Frankie pitied him for what had happened to him. And for who his prick of a father was. But he was glad too. That his own life and Jack’s were no longer screwed.
And Riley . . . well, just look at the bastard . . . Riley obviously felt the same. His shining eyes locked on Frankie’s. An invitation to join him. An order, of sorts.
‘You all right here for a minute?’ Frankie asked Xandra, picking up an open magnum of champagne.
‘Sorted, boss,’ she told him with a smile.
She was hardly recognisable from the waif who’d walked in here out of the storm that night. He’d even got round to bloody asking her about her trip to Croydon. It had gone well. Or as well as any visit to a hospice could. Her aunty had been happy she’d managed to find herself somewhere to call home. Frankie was glad it was here.
He took the fizz and four glasses with him, squeezing past Slim, Ash Crowther, ‘Sea Breeze’ Strinati and Kind Regards, who were all busy discussing the local lad, The Rocket, again and whether he might win the Masters for a second time. Hmm. Maybe there might be a way to lure him back here for an exhibition match. Even to help promote his tournament if he ever got it off the ground. Now that would be something to aim for, all right.
‘You look pleased with yourself,’ Riley said as Frankie reached him and laid out the four glasses on a table beside him.
‘I am.’ Frankie started to pour.
‘And so you should be. I knew you had it in you. You got your brother out. You got the result you needed, the same one all of us did.’
Hamilton now being under close police scrutiny. With his ambitions neutralised for now. And Wilson gone forever. An added bonus there. For humanity as well as Riley. No bleeding doubt about that.
Frankie handed Riley a glass.
‘One day, I’m gonna ask you for the details,’ he said, leaning in.
But Frankie wouldn’t tell him. Not the whole truth. Not about Hamilton’s involvement. Not ever. No way could he ever risk it getting out that it had come from him.
‘Cheers,’ Frankie said. ‘For your help. Not just with Jack, but with this.’ He raised his glass to the room.
Frankie didn’t mean the cash for the party and Riley knew it. Tam Jackson did too and he scowled. Because there’d been something else in that envelope he’d delivered. A note from Listerman the Lawyer, telling Frankie his overdue rent had been settled by Mister Riley. The next three months as well. Payment for all that he’d done. The second good news Frankie had got from a lawyer this week. The other being that he’d got Jack cleared in time before they’d employed that trial lawyer. Meaning he’d still got his Capri.
Frankie handed Tam Jackson and Mackenzie Grew each a drink. Mackenzie told him thanks. Tam Jackson said nothing at all. Riley raised his glass in a toast.
‘To brothers,’ he said. ‘Blood brothers and brothers-in-arms.’
The four of them clinked their glasses and drank.
‘To brothers,’ Frankie said, under his breath.
Riley didn’t hang around for much longer. He left with Jackson and Grew. Frankie decided to call it a night himself not much after. He was still bloody knackered. He said his goodnights. Told Jack he’d swing by tomorrow to pick him up to go visit the old man. He left Xandra and Slim in charge as the party rolled on. He headed on up to the flat.
He spotted the brown A4 manila envelope on the mat the second he opened his flat’s front door. He stared at it. Didn’t pick it up. Who was it from? How the fuck had it got here? He looked back down the stairs at the door leading out onto the street. It was shut. Didn’t look like anyone had broken in.
He knelt down and opened the envelope. Reaching inside, he took a single colour photograph out. It showed the old man. In his prison uniform. His hair was cut exactly the same as the last time Frankie had seen him. Meaning this had to have been taken in the last few weeks. No, sod that. More like days. That same small shaving cut was right there on the old man’s cheek. Exactly where Frankie had seen it on his last visit.
Frankie’s heart drummed. He turned the photo over. A message in block capitals read:
I MIGHT NOT BE HERE FOREVER, BUT I’LL ALWAYS HAVE EYES ON YOU
From Hamilton. About the tape. About how even when he was dead, if Frankie ever broke his promise and gave it to Dougie, or dared let fucking slip to anyone the real truth about what had happened – then Terence Hamilton still had people who’d get to Frankie, who’d get to the old man as well.
Frankie rocked back on his heels, shaking his head. The sick joke was, of course, he couldn’t have given Dougie the tape even if he’d wanted. Because there was no bloody tape. Never had been. Not even in the cottage in Brighton. He’d just switched on the machine. Set its wheels turning. To make Baotic crap it. To get the bastard to do as he was told.
It was only when Shank Wilson had brought its existence up down there in that basement that Frankie had realised he might be able to use it to buy back his life. And he had.
He flinched, dropped the photo. The downstairs front doorbell had just buzzed. He stuffed the snap back into its envelope. Slipped it under the doormat. Then headed quickly downstairs.
Who now? Probably just someone trying to get into the club, right? The music through there was still pumping. But what if . . .? Yeah, why not? What if it was Sharon? What if she’d got his messages after all? What if she’d had a change of heart?
But it wasn’t her. It was the blonde. Martha, or Megan, or Molly or May. The girl who’d left her phone number written in bright red lipstick on the mirror above the sink the day Jack had turned up all covered in blood.
Her bright eyes flashed at Frankie, all mock annoyance. ‘You didn’t call,’ she said.
He looked her over. She was wearing a little black dress, wrapped tight around her. She looked every bit as fit as the first time he’d seen her in the 100 Club bar. He thought about Sharon. But this wasn’t her. She wasn’t here. Sharon Granger was gone.
‘Then I suppose I’d better ask you upstairs,’ he said.
She pressed herself up against him. Slipped her arms around his waist.
‘First this,’ she whispered, rising up on her tiptoes, before softly kissing him on the mouth.
It was only when they broke apart that Frankie saw her. Sharon. There on the other side of the street, next to a black cab that had just dropped her off.
‘Wait!’ he shouted.
But it was too late. She was already getting back into the cab. He pushed past the blonde and stepped out into the street. But the cab was already pulling away. And Sharon didn’t look back.
He watched the cab’s red tail lights fade into the night. He was an idiot. A fuck-up. Was he never going to learn? He stood there in the middle of his street, of his city, alone.
END
Also by Ronnie O’Sullivan
Ronnie
Running
Copyright
An Orion ebook
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Orion Books
Ebook first published in 2016 by Orion Books
Copyright © Ronnie O’Sullivan 2016
The right of Ronnie O’Sullivan to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All the characters in this book are fictitious,
and any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 1 4091 5132 6
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Contents
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Also by Ronnie O’Sullivan
Copyright
Framed Page 30