man. They’re also going to destroy the planet’s resources; rinse out all the oil in the Middle East, mash up the rain forests, tear out the ozone layer and unleash genetically modified foods on people.’ Wha Gwan stared at H as though challenging him to dispute the truth of his statements.

  ‘That’s a radical theory,’ said H, not quite sure how best to respond.

  ‘These are not theories, my friend, these are facts. Facts! The war between white people in the east and white people in the west, has ended. That was the cold war. The war between the Germans and other Europeans has ended. The second European war – which they called the World war. Now that they’ve finished fighting each other, they’re concentrating on taking over everything from everybody. America and Europe. White people.’

  H nodded wisely, wondering how, exactly, he was going to ease himself out of this conversation. He’d come round to talk to Blue about his problems with Akers and Beverley, not argue with a Science Fictionist over his theories of Caucasian world domination. Unfortunately, Wha Gwan seemed to be on a roll.

  H had met many black people, who, when the pressure of being black and a minority in a white man’s world became too much, invented all sorts of elaborate reasons for the white man’s social, political and cultural dominance. Wha Gwan’s Science Fictionist idea was one of the more outlandish, but that seemed merely a testament to Wha Gwan’s intelligence and imagination. H’s reality however, was bound up in a more physical realm. All the things that you couldn’t control, all the petty injustices in life, all of that could be shed in one place: the boxing ring. For H, the ring didn’t lie.

  ‘So what’s your solution to the plight of the black man?’

  ‘The pen and the sword.’ Having reached this point in his train of thought Wha Gwan seemed to calm down. ‘You see we need to educate the yout’. Dem man runnin’ road, playin’ gangster but dey don’t know nutten about history and dey don’t know nutten about respect. All dey want to do is chat ‘grime’. No, man, we need the pen to educate; to educate is to liberate. And then we need the sword; because in this society, education is not enough. We need the sword to smite dem! Because you know what? I’m going to get mines! And when I get mines …’

  H looked down at his coffee. Jesus Christ! Did this guy ever stop talking? He was past caring about Wha Gwan’s theory! He looked over at his good friend Blue, who was listening intently. H sighed. It wasn’t often that he really needed someone to talk to. He glanced at Wha Gwan, barely hearing the words but still watching the man’s jawbone working overtime: up, down, up, down.

  ‘…A powerful man is a dangerous thing,’ cried Wha Gwan. ‘A man that knows himself, knows his worth and the power he has as an individual …can accomplish many things!’

  22.

  Nina sat in her BMW Z3 Roadster wearing Jean-Paul Gaultier sunglasses and waiting for H to show up. She was in the carpark of a council estate in South London. Battersea. She looked around her. Although it was spring, she was struck by how much of everything looked grey. Even the grass.

  Four parking spaces away from her an old, dreadlocked, black man was leaning into the bonnet of a BMW. It was the oldest, shabbiest, and rustiest a vehicle could be and still be called a car. It seemed to have been constructed from at least three different models. The front of the car had no tyres and sat on two rusty wheel ramps. The man was leaning under the bonnet, his dreadlocks – thick and gnarled – reaching down to his waist. They showed flecks of grey. The dirty boiler-suit he wore was a light blue-grey. On the charcoal-grey of the tarmac, next to the dreadlock, was a metallic-grey boom-box. From it poured thick, rhythmic reggae. Nina smiled as the bass line dropped and blasting horns trilled playfully over the top. It was the sole spot of colour in the landscape.

  Nina had grown up with reggae and the mechanic’s boom-box provided a soundtrack as familiar as the world of grey that currently surrounded her. She liked the music, hated the grey. Opening her car door, Nina stretched her legs out and looked up at the sky. It too was grey; a light, pale shade, then darker and bluer, and finally a wispy, smoky colour hung on the horizon. The sky seemed to sit just above the top of the tower blocks, pressing down, closing her in. While she looked up a small aeroplane droned slowly over head. It trailed a thin line of vapour. Grey.

  Nina sat and pondered the meaning of grey and the reasons why it made her sad. Sitting on Hilary’s council estate reminded her of how far she’d come in scrambling away from the poverty of her own childhood. Like climbing up a sheer rock face without a safety net, she had clung on with the grip of her fingers and toes and will. You gripped that rock face with every bit of your strength because your life depended on it. To fall was to be ripped, broken and bashed on the jagged rocks of poverty.

  Nina was jerked from her thoughts by the sight of a man approaching. He walked slowly, shoulders slumped, head down.

  ‘Hilary!’

  The man stopped and turned back. The dreadlock also looked over at her. Nina rose from her car, locked it and set the alarm. She walked over to Hilary, suddenly aware of the contrast between herself and her surroundings. It wasn’t so much the drama of the French-made, Japanese-designed coat, although it was dramatic, cascading down her shoulders and reaching almost to her ankles. It wasn’t the mystery suggested by the ostentation of the large, Gaultier sunglasses; or even the deep red that coloured her lips. It was simpler than all of that. It was the sheen of health and care that emanated from the sheet of dark, straight hair that fell below her shoulders; it was the creamy, smooth glow of her complexion; it was the healthy, upright posture that exuded wellbeing. Nina looked damn good walking over to Hilary, and she knew it.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Hilary was startled by her appearance.

  ‘Yeah, and I’m pleased to see you, too. Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘I’ve been busy. Why?’

  ‘I was in the area, I thought I’d stop by.’ Nina watched as Hilary glanced over at the dreadlock behind her back.

  ‘D’you want to come up?’

  Nina smiled sweetly. She’d put him on the spot. He led the way into the tower block.

  In the flat Hilary tossed the empty holdall into a corner and disappeared into an adjoining room, returning with a small cardboard pot. He squatted down by the goldfish bowl and sprinkled in a precise amount of fish food, watching in silence as the fish ate. Nina’s eyes lingered on his physique, noting the large thighs and the tightness of his thin, cotton jacket across his shoulders. Yes, Hilary was a solidly built man. A man well capable of doing what she and Gavin needed him to. Nina knew she could toy with him, but the trick was in knowing just how far she could push. From the look on his face today, she judged, not too far.

  ‘How did you find out where I lived?’ He seemed distracted and continued to gaze at the bowl, directing his questions at the fish.

  ‘Gavin told me.’

  ‘How did he know?’

  �
�He’s a bright man.’

  ‘I don’t like people coming here.’

  ‘Why? It’s a nice place.’ That got his attention. Hilary slowly turned to look at her.

  ‘Don’t push me, Nina.’ He strode from the room back to wherever he’d gone before. Nina sighed and sauntered slowly after him. He was in the kitchen. She watched as he filled the kettle and put it on the cooker.

  ‘You’re in a good mood.’

  ‘I’ve had a good day.’

  ‘Have you got White Alan’s money yet?’

  ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ He glared at her as he leant against the worktop, arms folded across his chest. Nina removed her sunglasses in a gesture of conciliation.

  ‘Look, let’s start again: I knew you wouldn’t call me, that’s why I came over.’ She paused. She was making an effort now and she waited for him to say something. He said nothing. ‘We’ve been through the nineties, women can make the first move now.’

  Despite himself, Hilary smiled. Finally.

  ‘That’s better! Now whatever your problems are, Hilary, I’m going to make you forget them. Just for this evening.’

  Hilary actually snorted through his nose and laughed out loud at that.

  ‘You can drop your hard man act, it doesn’t work with me. And just one sugar, please. White.’

  Hilary almost smiled. He turned to the cupboard. When he opened it to take out two mugs Nina could see that he only had two mugs.

  The kettle whistled as the water boiled. Hilary made instant coffee, stirring sugar into one of the cups.

  ‘Milk?’ Nina asked more in hope than conviction. H shook his head and for a moment the two of them sipped their black coffee in silence. Nina looked at him while Hilary looked out of the window, his thoughts, seemingly, elsewhere.

  The afternoon sun must have disappeared behind a cloud because a gloom settled in the small, cramped kitchen. Watching the shadows on Hilary’s face, Nina said: ‘What would you like to do today?’