Just Not Cricket

by Joyce Cato

  ‘Oh, that! He’s just bluffing,’ Tris said confidently, polishing off the last of his scone and wiping his sticky fingers carelessly across his cricket whites to brush off the crumbs. ‘He won’t dare let it get to court – he’ll be too scared that the rest of his family will get to hear about it, and start laughing up their sleeves at him for losing so much dough.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have lost it to begin with,’ Robert Jones snapped. ‘It’s part of our job to protect our clients from doing something really foolish. You know better than most how many of them can be their own worst enemies sometimes. You should have steered him well clear. And if you couldn’t, you should have handed him over to Lorcan. As you yourself pointed out, he’s good at talking sense into people.’

  Tris’s lips twisted into a grimace. ‘Lorcan can’t handle the really big accounts,’ he said. ‘I can handle the likes of Piers – just leave it all to me. Don’t you worry about it. I’ll have a word with him on Monday. It’ll all blow over.’

  Robert looked as if he was about to blast off again, so Tris very cannily straightened up and abruptly inclined his head, indicating that he should look behind him. ‘Best not to get into it here, OK, Pops? We’re beginning to attract the attention of the locals and the last thing we want to do is start a rumour that the firm is having difficulties. Isn’t that right?’

  In point of fact, a few people were indeed beginning to look at them thoughtfully, no doubt sensing the tension between them, or reading their body language. And as his son had known that he would, Robert Jones instantly bit back the angry words that he’d been about to say, and turned away.

  He did, however, content himself with a low growl and a final passing shot as he left. ‘If you think you can continue to drag our good name through the mud and not pay for it, you’re a fool, boy.’

  Tris sighed, determined to have the last word. ‘Oh, don’t be such a drama queen! Nobody’s dragging our good name through the mud. Everyone knows that trading in stocks and shares is just another form of gambling. Nobody in their right mind expects to win big all the time.’

  ‘That may be,’ his father said softly. Then, catching sight of James Cluley as he went by to confer with the umpire, he shook his head sadly. ‘But when you lose people’s entire life savings … Tris, you just can’t keep on doing these sorts of things and expect to get away with it. You’re playing with fire,’ he warned his son helplessly.

  But Tris merely shook his head. ‘You worry too much.’

  ‘And you don’t worry enough,’ his father shot back, and finally stomped off.

  But as he walked away, Robert Jones knew that he was going to have to do something about his son. Something both definitive and decisive – otherwise his own position as head of the firm could be in jeopardy. He wouldn’t put it past some of his so-called colleagues to try and vote him off the board. And with the firm’s solicitors beginning to howl for his blood as well … It wasn’t as if the firm was so big that it could afford to get a questionable reputation. As the commercial markets all knew, there was a big difference between having the nerve and being willing to take chances to make big profits, and being lackadaisical with other people’s money.

  The trouble was, he knew his son too well. Tris thought that he was invincible and untouchable. And he simply wouldn’t be told – mostly because he’d had some truly spectacular successes to date. But these were beginning to be outweighed by his losses. And still he just wouldn’t be told.

  And if he, the head of the firm, didn’t do something drastic soon, then they could be in real trouble.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lorcan Greeves glanced around, checking quickly to see if anyone had noticed his re-emergence back into the grounds. Satisfied that no one had, and that his meeting with his little friend had gone unnoticed, he made his way back to the pavilion, and found a shady spot on the grass in which to sit down.

  His heart was thumping uncomfortably, and he felt a bit nauseous.

  Out on the green, he’d noticed that Max was still going strong, and from the scoreboard, that he’d made thirty-five runs already. Not bad. Not that he was interested in the outcome of the match particularly – he’d only joined the team in order to keep in with the ‘right’ people. He gave an inner snort. Whatever that meant!

  He kept glancing surreptitiously to his right until he saw the figure of Mark Rawley slip along the outskirts of the field and head back into the village. He breathed a slight sigh of relief, and hoped that the lad would have enough sense to keep his mouth firmly shut.

  But all in all, he was fairly confident that things should now work out as he’d envisaged. He’d never lacked for brains, after all. He was confident that the plan was a good one, and that so long as they both played their part, they would be safe enough.

  And, in truth, Lorcan was convinced that the lad would see things through to the end. He was so full of youthful wrath and literally seething with a sense of injustice, that wild horses probably wouldn’t be able to make him talk, even if things somehow went wrong.

  Not that there was any reason why they should.

  Lorcan’s rather chubby face creased into a grim smile. Contrary to how the saying went, revenge was a dish that could be served either hot or cold. And whereas Mark might be boiling with rage, Lorcan had never felt calmer, or more cold-blooded, in all his life.

  And overlying it all, he was aware now of an overwhelming sense of relief. All the frustration that had been weighing him down since his lover’s betrayal, and that awful sense of futile helplessness whenever he thought of Tris, was finally gone.

  He leaned his back against the warm, wooden wall of the pavilion and waited for his turn to be called on to bat.

  Life was suddenly good again.

  But Lorcan might not have felt quite so sanguine about things had he bothered to turn his head towards the top of the field, where a lone female figure stood within the stand of horse chestnut trees, watching him with a writhing mixture of fury, resentment and dread.

  Her talk with Robert Jones had hardly been satisfactory, and the Lord of the Manor’s assurances that he would ‘talk to Tris’ had hardly filled her with confidence that anything would change, so she was already feeling tense and out of sorts.

  So when Mark had tried to slip out of the house yet again without her noticing, he had been spectacularly unsuccessful, and she’d simply followed him back to the cricket field once more. But this time, he’d had no intention of seeing his grandfather, or helping himself to some fancy caterer’s tea.

  And her suspicions were doubly aroused when he’d taken the trouble to cross the farmer’s field and then walk along the riverbank skirting the grounds, in an effort not to be noticed. He’d slipped in through the secret gap in the hedge and chain-link fence, not far from the stand of horse chestnut trees. All the locals knew about this shortcut of course, since fishermen had created it years ago to give them quicker access to the river from the village, without having to walk all the way around.

  And why had he bothered to go to all that trouble not to be seen, if he wasn’t up to something?

  But then she’d lost sight of him. So she’d simply taken up a position at the top of the playing field, hiding patiently in the cow-parsley smothered undergrowth beneath the majestic, flowering horse chestnut trees, and waited. And sure enough, after a while, she’d seen her son emerge from behind the mass of parked cars at the bottom of the field, where he’d obviously arranged to meet someone.

  And it hadn’t taken more than a few minutes before a man dressed in cricket whites had also emerged from the car park. And Marie had instantly recognized the squat, sandy-haired figure as that of Lorcan Greeves.

  Which, she supposed a shade bitterly, made sense. Along with her family, Lorcan Greeves probably had as much reason to hate Tris as anyone.

  Marie didn’t have any trouble imagining just how much the resentment and hatred must have fermented in Lorcan’s heart when he found out about Tris sleeping with his fi
ancée. And part of her didn’t blame him.

  But when Lorcan dragged her son into his schemes, it became a different matter entirely. Lorcan should have been man enough to go it alone – whatever it was that he was up to. So why hadn’t he? He had plenty of resources, and the wisdom of nearly fifty years behind him, which should be more than enough for him to manage his own vendettas. So why would a middle-aged stockbroker, who was presumably big enough and mean enough to get his own back all by himself, actually need the help of a teenage boy?

  Marie Rawley could only think of one reason. And that reason spelled trouble with a capital T.

  Lorcan needed Mark to do something specific. Something that Mark excelled at. Something that Lorcan wasn’t able to do for or by himself. And given what she knew about her son’s proclivities, she didn’t need to be a genius to know just what it was that he’d been asking Mark to do.

  And Marie knew that it would mean prosecution for her son this time, if anyone found out about it. Mark had been lucky enough to get away with a warning the last time, but if he got caught again, especially doing something for Lorcan Greeves, then it would mean him gaining a criminal record.

  And what sort of future would there be for Mark then? Forget about the mere disappointment of not being able to go to university after all – or being crippled with debt if he did go, after having had to take out a student loan. If Mark spent time inside, then not having a degree would be the least of his troubles.

  She’d seen the television programmes about young offender’s institutions, and read the newspapers about what went on in that world – so she knew all too well what could happen. Young boys killed themselves in prison all the time. Or got hooked on drugs and got dragged down into a worsening spiral of addiction and crime. And she knew that Mark, for all his fierce anger and bravado, wasn’t the kind of lad who’d be able to survive in a place like that. That sort of experience would crush his spirit like someone stepping on a Rice Krispie.

  So she had to nip this alliance of theirs in the bud. And since she knew that Mark wouldn’t listen to her, she needed to have a word or two with Mr Lorcan Greeves. He would listen to her all right – she’d damned well make him.

  She felt her hands curl into fists. If he thought that he could use Mark for his own ends whilst keeping his own hands clean… Well, he’d soon learn differently. He’d very quickly find out that whilst Mark might be a vulnerable, silly teenager, and thus easily manipulated, he had his mother fighting his corner. And she would not be such a pushover. Nor would she stand for her son being used in such a way.

  So he’d better change his plans and leave her son out of it.

  Or Marie would make him.

  Inside the pavilion, Erica returned to her deck chair, fastidiously brushing down her colourful green trousers of any lingering dust before resuming her seat. Jenny and the others now had the tables cleared, and were busy folding the legs back up, and stacking them, flat-pack, against the walls.

  On the pitch, Max Wilson watched the ball being bowled his way, and calculated his next move. He was instantly adjudged LBW by the white-coated umpire, and began the long walk of shame back towards the pavilion. Yet he didn’t look particularly put out by his misfortune. Instead his eyes were fixed on the figure of his wife, lounging in her deck chair, amidst a line of the other cricketers’ wives.

  He began to smile slightly.

  No doubt about it, the little chat that he’d had with her just before he’d gone out to start batting had left her badly rattled and severely shaken – just as he’d hoped it would.

  She hadn’t taken being served with the divorce papers very well, either.

  No doubt she’d hoped, while his attention had been on batting, to relay the bad news to Tris. And he could just imagine how he’d have taken it.

  If Michelle had thought that she could cry on her lover’s shoulder, she must have been very quickly and rudely disabused of that notion. If all the sniping that had been going on between Tris and his father in recent weeks was anything to go by, they hadn’t been getting on very well lately, and the last thing lover-boy would want, would be to get even further into his father’s bad books. Sir Robert was still very much head of the home and head of the firm, and Tris a mere junior partner, way down on the totem pole.

  So being cited in an acrimonious divorce might well prove to be the final straw that broke the camel’s back. Who knows, Sir Robert might even wash his hands once and for all of the little shit.

  So, all in all, Max was very much looking forward to the next half an hour or so.

  As he passed some of the men on his team lounging on the grass just outside the pavilion, he nodded at them.

  ‘Tris is up next. Where is he?’ he asked casually.

  For a few moments, everyone looked around, seeking out the distinctive curly-headed figure of their best batsman.

  But Tris Jones was nowhere to be seen.

  Mark Rawley all but ran down the garden path to his semi-detached house, his heart pounding with elation and, if he were to be honest with himself, with a little dread as well. It was hard for him to concentrate on any one thing, since his mind was fizzing with thoughts and sensations. He felt like a giant, like someone who’d done something truly momentous. For the first time in his young life, he felt as if he was about to achieve something that he’d never forget. And that others would never forget, either.

  Now, just like Lorcan had warned him, all he had to do was be careful, and keep his mouth shut.

  He pushed open the front door, and headed across the tiny hall towards the bottom of the staircase.

  His father called out to him in passing from the open kitchen door, asking him if he was hungry, but the boy didn’t appear to hear him. His face was pale and set, and his eyes a little wild, and catching sight of himself in the hall mirror, he realized it wouldn’t be a good idea to face his dad just yet.

  Instead, he put one hand firmly on the newel post and vaulted noisily up the stairs. He had things to do, and he couldn’t wait to get started.

  His father sighed, hoping that he wasn’t going to spend the rest of the afternoon on that computer of his. Unlike his wife, Christopher Rawley had never expected his son to honour the promise forced out of him by his old school and the local coppers that he kept away from a computer until he was eighteen. It stood to reason that was never going to fly.

  He knew that Mark was considered to be very good, even a bit of a genius, in the world of IT. Kids nowadays seemed to pick up all that stuff easily, although he himself was still something of a Luddite when it came to modern technology.

  But from an early age, Mark had been a bit of a whizz kid at it, and in truth, Chris had always felt proud of him. But lads were lads, and of course, he hadn’t been all that surprised when Mark had got into that bit of trouble with the school. Annoyed by what he saw as ‘teacher tyranny’, he’d hacked into the school’s computer system and given all the ‘swots, teachers pets’ and ‘that toffee-nosed, braniac crowd’ a grade C. And all his mates, and those who notoriously struggled with academia, A pluses.

  It had driven some of the parents into such fits of hysterics that it had secretly made Chris want to laugh out loud.

  Of course, everyone else took a different, and much dimmer view of Mark Rawley’s ‘creative’ project. Although the headmaster had been very understanding, and in the end everyone had agreed that Mark had only done it in a sense of fun, rather than out of malice, it had nevertheless been made perfectly clear to the Rawleys that what Mark had done was a criminal offence. If the school had so wished, it could have involved the police to a far greater extent than merely issuing him with a formal warning.

  Naturally Chris had really read the lad the riot act. And now, just to show that his son hadn’t managed to pull the wool over his eyes, he craned his head back to peer up the stairs.

  ‘And don’t you be turning that machine on, Mark,’ he yelled threateningly up at the landing, his voice hectoring. ‘Remember the rul
es! You’re not even supposed to have a computer. I might be willing to turn a blind eye, but don’t push your luck, son!’

  There was a short, surprised silence, and Chris Rawley had to grin. No doubt the youngster had thought he’d been so clever. He remembered that, when he’d been Mark’s age, he’d been totally convinced that both his parents had been blind, as well as stupid.

  ‘OK, Dad, I won’t,’ Mark reluctantly answered.

  But, in point of fact, Mark hadn’t gone straight to his bedroom to turn on his laptop, as his father had surmised, but had headed for the bathroom instead.

  In there, his hands now shook as they turned on the tap and he began to wash his hands. Only when he’d finished doing that did he force himself to meet his grim reflection in the mirror. And was again overtaken by a sudden wave of nausea that made him swallow hard.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so feeble,’ he told his image in disgust. ‘And grow a backbone, why don’t you?’

  Because Lorcan Greeves was right. There could be no regrets. And absolutely no weakening now.

  Back at the cricket match, Robert Jones frowned at Max Wilson. ‘What do you mean, he’s not here?’ Robert demanded. ‘He’s batting next. He knows the order of play, doesn’t he?’ he added testily. Although, even as he spoke, he had to admit that it wouldn’t have been beyond Tris simply to have taken himself off to the local pub for a quick one. He’d simply say that he’d got tired of waiting and would saunter back in his own sweet time, wondering what all the fuss had been about. The boy had no sense of responsibility at all.

  ‘He should do, I went over it with him just before the coin toss,’ Max responded to his questions flatly. But his eyes roamed once again towards his wife, who was pretending not to notice him. Instead, she was talking desultorily to the woman on her left, who herself looked half-asleep.

  ‘I’ll check to see if he’s in the loo,’ one of the other players volunteered, and trotted off, but was soon back. ‘No sign of him in there,’ he reported. The umpire was beginning to look impatient, and one of the others players said that he’d be willing to bat next, if that would help.