The Last Card

by Kolton Lee

  ***

  The Roadster flashed down the motorway, heading for Brighton. Hilary sat next to her, his large frame looking cramped in the sports car. When he’d first climbed in, he’d been like a small boy in a toy shop, examining the dashboard in excitement.

  ‘Why do men always do that?

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Get huge erections when they see a nice sports car?’

  ‘Why are you driving a car like this, anyway? You don’t need a car like this. You’re just driving it to pose. You’re a poseur.’

  She shot him a glance and he grinned.

  ‘The trouble with you women is you don’t actually appreciate the technology for its own sake. I’m a man that can do that.’

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ Nina smiled. ‘A bit of fresh air and you’re feeling good now. You’re feeling all macho, like … you’re feeling like you want an argument? You want to prove yourself right?’

  ‘That’s what keeps us all breathing isn’t it?’

  ‘No, that’s what keeps you breathing. And most men come to think of it.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m just glad to be out of London for a while.’ The two lapsed into silence. The late afternoon sunshine lit up the countryside around them.

  Nina glanced over at the man she and Gavin were ultimately going to manipulate for their own ends. Was he the man for the job?

  ‘Why the sudden urge for fresh air?’

  ‘I’ve got a headache.’

  ‘Hangover?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve had it for about seven years.’

  ‘O … kay. Can I at least ask you where we’re going?’

  ‘Brighton.’

  ‘I’d gathered that. Whereabouts?’

  ‘Just drive.’

  She half-turned to say something, but changed her mind. In the rear view mirror she saw that the two small, vertical lines had appeared, just above her eyebrows.

  Hilary leant forward to switch on the CD player. Quick as a flash Nina slapped his hand away.

  ‘Oww! That hurt! What was that for?’

  Nina gave him an evil smirk and Hilary grinned despite himself.

  ‘You think you’re so tough, don’t you?’

  ‘I am. I wasn’t always this beautiful and sophisticated.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  As Sussex flashed by, Nina told him a little of her early life, growing up in a council flat in Stoke Newington with her mother and sisters.

  ‘How did you go from the two-bedroom high-rise,’ asked Hilary ‘to the mews house in Holland Park with a Z3 Roadster?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘We’ve got time.’

  ‘And not one I want to go into right now.’

  Hilary shrugged ‘Okay.’

  ‘What about you? What’s your story?’

  He sighed heavily ‘Jesus, you don’t want to know.’

  ‘No, I do, really.’ Nina glanced round at him encouragingly. She did want to know. She was finding Hilary increasingly intriguing. He was different from the black guys she had grown up around. Here was this big, tough bloke who was a gambler and a boxer who lived in a council flat. That was normal. But aside from this gambling, boxing persona, some things about Hilary weren’t normal at all. For starters, he was quiet, he was articulate and he wasn’t drooling after her with his tongue hanging out.

  ‘You know what? Let’s just get there. I’ve had a really, really bad day.’

  ‘Okay.’ And that was the last word spoken until Nina parked the car in a space just in front of the Old Hilton Hotel, on Brighton seafront.

  23.

  They stumbled over the sliding pebbles, making their way down to the churning water. H led the way, stooping to scoop up a handful of stones. As he neared the water’s edge he threw them, one by one, skimming into the waves; watching them bounce once, twice, three times. He was aware that Nina was just behind him and breathing in the heavy, salty air, he wished he was alone. He set off walking, eastwards, towards the pier. He could hear her scrambling to catch up.

  The seaside had always been a special place for H. The ocean reminded him of his place in the world, putting his situation, whatever it might be, into a new context. For H the sea represented freedom, abandon and renewal. He could stand before it for hours, just watching.

  H neared the pier and slowed down. Looking up at the end of it he could see people on fun fair rides, people looking out to sea, fishing, smiling, talking; people just enjoying themselves. He didn’t want to join them, just wanted to soak up where he was. He knew he would have to return to reality at some point: to London, to Alan Akers, to Beverley, to his empty flat. But for now, he just wanted to be. He stopped walking and sat down on the pebbles, facing the sea.

  Nina came up and sat next to him. H glanced round at her. He was grateful that she hadn’t bothered him with chatter. She seemed to sense his need for silence, for contemplation, and had given him that space. Despite having driven him all this way at a moment’s notice. He was grateful because while he had been walking he had come to two decisions, one more momentous than the other. Firstly, he’d decided to end his gambling holiday. His attempt to win his way out of his financial problems with Akers had been disastrous. He was experienced enough to know that gambling out of necessity was always a disaster. It established an utterly wrong frame of mind from which to operate.

  However, the more important decision, the real decision, was to give up the fight game. That was what he had decided when he sold his boxing trophies. That was one of the things he’d wanted to talk through with Blue. He was going to leave boxing. Not even Beverley had dared to suggest it until the end, but now, with everything else in ruins, H could see that it was the only way. She was right. But she’d had to leave for him to realise it.

  It was a terrifying thing to contemplate. And not only because it felt like failure to leave the sport without achieving all that he’d dreamt of. On another, more intrinsic level, H defined himself by his boxing. People knew him as the ‘Shuffler’ for the silky style that had once been his. He was known as a boxer, it was what he did, it was who he was. Beverley was right. If he was to really kick his gambling habit, the boxing had to go. Discovering who else Hilary Chester Zechariah James could be would have to become part of his journey when he left the sport. This was what terrified him.

  ‘When was the last time you were here?’ Nina’s hair whipped around her face as she asked the question.

  H thought before he answered. ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘You know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Big deal! I hate looking back! I hate the sea.’

  H looked at her, surprised by the aggression in her voice.

  ‘I like people, I like noise, I like traffic, I like bright lights, I like …’

  Jesus Christ! H wasn’t sure where this outburst came from but he didn’t like it. Just as the last of the urban miasma was leaving him, Nina was working hard to replace it! He cut her short.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Always talking tough.’ The edge in his voice must have warned her that this was not the time and she lapsed into silence. He quite liked this woman but he wasn’t sure what she was doing here. He couldn’t work out what her game was, why she was hanging around him. There were some crazy white women out there who couldn’t leave black men alone but she didn’t look like one of them. And with her money and her looks she could have anybody. So why him?

  Nina removed one of her shoes and massaged her bare foot.

  ‘That was a drive I wasn’t expecting.’ She continued rubbing her toes and gave a sigh of pleasure. H watched her. Under her coat she wore a pale cream skirt that stopped just above her knees. Beneath that, Nina’s legs were bare and from where H was sitting, they looked in pretty good shape. The thought suddenly hit him with the force of an unexpected shove in the back; he wanted her.

  ‘You know, you could have potential, Hilary.’

  ‘As what?’

  ‘You’re … kind of … goo
d looking …’She laughed girlishly, but H could hear it was fake. She was playing him.

  ‘Is that a compliment?’ He said it dry, without interest in the answer.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘That’s okay. But you know what you need?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Money.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  Nina removed her other shoe and swung her feet on to H’s thigh.

  ‘Please?’ He looked at her. Now she was taking the piss. Having a laugh. And yet her feet were exquisitely shaped; they were delicate, they had perfect proportion, her toe-nails were painted the same shade of red as her lips; these feet were dying to be massaged. H could feel a stirring in his groin. His penis pushed at the rumpled material around his crotch.

  H rested her heels on his lap. He began to knead her right instep. Nina lay back on the pebbles and closed her eyes. Damn, she looked good! With Nina’s feet on his lap, her skin soft and smooth, the stirring in H’s groin was becoming more and more pronounced.

  ‘I know how you can make lots of it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Money.’

  ‘Oh. How?’

  ‘Alan.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Take some of his.’ H laughed bitterly at this.

  ‘I tried that. It cost me fifteen grand, remember?’

  ‘I could tell you how to do it and not get caught.’

  ‘I’m sure you could, Nina, but …’ Nina sat up, leaning on her elbows.

  ‘I know when his money comes in, I know when it goes out, I know his movements. I’m talking about two hundred thousand pounds.’ Nina looked at him to see how he would react. He was staring at her as though she was crazy.

  ‘I don’t do that kind of thing. I’m a family man.’

  ‘You’ve got a family?’

  ‘I’ve got a boy. Cyrus. He’s five; big as a house and twice as tough. He’s a great little boy.’

  ‘Hard man like you, I didn’t take you for the family type.’

  ‘What? A black man can’t be a family man?’

  ‘No, I meant …’

  ‘I didn’t take you for white trash from the slums of Stoke Newington.’ Nina eased her feet from his lap and put them down in front of her. She drew them in close, hugging her knees.

  ‘So where does he live? Your boy?’

  ‘Hanwell. West London. With his mother. And grandmother. His mother and I don’t exactly see eye to eye.’

  Nina said nothing for a while.

  ‘So. You’re not interested in earning some real money?’ Nina’s tone was hard now, aggressive.

  ‘What’s your problem, Nina?’ He wasn’t angry, he was interested.

  ‘Not even for you and Cyrus?’

  ‘It’s not about Cyrus.’ H shrugged. ‘It’s not my style. I’m not that person.’

  She gave him the kind of smile that supercilious right-wingers save for young, clean, good-looking homeless people. ‘You’re a nice guy, Hilary, but – you have to go for it when the chances come your way. People like us don’t get many chances.’ Nina leant over and kissed him on the cheek. Then she stood and walked back along the beach.

  H watched her go. Jesus Christ! What the hell was that all about? He took one last look at the sea and then followed her back to the car. Soon after they were on their way back to London.

  24.

  … IF I WAS FUCKIN’ YOU, RIGHT ABOUT NOW,

  YOU’D HAVE A DICK STUCK IN YOU …

  The following day, in Nick’s Gym, Cube was railing obliquely against the violence of the ‘hood. And while the Cube railed, boxers from all over London pounded, banged and skipped their way to physical fitness, to a state of readiness, to the brink of inflicting yet more violence.

  … IF I WAS FUCKIN’ YOU, SHIT! IT’D BE LIKE DRAMA!

  YOU MIGHT GET TRIPPED ON BY MY BABY MAMA …

  While the volume bludgeoned the senses and the lyrics bludgeoned the sensibilities, H lay on his back, doing sit-ups. The sweat rolled off him as he grimaced. H stuck to a routine that he had used for years. Perhaps he didn’t work at it with the vigour of five or six years before, but the routine remained the same. Three sets of thirty sit-ups. The third set was always the killer.

  ‘… Eighteen …’ H hissed through clenched teeth, allowing his torso to drop slowly down, never easing the tension, telling himself that not boxing was no reason not to keep in shape. ‘… Nineteen …’ H hissed like a knackered steam kettle. Slowly he allowed his torso to descend back towards the mat. Because he liked the training almost as much as the boxing. He struggled to hoist himself back up. ‘… Twenty!..’

  The hiss now reeked of desperation and H still had ten sit-ups to go. His abdominal muscles screamed for mercy. He was in better shape than the vast majority of men his age. He could still pull the young birds if he put his mind to it. Again H raised his torso, the sweat dribbling in rivulets down his face, into his T-shirt. ‘… Twenty-one …’ He couldn’t maintain the tension and gently lay down on the mat. He closed his eyes and panted with the strain of it. There was no way he could stop there, he would have to finish, but heneeded-thisbreather. He needed this breather. He … needed … this … breather.

  H closed his eyes, forced his breathing to be as slow and as deep as he could make it, and relaxed. If there was one thing he’d learnt over the years it was how to recover. H looked up through his closed eyelids. He could see red. A moment later the red became burgundy. He opened his eyes, to see Nick looking down at him.

  ‘How you feeling?’ Nick growled at him.

  ‘I didn’t know you cared.’ H made his answer as terse and sarcastic as the question had been.

  ‘I don’t. I’ve got news for you. You’ve got a fight coming up. In six weeks.’ H showed little interest.

  ‘Yeah? Who is it?’

  ‘Henry Mancini.’ There was a long pause. ‘De Bugle Boy! Remember him?’ Another pause. ‘What dya you think?’

  ‘Don’t mess me about, Nick. I’m tired.’ H wasn’t that tired. A shot of adrenaline had squirted through his veins at the mention of the Bugle Boy’s name.

  ‘I’m telling you, it’s Mancini. He’s got a shot at de world title coming up and he wants a warm up. He was supposed to be foighting a ranker, Mark Hodges, but Hodges got himself shot in some street foight or something. De match was going to be televised and de contracts are all signed. Mancini needs a replacement fast.’

  H felt his stomach perform a triple flick-flack. He sat up, resting on his elbows.

  ‘You’re serious?!’

  ‘Yes, I’m fuckin’ serious!’ All thoughts of retirement from the ring were, for the moment, forgotten. H was no longer tired.

  ‘So now I’m fighting..!’

  ‘I jumped straight in for you. We can sell it as a re-match from your amateur days and wid de TV money involved, we’re looking at a pretty decent pay-day.’

  ‘But … I haven’t had a decent fight in over three years.’

  ‘Who cares?! Your last foight with Mancini was a classic. You’ve got six weeks.’

  ‘Six weeks! Six weeks! I’ll never be ready in …’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Mancini’s people aren’t looking for a fight, dey’re looking for a show. I told ’em I’d make sure you could go three, four rounds with deir boy …’

  ‘What does that mean?!’

  ‘It means you don’t need six months to prepare. You just turn up on de day and do de best you can …’

  ‘The best I can?!’ H couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing; Nick laughed scornfully.

  ‘Dis isn’t a foight, H, you can’t win. It’s a pay-day to entertain a few million mugs on television. I t’ought you’d be pleased!’

  ‘I’m in there to make Mancini look good and I’m supposed to be pleased?’

  Nick’s irritation turned to anger. ‘What are you fuckin’ beefing about, it’s an easy fuckin’ pay-day!’ The gym quietened as some of the other
boxers listened in to the latest unfolding drama.

  ‘Come on, Nick, it’s Mancini.’ H rose to his feet, hands on hips and looked down at the pugnacious Irish man.

  Matt had clearly heard the beginning of the argument and stepped forward. ‘Dad, why’d you keep …’

  But Nick ignored his son, turning on H with a passionate, heartfelt scorn. ‘You had it all, H. Talent. Dripping out of you.’ Nick’s piercing eyes shone out of his wizened face as he stared up at H. The hurt in his eyes reminded H of his own father. H looked away, embarrassed.

  ‘What happened to it?’ Nick persisted, demanding an answer.

  ‘It went.’ H mumbled.

  ‘It went, it went! You let it go!’ The gym had fallen into silence. The music has been turned off and the boxers stood around, listening-but-not-listening. ‘You fuckin’ pissed it all away! Well now dere’s twenty t’ousand pound on the fuckin’ table for dis fuckin’ foight; take it or leave it!’

  H shifted his stance, still not looking his coach in the eye. He felt the gaze of the other boxers, his coach and Matt; all looking at him, waiting for an answer.

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Damn roight you’ll fuckin’ take it! And be glad to take it, too!’

  Nick turned and strode away. The gym slowly came back to life, the other boxers gradually returning to their preferred brands of torture. H and Matt were left alone to contemplate this dramatic turn of events.

  ‘I think you should …’ But H turned his back on Matt, heading for the changing room and the showers. He still had nine more sit-ups to do, but on this occasion, they’d have to wait.

  ***

  Back in his street clothes, H wandered slowly down a leafy road in Hanwell, heading towards Alice’s house. It was just after six, the sky was darkening and H knew Cyrus would be home from school. H wanted to see him. He wanted to see Beverley. He wanted to see her and tell her about this latest opportunity. H wasn’t sure what to do and he missed talking things over with her. But he did not want to see Alice. Thinking about her, H felt his tread slow to a crawl.

  H turned into Westcott Crescent and could see Alice’s house near the corner. He stopped. The light was on in the living room. Peering in from behind a parked car, H saw Beverley sat on the sofa with her legs tucked to one side. In the armchair across from her he could make out Alice. Cyrus was lying with his head on Beverley’s lap, and the flickering light of the television played across their faces. H couldn’t make out if his son was also watching or if he was asleep. Across London, across the country, the same scene played out many times: the glowing warmth of security, held within the flickering light of a television. It felt alien to him. He was on the outside.