The Last Card (23 page)

A
de looked at his co-conspirators Wha Gwan and Dunstan with a thinly veiled scorn. The three of them were sitting round the table in Wha Gwan’s ratty kitchen.

‘You know what? I think I know the brer.’ Wha Gwan.

‘Yeah?’

‘Where’d you meet him?’ Dunstan.

‘Frenna mine.’

‘Who?’ Ade could tell Dunstan didn’t like Wha Gwan knowing more than him. Insecure.

‘Bwoy, you nose long, eh!’

‘How’d you know it’s the same brer?’

‘You said a boxer, right?’

‘Yeah …’

‘So I met the brer! Six footish, solid, baby dreds.’

‘Das alotta brers, you know’t I mean.’ Wha Gwan cocked his head to one side and squinted at Dunstan.

‘Wha Gwan, D? What’s your problem?’

‘No problem. Just making sure if we’re gonna do this we all know what we’re getting into.’

‘This’ … was the business of murder.

‘You know if we take out a white man there’s gonna be hell to pay. Standard.’

‘Why? He’s a gangster. Just don’t touch the civilians.’ Ade.

‘Listen, star, a white gangster ain’t the same as a black gangster, you understand? Five-Oh is not gonna like dat.’

‘Dunstan’s right.’ Wha Gwan. ‘We’ve all heard the term ‘black-
on-black
’
violence but I ain’t heard the term ‘white-on-white’ violence. If we take this guy out there will be repercussions.’

‘You know what? You all chatting Kentucky Fried Chicken shit!’ Ade glowered at Dunstan and Wha Gwan. ‘Alan and Paul are fuckers that need to step! Quicktime! I’m talking ‘black-on-white violence, you get me! Fuck the police! If we’re really worried about them we
shouldn
’t be in this fuckin’ business!’

‘Das de bottom line, G,’ said Wha Gwan slowly nodding his head.

‘Damn, skippy! I’m the one taking all the risks anyway. Now if we’re serious about grabbing a piece of what’s ours …’ Ade was now looking directly at Dunstan ‘we need to step up. Take charge. Let’s be some crazy-arsed-niggers!’

‘How much did you say would be there?’ Dunstan. Ade kissed his teeth with irritation.

‘Forget de money, Duns! We dus’ off de Akers brothers, dere’ll be plenty of money. Dis is strictly in and out. Blaps!’

The three lapsed into silence as they thought through the
implications
of what they were discussing.

‘And big blondie, what about him?’ enquired Wha Gwan, a sudden casualness entering his tone.

‘He’s on the down-low. But you’re job is to keep an eye on him. Make sure he’s cool.’

Again Wha Gwan slowly nodded his head. Only this time a hint of a smile crossed his lips.

‘If you’re gonna dus’ Alan, why not take the money anyway?’ Dunstan.

‘Raartid! Because it’s in his safe! He’s not just gonna give me de combination!’

‘Beat it out of him!’

Both Ade and Wha Gwan stared at Dunstan.

‘Dunstan,’ said Wha Gwan ‘I think what Ade is trying to say is dat time is of de essence: he needs to get in and out; hit it and quit it. He won’t have time to torture Alan for the combination to de safe.’

Dunstan looked both disappointed and confused.

‘Wassa matta, D, wassup?’

Silence. Ade and Wha Gwan continued to stare at Dunstan.

‘I don’t know, man. It jus’ don’t feel right. Aker’s has connections … and … it, it feels like dere’s too many loose ends.’

From where Ade was sitting it seemed to him that what Dunstan really meant was that there was a power shift happening in his
relationship
with Ade and he didn’t like it.

‘Like who?’

‘Like what?’

‘H for one …’

‘Dey’ve got his son! What do you think he’s gonna do?’

‘And Gavin …’

‘Fuck Gavin. Don’t worry about Gavin.’ Wha Gwan.

‘He wants de dead man’s shoes, he’s safe.’

‘So why do we need Wha Gwan?’

‘No harm in insurance.’ Ade could see that he’d said this a little too casually for Dunstan’s liking. Dunstan was probably feeling that he was somehow, in some way being played. And in a way he was. Now was the time for Dunstan to either step up … or step away.

‘So. Okay y’all?’ Ade looked round the table.

‘Okay.’

‘Okay.’

‘So let’s do it.’

H
sat in his dressing room. He wore long, shiny, black shorts. Across the waistband capital letters, in white, read ‘HILARY’. He had on black boxing boots. No socks. H knew what he was
probably
going to have to do and for that he wanted to wear all black. Like Tyson. He was still, but already the adrenaline was coursing through his body.

The dressing room was basic but it was beginning to feel crowded: a long, padded table, a metal locker, two wooden chairs, a stool, a full-length mirror. Matt and Nick were also in the room. H had his clothes hanging in the locker and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at it. His last hope before he went in to face Mancini was a telephone call from Nina telling him that Cyrus was safe. That was it. That was all he needed to know.

He held his hands out in front of him, following the ritual that he had been through a thousand times before but would never go through again. Matt carefully tore off strips of white, sticky tape and hung them from the edge of the table. One at a time, Nick carefully, lovingly, wrapped each strip of tape around H’s outstretched hands. Nick was turning each fist into a hammer. These quiet moments were the moments that H would miss most. The bond between fighter and trainer. Hilary, Matt and Nick had all completed the preparation but only Hilary was going into the ring. Only Hilary was risking injury to bring triumph and glory to the hundreds of hours of work they had put in together; only Hilary was putting his neck and reputation on the line.

H was acutely aware that this fight was different from any of his
previous fights. Even if he didn’t throw the fight, he was going into it with little chance of victory. He knew it, Nick knew it, Matt knew it. But H also knew that in the fight game, the boxing ring is not known as ‘the killing floor’ for no reason. The ring is a dangerous place. Boxing is the only legitimate sport where the object of the exercise is to knock your opponent unconscious. Because of this, and because Nick and Matt both knew that H was approaching the end of the road, the dressing room was especially quiet, especially tense.

Mancini’s dressing room was next door. The boom-boom-
boom-boom
from his ghetto blaster could be heard, pounding out
something
insistent, something frantic. The bass-line’s boom began to seep into H’s mind. His thoughts drifted. He thought about the events of the last two months. He thought about Beverley and Nina. Both meant a lot to him. Both had let him down. Did he deserve it? He’d let Beverley down enough times. Gambling, stealing her money, being irresponsible. Had he let Nina down? He didn’t think so. Was she just a rebound relationship? Had he been using her? Had she been using him? Akers taking Cyrus must have been her fault. H gave a deep, nervous sigh. Beverley and Nina both meant a lot to him. H sighed again. He had work to do …

Yesterday, after he’d left Nina at the gym, H stepped back inside and secretly watched her leave. He’d wanted to go after her but he couldn’t. He wasn’t certain that he could trust her. If she hadn’t told Akers about Cyrus, who had? She must have told Gavin. She must have. And yet … and yet he was still attracted by her. He could feel the blood rushing to his groin.

Yesterday after she’d gone, H had taken a bus to the Kings Road to do some shopping. He stopped at a men’s fashion boutique, Woodhouse, and looked in the window at the tailor’s dummies. They looked good and he went in. He was focused now, he had a plan. He’d have to push thoughts of his son to the back of his mind.

Half-an-hour later H was back on the street carrying a brand new leather holdall, a travel holder for a suit and a bag containing a new pair of shoes. Before long he stopped outside another shop, a travel agent. Again he looked in the window. He ran his eye down a list of destinations. Some in Europe, some in North America, some in the Caribbean. His eye stopped over the list of destinations in the Caribbean. He went in.

Another half-an-hour later H left the travel agent, two airline tickets tucked in his pocket. He made his way home.

H struggled into his flat. He dumped his new things on to the floor of the living room and went over to the stool with his goldfish bowl on it. As he picked up the bowl, his eye snagged on the Caribbean
postcard
. He held the goldfish bowl up to the light, watching as his fish flashed back and forth in front of him.

He carried the bowl into his small bathroom and sat on the floor, legs on either side of the toilet bowl. He slowly tipped the fish into the toilet. He watched the fish swim round and round and then flushed, watching as it disappeared down the S-bend. One way or another tomorrow’s fight meant change. It was the end of the road. But the beginning of a new one.

H rose and went back to look at the postcard. The classic image of the Caribbean: sunset, a beautiful woman in silhouette. Written across the card were the words ‘Grab the opportunity – Montserrat is for you’.

Nick squeezed the last of the tape around H’s knuckles.

‘Good?’

‘Good.’ Nick rose on ageing knees from the stool. He put a hand on each of H’s trapezium muscles and gently massaged them.

‘How you feeling, son?’ Nick’s voice was almost tender and H half turned to look at his old trainer in surprise.

‘Jesus, Nick, you haven’t called me son in years.’

‘You haven’t fuckin’ deserved it you lazy fuckin’, back-sloidin’, bastard!’ Matt glanced over as Nick turned away to check the contents of his ‘seconds’ bag. ‘No, I take that back. You’ve worked bloody hard, I’ll say that for you, Hilary.’ Matt glanced over again, this time at H. The two smiled at each other.

Nick suddenly turned back and caught the two of them. ‘What are you two hyenas grinning at?’ Before either could answer H’s mobile phone trilled from inside the metal locker.

‘Pass it over, Matt!’ There was urgency in H’s voice.

‘Forget it!’ Nick growled. ‘We’ve got a job to do!’

‘Pass it over!’

‘Hilary!’ H jumped up from his chair, strode over to the locker, pulled it open and answered his telephone.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me.’ Nina.

‘Any news?’ There was a pause before the news that H least wanted to hear came over the line.

‘Sorry, Hila …’

He hung up. So this was the way it was going to be. This was how he was going to go out. He tossed the mobile back into the locker and slammed it shut. For a moment he rested his forehead on the locker, eyes closed.

‘Gloves!’ H suddenly felt as tight as a violin string. He barked the command, mean and low. Matt and Nick looked round at him.

‘Are you all right..?’ Matt was concerned.

‘Put the gloves on, willya!’ H jumped up on the long bench and held his taped hands out.

‘Calm down. We’re waiting for the referee.’

H had forgotten that. The referee had to come in and inspect the tape job that was done on his hands before the gloves could be put on. H turned and looked at himself in the mirror. He narrowed his eyes, slid off the bench, raised his hands and began to shadow box. Jab, jab, jab. He threw them fast, flicking out his left, snapping it back to his chin. He rose to his toes, dancing, moving, sliding back and forth before the mirror, threw a fierce combination, one-two-
three-four
, bang-bang-bang-bang! He rolled his shoulders, moved, ducked, weaving his head back and forth, loosening the kinks.

Nick and Matt stood to one side. They watched him work,
generating
heat, loosening up, dealing with the tension. He knew he looked good, lean, his body was cut. His eyes were clear, focused. He threw another combination – two quick jabs, a big right, a sweeping upper cut, bang! – up on his toes, dancing, dancing, H wasn’t using the mirror now, he was working the room turning, sliding, he ducked behind his guard, he looked good, he looked good.

H was in his head now, his eyes closed. This was what the last six weeks had been about: preparing, visualising. But Nina’s call was his last chance. He had to go down in the first round. The first round. And make it look convincing. Make it look convincing. That fucker, Akers! As H danced round the dressing room, eyes closed, tossing
hand grenades at Mancini – big ones, small ones, ones from
underneath
, ones from above – H knew it was over. He had just three minutes in the ring. His last chance to show what he’d taken from the last fifteen years of his life! The poor saps Nick and Matt had no idea what was going on.

H was now whirling round the dressing room, sweat starting to flow.

‘Hey, d’you want to slow dat down, now!’ The caution came from Nick. ‘You want to save some of dat for de ring.’ H ignored him and carried on. The sweat dripped from his nose. It could have been the last round of a twelve-round world title fight the way H attacked the air in front of him.

‘’Kin ’ell, Hilary, mate! I think you’ve done enough now! You’re warm, you’re warm!’ But H swept on.

‘You’re gonna leave it all in here if you don’t stop it!’ H opened his eyes, he moved to Nick, threw a right, ducked, shuffled out of range, his feet moving in a perpetual glide, stepped back in, tossed a jab, an inch from Nick’s face, weaved to the left, weaved to the right, bang! threw another left, bang! an upper cut stopped just under Nick’s chin, H danced away, spun round, turned his back, and that’s when Matt grabbed him in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his side.

‘What the fuck is wrong with you, Hilary!’ The dressing room door opened. Standing in the doorway was the referee, a magic marker in his hand.

‘Everything all right in here?’

With Nick and Matt on either side of him, H left the dressing room. They were met by a lone official, a grey-haired man in his fifties, who led them through a long, narrow corridor, lit by a line of harsh strip lights from the ceiling. H felt like a man going to the
electric
chair, to his execution. Dead man walking, dead man walking! Now H was hyperventilating. Both Nick and Matt had a hand on his shoulder, making physical contact with him. H knew they thought he was scared. And he was scared. But not of Mancini! That wasn’t it!

They turned a corner and headed towards the entrance to the main arena. They could hear the noise of the crowd now, a low, inhuman roar. Next to the entrance to the arena was a line of four glamorous women, in evening dress, practising their dance steps for the ‘before-the-main-bout’ dance routine. They laughed and joked as
they practised their routine. Fuck them! Fuck them and their dance routine!

H was petrified. Didn’t they know that?

He was still petrified as he listened to the low rumble of the packed twelve thousand-seater arena. They all seemed to be chanting Mancini’s name, again and again, over and over. The noise built to a huge wall of sound. And then Mancini entered from the opposite side of the arena. Mancini! Mancini! Mancini! H was petrified as he entered the arena, ignored by the crowd, and then stepped into the ring. He took off his black robe and bounced around, aggressively. What he wanted to do was go straight back to the dressing-room and curl up into a ball at the foot of the shower stall.

Matt and Nick left the ring and H and Mancini were brought together into the centre. H didn’t hear what the referee had to say. Formalities over, H and Mancini banged gloves. H made his way back to his corner for the start of round one. He suddenly felt his bowels loosening.

He turned in his corner and stood facing the ring, waiting for the fight to start. Nick was shouting something in one ear, he could feel Matt’s presence on his other side. All H could focus on was Mancini. Mancini had his back to H and was hanging on to the top rope while doing a series of deep knee bends. Up and down, up and down, up and down. H couldn’t hear what Nick was saying, he was completely focused on Mancini’s bends. He seemed to be doing them in slow motion.

H glanced down at the judges’ table. On it was a pile of ring cards, the figure ‘1’ on the top card. The last card. Next to it was the judges’ clock. Its second arm was on the ten. It seemed to crash as it hit the eleven. It stopped for an interminable length of time. It moved again, still in slow motion. It crashed as it hit the twelve. Ding! Round one.

H felt himself kissed on the cheek, first by Nick, then by Matt. He stepped forward into the ring, into silence.

Mancini moved towards him as though he was wading through mud as though he was underwater H seemed to be floating as he stepped towards him Mancini threw a jab H saw it coming from the moment Mancini’s brain sent the signal to his arm telling it to move forward H stepped to his right with so much time to spare he had
time to notice a glob of Vaseline sticking to Mancini’s eyebrow look at it with interest and then punch it with an over hand a stiff jolting right Mancini’s head was rocked back and H was aware of a look of surprise flashing across Mancini’s face Mancini stood his ground and came straight back at H H took to his toes and danced away from him he dropped his hands to his waist as he backed away moving moving using the ring Mancini followed him still moving as though he was underwater H backed to the ropes and waited for what seemed an eternity for Mancini to catch up with him when Mancini saw him backed up on the ropes he again threw a punch a big right hand this time and again H could see it coming from so early on the merest twitch of Mancini’s shoulder muscle seeming to telegraph the intent of the arm that H had time to smack him with a left spin out of his spot on the ropes and smack him again with a right to the side of his head still in slow motion Mancini turned towards him and H caught him with a peach of a combination a left-right-left H danced away Mancini glanced at his corner his trainer and his second H could see both of them screaming something at Mancini he turned back to H with the speed and grace of a tortoise H walked up to him looked into his eyes and saw confusion he saw Mancini loading up to throw another punch H shuffled out of range and slid round the ring Mancini lumbered slowly and painfully after him into H’s firing range and H jabbed one twice three times and all of them landed but Mancini still came forward with his back to the ropes H stood his ground and slowly bobbed and wove from the waist even with him moving slowly he still moved faster than the speed at which Mancini threw his punches H looked at the clock and just over a minute had passed he had to go down he had to go down he had no idea how he was going to do it Mancini threw another right hand H blocked it with his left then threw a one two combination a right-left the left was an
uppercut
that almost took Mancini’s head off and for the first time that H could remember he saw Mancini back up in a fight the two steps back that he took allowed H to move from his position on the ropes and take the centre of the ring Mancini was like a wounded drugged bear standing on its hind legs as it came after H H stayed in the centre circle of the ring and now jabbed Mancini at will fending him off digging him moving with him but maintaining his position in the centre of the ring Mancini’s face was now looking red puffy and he had a
particularly nasty swelling above his right eye H again looked over at the clock and saw that there were about 75 seconds to go before the end of the round he had to do something Cyrus’s life was hanging in the balance he saw Mancini making one of his languorous laboured lumbering charges once more and this time H slightly dropped his gloves slightly dropped his defence steeled himself and the moment before the blow hit his jaw he closed his eyes …