by David Thorne
Kane nodded to the men around him and they took my father by the armpits, dragged him to a chair. Kane reached over the bar, found a towel. He picked up my father’s pint and walked to where he was slumped, head back in the chair. He placed the bar towel over my father’s face. Slowly he emptied my father’s lager over the towel. My father choked, struggled, but Kane’s men held him down by the shoulders, the wrists. Then, one by one, the other men all emptied their bottles over the bar towel, laughing as my father coughed and gasped for breaths he could not catch.
After they had left my father told Paddy that he had thought he would drown, was sure he would die. Paddy sounds shaken as he tells me what happened and I thank him, tell him that I will check in on my father, make sure that he is all right. I hang up and think of Kane, the ease with which he had subdued me. Wonder what aberration of personality leads somebody to waterboard an old man, torture him in a public place. I call my father but he does not pick up. Drive out to his home but he is not there, or does not answer the door. He has never worried about me, looked out for me, come to my defence. But still, he is my father. And what happened to him was, ultimately, a result of my history with Halliday; a message for me. Gabe, my father; is there nobody in my life who is safe?
8
THE THIRD NAME on William Gove’s list lives at an address I have to pass on my way to his son’s country club. It is on an estate outside town which was hurriedly constructed after the war from slabs of pre-cast concrete, built without care or concern for the people who would live in it. Over the decades the occupants have repaid that contempt by turning it into a suburban ghetto where feral children spend their days throwing stones at broken windows. If anybody questions the effect environment has on people’s lives, they only need to visit the Drake estate and draw their own conclusions.
The doorbell is broken and when I knock on the door I hear a dog snarl and bark behind it and a man’s voice swearing. He opens the door with one hand, the other on the collar of a dog with a head the size of mine, a mouth I could get both fists into. I hope the man has a good grip.
‘Yeah?’
‘Mr Millar?’
‘No.’
‘I’m looking for a Mr Millar.’
‘Ain’t gonna find him here.’ He gives the dog’s collar a shake. ‘Fucking give it a rest.’
‘He doesn’t live here?’
The man takes a breath. ‘You fucking want to come in and look?’
There is a smell from the man’s house, ripe and fruity and bad. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Ever heard of him?’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Millar. Mr Thomas Millar.’
‘Might have been the geezer lived here before me. He died. Hold on.’
He pushes the door to and I hear the sound of a slap, the dog’s whimper. He opens the door again.
‘Anything else?’
‘He have any family?’
‘Fuck would I know? He was dead. House was empty. Ain’t fucking psychic.’
I thank him. He does not answer, closes his door, and I see his white vest retreat through the frosted glass. Next door’s garden is in a better state than his, the lawn mown and red flowers planted in the borders. I ring the doorbell, which works, and wait. I am about to give up when I hear noise, the slow sounds of laboured movement. I hear a voice through the door.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m looking for Mr Millar. Lived next door?’
I hear the sounds of bolts sliding back, a chain. The door opens a couple of inches. An old woman looks at me, chin jerking back as if trying to catch the scent of something dangerous and unpleasant.
‘He’s dead,’ she says.
‘Right.’
‘Cancer. Or something.’
‘Did he have any family? Children?’
‘Had a daughter.’ She says daughter the same way other people say paedophile.
‘She have a name?’
‘CJ,’ she says. ‘That’s what he called her. Could hear it, through the walls. CJ this, CJ that. Fucking CJ.’
‘Know where I can find her?’
‘Find her? Why’d you want to do that?’
‘It’s important.’
The woman pauses, thinks. Her eyes dart about her garden and I am reminded of a little bird after a worm. ‘Dunno. Tried the police? Or prison?’
On the way to Luke Gove’s country club, I put a call through to a social worker I know named Ms Armstrong; she has never told me her first name and I have never asked. But she is a woman I trust and who I suspect knows of every troubled teenager in a ten-mile radius. She tells me that she has heard of CJ Millar but that she does not know where she is right now, asks me why I want to know. When I tell her, she chuckles richly and I picture her, a large white woman who always wears a scarf wrapped about her hair, African style.
‘CJ Millar, with that much money. God help us.’
‘Know where she is?’
‘No. But I can find out.’
‘If you could.’
‘But Daniel?’
‘Yes?
‘If she does get that money? Promise me one thing.’ She pauses. ‘You promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘Promise me you’ll keep an eye out for that poor child.’
I give Ms Armstrong my word and hang up, take a left on to the drive leading to Luke Gove’s country club, between manicured lawns which I imagine Regency women strolling across, their coaches waiting. The mansion at the end of the drive is a world away from the Drake estate, and as ever when I find myself in these rarefied surroundings I feel a small jolt of resentment, a stiffening of hostility. Why, I wonder, am I here?
We take lunch in a long glass-walled room alongside the main dining room giving views over the grounds. I order seafood linguine and Luke Gove tells me about the club, its history. He tells me that there is an unwritten policy of not allowing Russians to join, anybody from the former Eastern bloc, doesn’t matter how much they offer as a bribe. He lowers his voice, says the same goes for blacks but who gives a shit, they don’t play tennis anyway. I make perfunctory responses and watch the other diners, who are all older than us and all wear the same tan as Luke Gove. They smile easily and laugh frequently but never too loudly. I feel claustrophobic, and as I eat I am visited by fantasies of approaching them, drinking from their wine glasses, overturning their soup; upsetting their comfortable realities.
Luke Gove is now telling me that at one point they did not even allow women to be members, but that they do now and that this is something he approves of. Only last week he was given oral sex by a nineteen-year-old in the sauna, a girl whose father he plays tennis with. He tells me that knowing her father only made the event sweeter. I do not want to listen to this.
‘You a gambling man, Daniel?’
I had tuned Luke Gove’s childish boasts out and it takes me a moment to process his words, respond. ‘Sorry?’
‘Gamble. Not supposed to do it, but everybody does round here. Wondered if you wanted a bet. On our match.’
‘What kind of bet?’
Luke Gove pushes his plate to one side, puts his elbows on the table. He smiles. ‘How about, you win, I give you twenty grand. I win, you testify that my father was out of his mind, give us our money.’
Our money. Please. ‘Couldn’t do that,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’
‘Come on. Twenty thousand. Fuck it, thirty.’
The casual way he ups the amount only makes me less inclined to consider it; to him it is nothing, loose change, yet he knows that for somebody like me it is serious money. My pride is hurt, outraged, although I take care not to show it.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Not a chance.’
Luke Gove’s smile does not falter and he nods. ‘Worth a try. Keep it in mind.’ He turns his water glass with his fingers, thinks. ‘Tell you what, let’s have a bet anyway. On our game. Five grand?’
He looks at me and the smile has left his eyes. I feel a dose of adrenalin wash through my heart, down to my fingers. Th
is just got nasty. I would love to take the bet, blow him off the court, wipe the smile off his face. But I do not have five thousand pounds to lose and besides, I have never played him before. I do not know his game. Before I can respond, he says:
‘All right. Four. Three. Whatever. You can manage a tenner, right?’
But of course he is pulling the right strings; he is questioning my wealth, my game, my nerve. He has nothing to lose, but my pride is at stake and I will not let this man take it, not without a fight.
‘Five thousand’s fine,’ I say and as I say it I wish I had not, wish I could take it back. Luke Gove looks surprised.
‘Five it is,’ he says. ‘Three sets?’
I nod and we shake hands and get up, head for the changing rooms. As I walk through the grand vaulted dining room the other diners turn to look at me and I imagine they are already mocking me for my working-class presumption, for imagining that I can take on a man like Luke Gove, here, on his turf.
It is bright outside but not too hot and there is no wind: perfect conditions. The court is hard, acrylic and beautifully kept, the net taut. I would expect nothing else.
We warm up and I can see that he has good technique but also that he does not hit the ball hard, lacks perfect timing. He is fit and fast around the court but he plays robotically, a man who has been expensively coached despite not having natural ability. Even his serve seems mechanical, short of fluidity, all the right movements without the whip and snap a good player has.
He wins the toss and tells me he will serve, and we shake hands again and take our positions. Although I believe that I am the better player, I am apprehensive. I do not have five thousand pounds and do not know where I could find it. My car wouldn’t get me a thousand. I’d better make sure my ground strokes are consistent.
Luke Gove’s first serve is a dolly, slow and looping and I climb into it, crush the return down the line so fast that the ball sticks in the netting behind the baseline. Luke Gove picks it out and turns to me, nods and says with a grace I did not believe him capable of, ‘Shot.’
But his next serve is vicious, cruel even; he fires it down the T line, puts so much slice on it that it swings into the deuce court. It is past me before I move and I must look ridiculous, in the ready position, prepared to pounce on a ball I do not even see. Luke Gove smiles at me and winks and I know that he is a far better player than I thought. He has been playing me, hustling me, and he means to humiliate me.
I get a racket on his third serve, chip it back into play but he is at the net and puts it away with casual contempt. The next point I manage a rally but I hit a ball short on his forehand and he steps into it, drills it down the line, and again I am only a spectator: 40–15. He is fast and elegant and good. Very, very good.
Game point is over quickly. He hits a serve with so much slice it bends out of court and I chase it, manage to get it back. But I am nowhere; he hits a winner into an empty court. I might as well not be here at all, for all the effect I am having on the match. I cannot remember having been outplayed so comprehensively.
At the changeover Luke Gove does not speak to me, takes a drink and walks past me. He wants to get on with it, is enjoying himself. I take my time, change my racket even though both are the same, have a drink, another. Keep him waiting. Like it will help.
In tennis, against a half-decent opponent, the one thing which is essential is winning your service game. Lose your serve, lose the match. The tennis ball in my broken hand feels alien and heavy and too big, although perhaps this has more to do with my shattered confidence. Whatever, my first point is a double fault, the first serve going long, the second hitting the tape at the top of the net and bouncing back on my side. I play it safe on the next point, hit a dolly of a serve, and Gove’s return is past me before I have time to recover. Get a second serve in at love–30, but lose the rally. Love–40. My first serve on break point is a fault. I take my time with the second, bounce the ball, visualise where I want to place it. But my throw is all wrong and the ball hits the net halfway up. Game over.
Luke Gove takes the first set 6–1. The only game I win is my final service game and only, I suspect, because Gove is saving his energy for the second set. I have served six double faults, something I have not done since I was eight or nine. My broken hand hurts and this was a mistake. I would rather be anywhere than on court.
It is a warm day and I have almost finished my water. I tell Luke Gove I am going to get some more but he says not to worry, takes his mobile from his tennis bag. He is barely sweating, looks like he has just stepped on court.
‘Hello? Yeah, Luke Gove here. On court four. Can we have some water sent down, couple of bottles?’ He turns to me, winks again. ‘Could you have Sophie bring it? Thanks.’
He hangs up. ‘You good?’
I nod. ‘Fine.’
‘Want to just give me the money now?’ He laughs.
‘No.’
‘Okay. Let’s get to it.’
I lose the first two games but I have been playing tennis for more than thirty years and have learned something about the game over that time. I take the pace off my serve for the third game, concentrate on placing it, try to out-think Gove rather than outplay him. Go for corners, put kick on the serve, make things awkward. Luke Gove hits classical groundstrokes and he does not like ugly play, having to take balls at shoulder height, bend to deal with slices. I do not win the game but I take it to deuce and for the first time I see a way back in. Though the reality is that I am down 0–3 in the second set with only one left to play.
A young girl has been waiting for us to finish the game, standing at the wire door to the courts. She has blonde hair and is wearing the white shorts and polo shirt uniform of the club. Her top is tight on her, the fabric stretched. She hesitates but Luke Gove has seen her and he waves her on to court. She is carrying a silver tray on which are two bottles of mineral water and two ice-filled glasses. As she walks over he nudges me, winks.
‘Ah, Sophie. Here.’ He stands in front of her. She stops. Luke Gove takes a bottle of mineral water from the tray and opens it, untwists the cap. She is holding the tray in front of her. Gove pours water into the glasses but he pours clumsily and spills water down the front of Sophie’s top. I expect him to snatch the bottle away but he does not, lets it continue to spill for an inexcusable amount of time. Sophie is holding the tray, balancing the glasses and bottles, and cannot move. Her top is soaked and already I can see the lace of her bra through the wet fabric. Her face is flushed with blood and I avert my gaze. She cannot yet be eighteen.
‘Sorry,’ Luke Gove says in a voice which carries no apology, only a mocking disdain. ‘Clumsy. You can put the tray down there.’
She bends to put the tray on the ground and she is trembling so much that the ice cubes tinkle in their glasses, the glasses rocking on the metal of the tray. She takes the bottles and glasses off the tray, places them next to it on the ground. She picks the tray up and hugs it to her chest. There are tears in her eyes.
‘I apologise for what this man did,’ I say. ‘Some people have difficulty growing up.’
She nods with her lips tightly pressed together and turns and walks quickly off the court. Luke Gove watches her through the court door, then turns to me.
‘Never apologise for me. Who do you think you are?’
I am so angry that I barely hear him over the hum of blood in my ears. I feel as if I am floating and my vision has narrowed.
‘Want to raise the stakes?’ I say. ‘Ten thousand.’
‘Please,’ says Gove. ‘You’re not even in the game.’
I do not just want to beat him, I want to obliterate him, grind him to nothing.
‘You want it?’
Gove shrugs. ‘Ten thousand. Fine. You actually got that much?’
I do not answer, just stare him down, and eventually Luke Gove laughs and picks up his racket, shakes his head and jogs back on to court, as light on his toes as a champion welterweight. I am 1–6, 0–3 d
own against a better, fitter, younger player. Fuck it. He should never have done that to Sophie.
9
MY IMMEDIATE PROBLEM is breaking Luke Gove’s serve, something I have not come close to doing so far. But I feel as rangy and strong as a primate, my arms buzzing with adrenalin, my legs thick and full of blood and power. So far in this game I have been on the back foot, fending off his serves, which are fast and accurate. Now I take a step forward, stand on the baseline, up on the balls of my feet. If I am going to lose I am going to do it fighting.
His first serve is into my body but I make room and meet the ball well in front of me. The timing is perfect and all my weight is behind it; the ball is back on to Luke Gove almost before he has finished his follow-through. He blocks it back but I have come into the net behind my shot and I hit a crisp backhand volley deep at his feet which he cannot dig out. I stand for longer than is necessary at the net, make like I own it, before walking slowly back to the baseline. Most sports are won or lost in the mind. I want Luke Gove to fear me.
He hits an ace on the next point but I do not worry, know that it is going to happen occasionally. At fifteen all I bully a backhand deep and again come in behind it, again put away a volley at the net.
‘Need to do better than that,’ I tell him. It is an absurd thing to say at this stage of a match, in the position I am in. I smile unpleasantly as I say it and although Luke Gove laughs and shakes his head again, I know that it has registered. He will now doubt his serve, if only fractionally. And matches are won by fractions.
He wins the following point and I take the next after a long rally, lacing a backhand up the line which he can only watch as it passes. I have my first break point of the match.
Luke Gove serves down the T line but I anticipate it and hit a crosscourt forehand into the corner of the court. I could not have placed it better if I had walked over and put the ball down with my hand.
‘Long,’ says Gove.
