by James Meek
‘You’re a real lawyer, eh?’ said Dougie to McGilveray, picking up the pen.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Got a nice house, wife, kids?’
‘I do. And I work hard to take care of them.’
Dougie began skimming the contract again. The phrase ‘shall be forfeit’ stood out, though it was in the same type as the rest.
‘If you’re a real lawyer how come you’re working for this deep cunt?’ he said.
Smith leaned towards him. ‘You get nothing, and you always will get nothing, from playing the hard man in this town. You’re no even from here. You’re the son of a country doctor, for fuck’s sake. I’m doing you a favour. Eight thousand in cash and thirty K of debt wiped out for a tatty ex-local that’s not worth forty.’
‘It was worth seventy-five when I bought it.’
‘That place was never worth seventy-five. Here.’ Smith pulled out a ten-pound note, crumpled into a ball, and some loose change and dropped them on the table. ‘I’ll throw that in for your buyer’s remorse.’
McGilveray said: ‘If you make the payments according to the schedule, there’ll be no problem. You keep your property.’
‘And you get your thirty per cent,’ said Dougie.
‘Your brother’ll bail you out again,’ said Smith.
‘That’s not going to happen,’ said Dougie. He bent over the contract and scribbled his signature with furious speed.
‘And initial here,’ said the lawyer, flipping pages. ‘And here.’
‘There you go,’ said Smith, handing him the money. ‘Got a tip for Newmarket?’
Dougie folded the envelope in two and put it in his jeans pocket. He scooped up the ten-pound note and the change Smith had dropped on the table.
‘If I don’t pay you back, couldn’t you just break my legs?’ he said.
‘That’s never been my style,’ said Smith. ‘I don’t want to break your legs. That’s no good to me. I don’t want your nasty little flat. I’m just like the bank. All I want is for you to pay me a monthly sum for the rest of your life for the privilege of being allowed to exist.’
Dougie went home, put on a clean white dress shirt and his suit, took the bus to Glasgow Central and bought a one-way ticket to London. Just before the train crossed the border he began texting Bec. It’s love, he wrote, and I’m coming to get you. I know what we can do and Believe in us, babe. I haven’t stopped thinking about you and There’s places in Glasgow I’ve tried so hard to see your face it’s left marks and Trust me. I’ll make it all right. He told her where to meet him and to bring her passport. For four hours, he texted different versions of the same messages, and Bec didn’t answer.
He reached London just before nine p.m., bought a bunch of red roses and took a cab to a casino in Mayfair. He tipped the driver five pounds, checked his collar in a wing mirror and went inside. The girl at the counter asked if he was a member. She had long blonde hot-tonged hair and a tight silver sleeveless dress. The tips of her fingers were crossed on the counter as if hiding some tiny treasure.
Dougie took out a black plastic card. ‘I haven’t used it for a while,’ he said.
‘It’s fine. Can I put those roses in some water for you?’
‘Thanks, love,’ said Dougie, giving her the flowers. He fished out a fiver for her.
‘Tip me on the way out,’ said the girl.
‘What if I come back in just my pants?’
‘You look lucky,’ she said. ‘Double or quits.’
Dougie knew the way. He climbed the translucent steps, lit from within by lights that raced on and off from side to side, and swapped the remainder of Smith’s loan, £7,800, for chips. He took fifteen black 500 chips and three pink-and-green hundreds, dropped them in his jacket pockets and headed for the Punto Banco table.
Dougie took three of his black chips and staked them on Punto. He lost. He repeated the process and lost another £1,500. He reached into his pocket, fished out the remaining black chips and placed them in a single stack of nine on the blue baize in front of him. He lifted three chips off the pile and placed them in the Punto box. The dealer dealt the cards, an ace and a three for Punto, a five and a king for Banco. Punto’s third card was a nine.
‘Banco wins, five over three,’ said the dealer, scooping up Dougie’s three chips. ‘Place your bets, please.’
In three minutes Dougie had lost £4,500. The other players were looking at him; a middle-aged white guy in a cerise polo shirt with hyperthyroid eyes and a watch the size of a jam-jar lid and a Chinese couple wearing matching satin-effect bomber jackets with The Venetian, Macau embroidered on the back. This wasn’t a night for rollers. They’d been betting tens and twenties and the dealer kept his hands on the shoe.
Dougie closed his fingers round his remaining pile and moved all three thousand pounds’ worth into the Punto box. None of the others made a bet. They seemed frozen. The dealer pulled four cards from the shoe, a nine and a jack for Punto, a ten and a six for Banco.
‘Player wins with a natural nine,’ said the dealer, and pushed six thousand pounds’ worth of chips towards Dougie.
Dougie’s luck turned. He kept betting on Punto, sitting out games after a win. In half an hour he’d amassed fifty thousand pounds. He went to the restaurant, ordered a steak and a fifty-pound bottle of wine, and read through the contract he’d signed with Smith. He could liquidate the loan the next day and there was nothing Smith could do; he could start paying Alex back. He texted Bec. Come on babe. I’m winning. I need you now. It’s going to be OK. He finished his meal, drank a glass of wine, left the rest of the bottle and went back to the Punto Banco table.
There were more players, and some bystanders. All the seats were full, yet Dougie’s return was like a wind cleaving a channel through the reeds. The Chinese man offered him his seat. Dougie sat down, watched Banco win twice and put £10,000 on Punto. Punto won and Dougie got back double his stake. He now had sixty thousand pounds.
He waited for a run of Banco wins and after three in a row he bet £10,000 on Punto again. He lost. He staked another £10,000, and lost. Twice more he staked £10,000 on Punto and lost each time. In a few minutes he’d lost £40,000.
Phones weren’t allowed at the table. Dougie gave his a covert keek. No one had called or texted.
The dealer was a youngster in a black waistcoat and bow tie with a pale, bloated jaw that was misaligned a fraction with the rest of his head. He’d shown no emotion in the one and a half hours since Dougie first sat down. He looked at him now without interest or excitement, only a smooth, inexhaustible patience, as if the shoe and the eight decks of cards it contained had existed before the planets formed, and would exist long after the sun had gone cold.
‘Any more bets?’ he said.
Dougie looked across the room. He saw Alex. His brother was searching in the crowd by the blackjack tables. The players and onlookers around Dougie sensed something lurch in him, like a climber when his rope goes slack. His hands pressed the sides of his Manhattan of remaining chips, his £20,000.
‘I’d like to put twenty thou on this hand,’ said Dougie.
‘The floor limit is ten, sir,’ said the dealer. ‘I’d like to go to twenty.’
The dealer picked up a handset under the table. After a few murmured words he replaced the handset and nodded. Dougie pushed £20, 000 of chips into the Punto box.
‘No more bets,’ said the dealer. He pulled four cards from the shoe and placed them in the boxes. The edges lined up perfectly each time. Punto’s first card was an eight, Banco’s a six. Punto’s second was a Queen. The dealer didn’t slow down, yet those watching had long enough to understand, before they saw the fourth card, that the odds were in Dougie’s favour. A two would be égalité, but only a three would beat Punto, and what were the chances of Punto losing eight deals in a row?
The dealer laid Banco’s second card face-up on the baize, exquisitely aligned. Everyone counted that which could be counted with a single glance, one, two, three
; three red hearts in a column in the centre of the card, inexorable, and the numeral three in two corners.
‘Banco wins, nine over eight,’ said the dealer, and took Dougie’s £20,000 away.
Without hesitating, Dougie took out the two 100 chips from his jacket – he’d spent one on the meal – and placed them on Punto. The dealer dealt. The hand went to Banco, and Dougie lost the last of his money.
Alex found him as the dealer swept it away.
‘What did you just do?’ said Alex.
‘I just lost two hundred pounds on Punto Banco,’ said Dougie.
‘Two hundred pounds?’ Alex kneaded his forehead. ‘You just threw away two hundred pounds?’
‘I didn’t throw it away. He took it.’ He nodded at the dealer. ‘I’ve still got – hang on.’ His wallet was empty. He searched his pockets and found the ten-pound note Smith had given him, still crumpled in a ball.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘They should make a law says folk like me are only allowed one pocket, stop us hoping. I—’ Alex put his hand over his brother’s mouth and told him to come outside.
Dougie followed him. At the cashier Dougie slowed down, smoothing the tenner between his palms. ‘Might as well get a tenner’s worth, Alex, I could still come out ahead on the night,’ he said.
Alex took him by the lapel and dragged him to the stairs. As they passed the counter Dougie slapped the ten-pound note in front of the girl.
‘I said you’d be lucky,’ she said. ‘What about the roses?’
‘Keep them!’ shouted Dougie as he followed Alex outside.
Alex led Dougie away from the casino till they were out of earshot of the bouncer in the doorway. He faced his brother. It was one of those mild nights in early winter when the paving slabs and asphalt have a sheen of wetness without ever seeming to have been rained on and shoe soles scrape the pavement with a sound like striking matches. Around them stood the town houses and mansion blocks of the transnational super-rich, groomed and desolate. Cabs puttered between the lines of parked German cars.
‘Did you think she would come?’ said Alex.
‘Aye.’ Dougie made a movement of his shoulders that could have been a shrug or a nervous twitch.
‘She told me what happened,’ said Alex. ‘Just before your messages started coming in. It’s going to be on the Moral Foundation on Sunday.’
‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘Everyone’s going to know what you did. You thought you were going to win some money and the two of you’d run off to a desert island?’
‘Thought didn’t come into it,’ said Dougie.
‘How can you do it? How can you do the things you do? You borrow a hundred and twenty thousand pounds from your brother and instead of paying him back you have sex with his partner. You have two little daughters whose mothers are struggling to get by and you throw away two hundred quid in the casino. How? Isn’t there ever a voice in your head that says no”?’
‘I just …’ Dougie looked around, opening and closing his mouth. He was like a child who suddenly remembers that the ruins through which he is happily wandering are the ruins of the man he would become. ‘Yeah, I’ve got one of those wee guys who says “no”. He’s a nice guy, like a lawyer or a professor or a politician. It’s not like I don’t have him in my head. But he seems too much of an achiever for me.’
Alex sat on the steps leading to somebody’s front door and rested his head in his hands. Dougie sat next to him and lit a cigarette.
‘I’d like to be angry with you or Bec,’ said Alex. ‘It’d be interesting to punch you in the face and see how the blood came out. Give you a nice black eye.’
‘I wish you would.’
Alex shrugged, took the cigarette from his brother, drew on it and gave it back. ‘I know you do. Bec’s the same. The two of you are more like each other than either of you are like me. There’s the idea you want forgiveness and love and really you’re feeling How weak he is.’
‘Don’t feel bad about not giving me a kicking,’ said Dougie. ‘Look at me. I’m like some new product that comes with its own punishment included. Just add sex and money.’
‘That’s not a new product,’ said Alex.
He took Dougie to a hotel and paid for a room. He gave him a hundred pounds and Dougie said he’d pay him back.
‘I’m not lending it to you,’ said Alex. ‘I’m giving it to you.’
In the room Dougie kicked off his shoes and took a beer from the mini-bar. He offered Alex one and Alex took it and they sat facing each other on the edges of the twin beds.
‘Bec’s pregnant,’ said Alex.
Dougie lay back on the pillow. He bit his lip and swallowed. ‘There’s a turn-up,’ he said. ‘Can they tell whose it is?’
‘It’s harder with brothers. But they can do a test.’
After a while Dougie said: ‘Don’t do a test. You want to be a father? Be one.’
Alex listened for noise from the street, or other parts of the hotel; there was none. They were lucky to have found a quiet room. He stared at the light shining down on the curtain from a sort of horizontal box. What was it called, that box? He could spend as long as he liked staring at the curtain now. The folds pleased him and he didn’t have to talk. Catastrophes are holidays, he thought. Not part of normal time.
‘This is like Scout camp,’ said Dougie. He’d rolled over on his side and his eyes were bright and boylike. ‘I hated that.’
‘What you did,’ said Alex. ‘You didn’t think you were paying me back in some fucked up way, did you?’
Dougie lay back and didn’t speak for so long that Alex thought he’d gone to sleep. Then he said: ‘Hey maths boy. In a bullshit card game that looks complicated but is just like tossing a coin, what are the odds of getting the same result nine times in a row?’
‘Five hundred to one,’ said Alex.
‘Seriously? I never would’ve put it that low. If it was you you’d know the odds,’ said Dougie. ‘You’d know the house always has an edge and if you were a gambler you’d know when to quit.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘Bank your winnings, brother. Quit while you’re ahead.’
70
The day after calling the Moral Foundation to betray his sister Ritchie started telling people that he was running again, as if he’d been a great runner, when he’d only ever trotted a few miles a couple of times a week. His assertion that he was running again was taken as a euphemism for the intention to live a materially and spiritually purer life, to drink less, to work harder and to be kinder to others, and he did, indeed, make the pronouncement in exactly that spirit. But having declared he was running again he had no choice except to run. He got up in the dark, before Karin and the children, put on trainers and a tracksuit and a hi-viz vest and jogged out into the cold, heavy silence of the English countryside in winter. All he could hear was the sound of his own breath, the soles of his trainers striking the grit at the edge of the road and the occasional sinister rustle from the hedgerows or gurgling from an invisible watercourse.
He ran for half a mile, then walked, sometimes stopping altogether to rest. He stood panting with his hands on his sides, breathing in the smell of rotting leaves. Cars announced themselves by the glow and fade of their headlights far away on bends and rises, like miniature moons rolling up and down the crooked lanes, giving Ritchie enough time to start running so that when they passed they would see him moving powerfully and confidently along through the dark. By the time he reached the first village east of Petersmere it was light. Old people waved to him from their gardens and he waved back. He didn’t know them and he wondered if they recognised him from TV or whether, driven from sleep in the early hours by the mysterious conditions of the old, they had a lonely yearning for community.
Ritchie didn’t know if Karin had noticed the restoration of his contentment, but he wanted her to be unsure what drove him. He didn’t like the amount of time she was spending with The What; he didn�
��t like the thirty-date tour they’d lined up for spring. His love of the music they were making didn’t seem to him to contradict the hostility he felt towards his wife over her leaving home for the best part of two months. He didn’t notice that as soon as he’d betrayed his sister his love for Karin reverted to the wary, questioning, competitive condition that had prevailed before Val Oatman first threatened him.
It was on Ritchie’s mind, when he trotted homewards on Saturday morning, that the next day his sister, who had no idea she’d been exposed, would be the victim of Val’s revenge. It hurt him but the pain was outside, not inside as it had been before. Ritchie had found it so easy to absolve himself of treachery that he was no longer conscious of the absolution. It seemed to him to be chance that he’d become the bridge between Val’s desire for vengeance and what he now thought of as Bec’s promiscuity. He’d hated having to nominate a lawyer but when the lawyer called to tell him he’d read through the certificate of immunity from the Moral Foundation and as far as he could tell it offered a watertight guarantee that the MF wouldn’t make public anything they’d found or might in future find out about his private life, he felt safe. Louise and Nicole could still tell what they knew but one and a half years had passed since he’d seen or spoken to either of them. Ritchie decided that next day, when Bec woke up to the harshness of the world, when she was introduced to the reality that the media only ever canonises you in order to damn you harder later, he’d help her. She’d call him in a panic, asking him what she should do, and he’d calm her down and tell her it wasn’t the end, that people would forget.
Back at the house he was making himself a fry-up when a text message came from Bec. Unaccountably she was at the cemetery where their father was buried.
At Brakesborne. Dad’s memory pulled down. Horrible. Come now.
Ritchie didn’t want to meet his sister on the eve of her downfall. He called her and she didn’t answer. Surely, he thought, she could deal with the vandalism of a gravestone herself? But Karin insisted that he go.