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Calling Down the Storm

Page 10

by Peter Murphy


  He and Ian shouted banco at the same moment. Looking to his right, he saw Greta flash her green eyes and smile. Susie was giving Ian a look that he could not quite identify. The table as a whole seemed to have lost whatever confidence it had started with. Only Ian, resistant to fear as ever, was still in the game. Whatever Lord Derby had been doing during the night, it had worked; he had the others thoroughly intimidated.

  ‘Mr Maxwell-Scott has covered,’ Jean-Pascal said. ‘Rien ne va plus.’

  Conrad nodded. He had given way to his impulses, but he was not going to feature in this hand. The croupier was right. The player closer to the bank had priority.

  Jean-Pascal quickly dealt two cards to Lord Derby and two to Ian.

  Tentatively, Ian turned over his cards, and suddenly gave Conrad a smile, half relief, half delight. Two fours. The bank had a three and a king. Lord Derby’s reign as banker had ended, but Conrad had not been part of it.

  ‘The players win, La Petite to three,’ Jean-Pascal announced. ‘Mr Llewellyn has the bank.’

  Dai Llewellyn started with the minimum £100. Ian covered at once, but lost the hand seven to zero, and Dai kept the bank.

  Next, Dai ventured £250. Ian seemed momentarily subdued, and kept quiet. No one covered. Conrad bet £100, and a taciturn man to Jean-Pascal’s immediate right did the same. As the player closer to the bank, he had to represent the players. Conrad turned his cards over slowly. A five and a jack. He shook his head. He had to choose whether to stand or draw a third card. Impulsively, he called ‘Carte’. His third card was a queen, worth zero. His score remained at five. The bank had seven.

  Dai was feeling bolder now, and jumped from £250 straight to £750. Conrad forced himself to think. Dai must have calculated that the lack of confidence that had gripped the table during Lord Derby’s hold on the bank would continue, and that he would have only one or two small bets to contend with. Lord Derby himself seemed to have been affected. Even Ian seemed to have had the wind taken out of his sails and showed no inclination to react. Susie had gone quiet and had returned to her seat on the other side of the room. Greta had moved closer to the table. Conrad saw her looking at him with a look that said, ‘Go for it’.

  ‘Banco’, he called.

  He felt Dai’s sharp glance from his left. Eyebrows were raised around the table. Finally, someone was trying to take the initiative.

  Conrad was dealt a seven and a king. Unless the bank had a natural, he was going to win. The bank had zero. Conrad was ahead for the first time, and Ian Maxwell-Scott had the bank.

  Conrad saw Ian smile to himself. Susie was still sitting quietly as if trying to distance herself from the action. He watched Ian closely, and suddenly understood what John Aspinall had said about him. He was an intelligent, thoughtful man, but once he was in the grip of the excitement of the game and had money in his sights, thinking took a back seat and the thrill took over; once that happened, there were no limits. Conrad pondered how to react. He could be patient, stick with systematic bids of £100 or £200, and wait out the hands when the bank was covered; or he could jump right in and try for a decisive advantage. He didn’t need to look at Greta to know what she was willing him to do. He felt her presence from where he sat. He glanced at his watch. It was already nearly three. The recklessness had not left him.

  ‘The bank wagers £1,000,’ Ian declared. In the distance Susie had taken refuge in a fashion magazine.

  ‘Banco prime,’ Conrad responded, without hesitation. He saw Greta close her lips and nod her head slightly.

  ‘Rien ne vas plus,’ Jean-Pascal announced. He dealt the cards.

  Conrad had a feeling about it the moment the cards were dealt. When he turned them over and saw the nine and the jack, he felt an immense rush. The bank had six. It didn’t matter. He had won and the bank was his.

  He was on a mission now. The lack of confidence around the table would not last indefinitely. Whenever the stakes rose at a table, the energy the high stakes generated began to spread; and the stakes were rising now. Besides, it was getting late. Time might be irrelevant to some, but he was all too aware that he would have to put in an appearance in chambers later in the morning, and he had made a promise to Greta, which he was sure she would require him to fulfil. Time was short. He would strike while he had the bank.

  ‘The bank wagers £1,000.’

  The repetition of Ian’s bet was a deliberate provocation, one he knew would produce an immediate reaction. Ian responded with ‘banco’ before anyone else could say a word. Ian did not have banco prime, but there was no challenge from his right. For the moment, it had become a personal duel, and the other players would be content to sit and watch for a while. Conrad had begun to feel the energy of the table now. It was a new experience for him, and he watched it carefully. It seemed to him that it had settled on him. He continued to watch it as the cards were dealt. He ended up with seven against Ian’s three.

  Susie threw down her magazine and stood very obviously behind Ian’s chair. ‘She sees it, too,’ he told himself, ‘the energy. She sees it’s not with him.’ She made very obvious comments about how late it was and the need to get up in the morning, and Ian reluctantly took the hint, bidding good night to those assembled. Conrad smiled to himself. It was a downhill run now. It took hardly any time at all. He kept up his £1,000 starting bid, sensing that no one would cover. No one did. He won four hands in succession. A number of players had recovered sufficiently to cover him partially, and adding it all together, he was substantially ahead. Not only that, but he had respected the convention. He had kept the bank long enough to give the table a fair chance to recoup their losses. He could not be criticised for calling it a night. He passed the bank on voluntarily and left the table. It was just before 4 o’clock as he lit one of Greta’s cigarettes.

  25

  She hailed a taxi outside the Club, and without consulting him, gave the driver the address of her flat in Knightsbridge.

  The flat was on the fifth floor of a block with a dated art deco feel; but a fine view looking out over Hyde Park from the front of the building more than made up for its appearance. The flat was furnished tastefully in a French style, with no references to her native Germany. Her bedroom was at the front, and she had left the curtains open to the view of the park.

  They had said very little on the way back from the Clermont, but she had leant her head on his shoulder. They lingered in the living room only long enough for her to pour them both a whisky. She lit a cigarette and led him into the bedroom.

  ‘Take your clothes off,’ she said, as she disappeared into the bathroom.

  He put his clothes on the armchair by the side of her dressing table, and walked naked over to the window. He looked down. The streets were deserted. People were sleeping. Certainly, people who had jobs to go to were sleeping. He himself had a job to go to. There was a fraud case waiting for him in chambers that wasn’t going to prepare itself. Yet here he was, with the clock making its way towards five.

  He shifted his gaze to the park, but in the darkness and the dim street lighting, he could not make out any of its features except for the tops of some trees. It was an interesting experience, he found – standing naked in front of a window open to the world. In most circumstances in his previous life he would have drawn the curtains, or beaten a retreat towards the bed, or at least looked around for a dressing gown. But now that his life had changed, he found himself enjoying what risk there might be of being seen. He was five floors up; it was barely conceivable, even if someone did happen to pass the building at that hour. But the thrill of the risk was undeniable. He stood right against the window, his hands deliberately clenched behind his back, offering the world maximum exposure, savouring the feeling. He wondered if Greta ever stood there naked, daring someone to look up from across the street. He felt sure that she did – and probably at times of day or night when the odds were better that someone woul
d.

  ‘Come here,’ she said.

  She was naked too, and she was sitting on the bed. He turned and walked towards her. He found her extraordinarily beautiful. She aroused him and he made no attempt to hide it. He knelt in front of her. The warmth of her body accentuated the wild rose perfume, made it more immediate. He found it intoxicating.

  ‘Do you remember what you promised?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Well, then, let’s see how well you do. You English men don’t have a great reputation as lovers – but neither do German men, so who knows?’

  She lifted herself on to the bed, lay on her back, her legs parted, and stretched out her arms above her head. She closed her eyes.

  He lay on the bed on her left side, and kissed her full on the lips. She responded with her tongue. He moved down to her breasts, circling her nipples with his tongue. She allowed this for some time before she lifted his head.

  ‘Feet first,’ she said. ‘For me, always feet first, then work your way up.’

  He stood and repositioned himself at the bottom of the bed. He lifted each foot in turn, kissed her ankles, her soles, and her toes and then kissed his way along the inside of her right leg and thigh until he felt her hairs start to tickle his nose. He stopped. It wasn’t a question of the reputation of English men, he thought. It was a question of his own lack of experience; that was all.

  Years ago, once or twice, with Barbara, he had been on the brink of intimacy of this kind, but he had pulled back – his decision, not hers – and since then his sexual experiences had been strictly regimented. That was his own fault – he saw that clearly now – there was nothing to blame Barbara for; it was his own lack of…what: imagination, involvement, courage? After that, it was, from a practical point of view, simply too late. He would never have suggested such unconventional explorations with Deborah. But why? Was that her fault or his? He didn’t know. Perhaps, if it had been early enough in their relationship, she would have been open to it. Before he got too busy and she got too religious. Perhaps she would even have reciprocated. Perhaps his life could have been reinvented without the need to visit the ladies staff toilets at Annabel’s, with a woman from Leipzig who wanted him to be her friend.

  There was no way to know now. It was too late. He had to do his best. He had read things in men’s magazines from time to time – not in Guildford, obviously, but in the secrecy of his Barbican flat, when he had caught a glimpse of them in their discreet place on the news stand near his building and purchased one with an air of practised indifference, as if he were buying The Times. Five things every woman wants. Ten ways to drive your lover crazy. Twenty things every man should know. He pictured himself back at Annabel’s and put his tongue and his fingers to work.

  It seemed to have an effect. She began to move, and then she began to moan, and after some time, she dug her soles into the bed, arched her back, threw her head back, clutching the metal bars of her headboard, and gave a loud, deep sigh. Judging by what Conrad remembered from the magazines, she showed every sign of having come. He didn’t know whether she really had or not. Even if she had, he had no way of knowing whether she was thinking of him, or of some equivalent of Barbara.

  Eventually, she opened her eyes. She smiled.

  ‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘Not bad for a first time. Next time, I will give you a few tips, but definitely not bad for a first time.’

  Then abruptly, her manner changed.

  She rolled quickly away from him across the bed, reached down, and picked something up. She was so fast that he didn’t see what it was, or even exactly where it had come from. Turning back, she manhandled him with surprising strength, and turned him over on to his front. The next thing he felt was a hard, stinging blow across his buttocks. He was too surprised to react. But when it was followed by a second, and then a third blow, both hard and painful, he cried out and tried to push himself up. She pushed him down hard.

  ‘Stop fighting,’ she commanded.

  Another blow followed.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he demanded.

  ‘Punishing you.’

  Another blow.

  ‘Punishing me? For what? What’s going on, for God’s sake?’

  She paused.

  ‘For giving up.’

  ‘For giving up? What do you mean? Look, I did my best. You said it wasn’t bad for a first time. What more do you want?’

  She scoffed.

  ‘You idiot. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the table, Conrad. You stopped. You gave up much too soon.’

  ‘What? I stopped because I was ahead and it was almost 4 o’clock.’

  ‘You never stop until you have risked as much as you can.’

  Another blow.

  ‘Greta, for God’s sake! This is ridiculous. It’s my money. I decide when to stop.’

  ‘Not when you’re with me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Haven’t you wondered why I’m with you, why I asked you to take me to the Clermont?’

  ‘I –’

  ‘It’s the excitement. That’s what turns me on, Conrad, not your first attempts to please me in bed. I told you. I may not fit in, but I like powerful men who are not afraid to take risks, whatever the cost: men like Lucan and Elwes, and even poor little Ian Maxwell-Scott with his beloved Susie, God bless him. And I thought you were the same.’

  ‘I am…’ he protested.

  ‘Tonight? You think what you did tonight was exciting?’

  ‘I played the table. I came out ahead.’

  ‘You played it safe,’ she replied. ‘God. You had them where you wanted them. You could have increased your bets.’

  ‘Greta, I was already wagering a thousand.’

  ‘A thousand? That’s nothing. I want to see you taking risks – two thousand, five thousand, your damned house in Guildford, whatever. If you don’t, you get punished. That’s my house rule, Conrad, take it or leave it. And don’t you dare try to wriggle or put your hands in the way. When I punish you, you take it. If I have to tie your hands to the bed I will, but I’ll be disappointed if I have to.’

  The blows continued. Part of him wanted to curse her and walk out. Although she had shown strength, she would be no match for him if he resisted; he could easily have thrown her off. But he was aroused again, aroused as he had been when she had taken down his trousers at Annabel’s, and instead of throwing her off, he stretched his arms out and surrendered to her. She stopped after about twenty blows, by which time his skin was burning.

  She threw whatever she had been using across the bed, and for the first time he saw that it was a pink ping-pong bat.

  She turned him over on to his back, and once again, he could not hide his arousal. She smiled.

  ‘I thought so,’ she said.

  She mounted him expertly and held his hands above his head with hers. She drove him steadily into the bed, not stopping, even when he came, until she was ready. When she did finally release him, she reached for a cigarette from her bedside table, and lit it.

  ‘Now, get out,’ she said. ‘Go home. Please. I have to get some sleep.’

  26

  February 1971

  ‘The bank wagers £1,000,’ Conrad said.

  It was not a bet he particularly believed in. It was almost 3 o’clock, he had been playing for two hours, and he had not particularly believed in a single bet he had placed during that time. The table was trouble. He had seen that the moment he walked into the Blue Room. It was a ferocious table: angry and chaotic. He was used to seeing the energy now; it had become a physical phenomenon he could observe; he could watch it, predict it, track its progress. But it was different tonight. Tonight he saw the energy darting and bouncing this way and that around the table without any pattern, seemingly thrown into orbit around one player at random, then around anothe
r at random, by the sheer force of their wills. It was a table impossible to read or to predict: a very dangerous table.

  It was a table Conrad would never have joined if Greta hadn’t been with him, daring him, wordlessly cajoling, even threatening him, making it impossible for him to back away. James Goldsmith, Lucky Lucan, Lord Derby, Dominick Elwes, and the inevitable Ian Maxwell-Scott were among those at the table, and they were in a predatory mood. Lord Derby’s last bid before losing control of the bank at a high cost had been £2,500. The bank had passed to Conrad. John Aspinall, advised of the mood in the Blue Room by some nameless member of his staff, had come to observe, sitting quietly but conspicuously across the room, facing the table. Susie Maxwell-Scott was sitting by herself in a corner, a nervous wreck.

  His visits to the Clermont Club with Greta had become routine, at least once a week, sometimes twice or even three times, and they were taking a toll. Some of the toll was due simply to a lack of rest. He was waking up feeling exhausted, sometimes at Greta’s flat – she allowed him to stay sometimes now, when it suited her – in which case he had to make his way home to change before going into chambers, or to court. His concentration was suffering. The fraud case had been tried over three weeks in October, and by the end the numbers had rearranged themselves in his mind into meaningless sequences, and he could no longer reconstruct all the complex financial history involved in the case. He was not sure his closing speech to the judge had even been coherent. The result was not a total catastrophe – fortunately the merits were largely on his client’s side, and Mr Justice Overton had seen that long before the case came down to closing speeches – but it could have been much better. He was still worrying about it.

 

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