Topspin

by Soliman, W.

  “Why do you think I sent for you?” Cyril let out a long sigh. “Things ain’t the same any more. There’s no honor among thieves. Not like there was back in the day. You did the right thing getting out when you did, Jack.”

  “I don’t have any regrets on that score.”

  Jack listened to his friend’s litany of complaints and fond reminiscences about the good old days. Not that he’d considered them to be particularly good at the time. He’d bitched about things just as much then as he was doing now. Jack contributed the odd remark, half his attention focused on the passing countryside as Charlie drove them toward Cyril’s country pile outside Colchester.

  Cyril had recruited Jack into the shady world of enforcement. As a fatherless sixteen-year-old, Jack nicked cars for a living and pulled off small-time robberies to show the East End just what a big man he was. He could see now that he was a disaster waiting to happen. Cyril told him later that something about him reminded Cyril of himself at a similar age. He took Jack under his wing, harnessing his perpetual anger at a world which had done him few favors, and taught him to make that anger work for him.

  Even though Jack was no longer involved with Cyril’s organization, the two men still kept in touch. Jack sometimes gained information for Cyril in respect to his legitimate business interests, or helped out in particularly delicate situations that required diplomacy rather than muscle power, Cyril having an abundant supply of the latter.

  When his old mentor had summoned Jack to the mainland, offering no explanation for his urgent need to see him, Jack’s curiosity was piqued. He had to wait until they’d settled into Cyril’s study, drinks in hand, before he got around to explaining himself.

  “An old friend of yours popped out of the woodwork recently,” Cyril said, knocking back a healthy slug of single malt.

  “Oh yeah? Who’s that, then?”

  “I should say friends. Kevin and Wilf, to be precise.” Jack’s head shot up in surprise. “You should have followed my advice and broken their kneecaps, Jack. That’s the only sort of retribution thugs like them understand.”

  “I thought my way was better.”

  “Humiliating them, you mean.” Cyril chuckled. “It was certainly a creative idea, and still gets talked about when some of the old mob get together and have a few.”

  “That was the whole point.”

  “Yeah, but unfortunately they’re out for revenge now.”

  Jack shrugged. “I always knew that might happen. But short of killing them, any act of violence on my part would only have upped the ante and it wouldn’t ever have ended.” Jack stretched his arms above his head, wondering why Cyril had thought this too important to discuss over the phone. But even Jack, who was closer to Cyril than most, knew better than to question his motives. “Making them apologize to Patel, pay for the restitution of his property from their own wads, and forcing them to do a lot of the repairs themselves made them a laughing stock. Everyone, even the filth, understood what I was doing and why, which meant that no one else would take them on after that.”

  “You’re wrong there, Jack. They went up north and got taken on by the Turks.”

  Jack, who had wandered toward the window, spun round to face Cyril. Not many things frightened him, but the vicious Manchester-based crew Cyril had just mentioned was a notable exception. In front of Cyril, who also had the sense to harbor a healthy respect for their northern counterparts, Jack didn’t attempt to hide his reaction.

  “Christ, you never said.”

  “Didn’t seem relevant until now. But they’re back on our patch, Jack. That’s why I wanted you to come over, so I could talk to you about it face to face, like. They’ve wised up and ain’t quite as headstrong as they once were.” Cyril grunted. “They’re still as thick as pig’s shit, though.”

  “No change there, then.”

  “Yeah, but the problem is they’ve put the word out that they’re looking for you. They’re throwing cash around, asking anyone who knows where you are to talk to them. They’re making out like you’ve been laying low because you knew they’d come after you sooner or later, implying you ain’t got the balls to face them.”

  Jack laughed. “Who’s gonna believe that?”

  “No one right now, but you know how it is.” Cyril spread his hands. “If they say it often enough, and you stay out of sight, then the mud’ll stick eventually. No one else knows why you did get out, remember.”

  “It’s not as if I’m hiding, Cyril. You don’t have to be Einstein to find someone in this country when he’s living under his real name.”

  “Yeah, well, like I said, those two ain’t exactly the brains of Britain. But still, it doesn’t do to underestimate them, Jack.” Cyril glowered. “I’ve put the word out that everyone’s to keep their mouths shut, but you know how it is. It’ll only be a matter of time before someone spills the beans, and I didn’t want you to be taken by surprise, like.”

  “Thanks, Cyril. I appreciate the heads-up.”

  “What are you gonna do about them, Jack? They’re hard bastards, and you can bet the fucking Turks ain’t exactly let them go soft.”

  “I’ll deal with it, Cyril. I haven’t gone completely soft myself.”

  Cyril guffawed. “You could have fucking fooled me.”

  “Since you’re so sure they’ll find me eventually, perhaps I should save them the effort and confront them on home turf.”

  “And then what?”

  “Put the fear of Christ into them, I suppose.”

  “That won’t work, Jack.” Cyril poured them both refills from a heavy crystal decanter. “They don’t respect reputations anymore and they certainly don’t play fair. They’re still smarting from their humiliation. They also didn’t like being banished from the smoke, blame you for it, and are out for your blood.”

  “Yeah, perhaps they are, but what else can I do other than confront them? I ain’t gonna hide from them for the rest of my life.”

  “Don’t rush straight in. Think it through first. Use that brain of yours, Jack, if it hasn’t turned to mush since you retired and put it out to grass. I imagine Ahmed sent them down here on some bit of business of his own.” Cyril stroked his chin in thoughtful contemplation. “I wonder if he knows what else they’re getting up to on his time.”

  Jack chuckled as Cyril picked up his phone and dialed a Manchester number from memory. Ahmed and Cyril co-existed with wary respect for one another’s outfits. Cyril made no secret of the fact that he abhorred the flood of drugs that found their way into the country—courtesy of Ahmed’s contacts in his homeland—and wanted no part of that trade. They exchanged information on other aspects of their operations from time to time, and retribution on Ahmed’s part for any arbitrary action taken by his two goons would be swift and brutal. They’d unsettled the status quo by pursuing a personal vendetta on Cyril’s patch. That was a big no-no, as just about anyone in the business with two brain cells to rub together could have told them.

  Jack reckoned they deserved everything that was coming their way.

  Saturday morning dawned, and Chris Porterhouse had never been so miserable in his life. Everything had changed since he’d walked into his mother’s bathroom and seen her horrific injuries. His school work suffered because he could no longer concentrate and found it pointless. His social life, such as it was, had dried up because he couldn’t raise any enthusiasm to go out with his mates. In turn they’d picked up on his mood and got fed up with his monosyllabic responses when they voiced their concerns. Nothing in his life was going right anymore, and he didn’t know what to do about it or who to turn to for advice.

  If this was part of the growing up process, then he never wanted to be an adult.

  The problems with Sheba that had dominated his mind now paled in comparison to his mother’s betrayal, and he barely spared her a thought. She’d sent him a couple of texts but he’d deleted them unread. He avoided any of the places where he might bump into Sheba. He wasn’t in the mood for more of h
er excuses or to be taken for granted. Instead his thoughts dwelt upon his beautiful mother, whom he’d worshipped since the cradle and could talk to about absolutely anything.

  But his mother wasn’t the person he thought he knew. She had some sort of secret life that didn’t involve him or his father. That life obviously had to do with sex—but was it consensual, or had someone forced himself on her? Hope briefly flared, but was as quickly dashed. Explanations were never that simple. If his mother had been raped, she would have been much more upset.

  Chris didn’t know what to do. Should he tell his father? The news would crucify him, and that hardly seemed fair. Besides, he must have seen his wife naked at some point during the past ten days and must be comfortable with her explanation for her injuries. Unless he was responsible for them after all. Chris couldn’t imagine his father ever being that violent, but who knew what went on behind closed doors?

  Some people enjoyed that sort of treatment, didn’t they?

  Then again, perhaps his mother really had slipped on the wet floor and fallen head first onto the bench in the shower room at the tennis club. That’s what she’d been trying to convince him of ever since he’d stormed out of the bathroom. Chris had pretended not to listen, even though he desperately wanted to believe it was true. His world was falling apart, and he just couldn’t look at his mother anymore without seeing those dreadful scratches that looked almost like bite marks. However hard he tried to convince himself she was telling the truth, he couldn’t equate her injuries as resulting from a simple fall.

  Which meant that his mother had lied to him.

  He’d hardly spoken two words to her since his discovery. He became tongue-tied and sullen when she tried to talk to him, leaving a room as soon as she entered it. His father was starting to get annoyed with him. The whole atmosphere in their house was rife with tension and his father blamed him, which felt grossly unfair and made Chris want to shout out what he knew.

  Chris swiped viciously at a forehand volley, not caring where it landed. As a result the ball went for a crisp winner, and everyone involved in the morning’s junior coaching session looked at him with surprise. Chris wasn’t a natural tennis player, but this morning he couldn’t seem to do a thing wrong.

  “Great shot, Chris!” said Colin, the fancy new coach.

  Colin called all the kids together for a pep talk. Only then did Chris notice Sheba right in the middle of the crowd, dressed in tight-fitting shorts and a strappy top. A couple of the lads ignored Colin’s demonstration of how to play a perfect smash and were staring openly at her pert little tits. She was breathing heavily, having just run across from the furthest court, and they were straining against the fabric of her top. Chris turned away from her, ignoring the funny little lurch in his stomach and the twitching in the area of his groin, just as he ignored Sheba’s friendly wave and invitation to partner her in the next set. He stomped away when Colin finally ran out of words, not interested in playing anymore. Sheba fell into step beside him.

  “Hi,” she said. “Did you get my texts?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t reply.”

  “Other things on my mind.”

  “Oh? What things?”

  There was impatience in her tone, as though nothing could be more important than her pathetic excuses for not turning up to tennis on that fateful day. She’d obviously expected him to contact her to find out why she hadn’t shown, or at the very least to take an interest in her so-called problems. And that’s precisely what he would have done, before he’d grown up. Chris was too morose to realize that by ignoring Sheba he was only fueling her interest in him.

  “Nothing that you’d understand.” He kicked moodily at a loose ball.

  “What do you think of my news, then? About my dad,” she said impatiently when he looked at her blankly. “I explained in the texts. That’s why I didn’t turn up for tennis.”

  “Sorry, yeah, of course you did. What about him, then?”

  Sheba shot him a look of incomprehension. “Like I told you, my dad was waiting for me when we came out of school. Didn’t I make that clear?”

  “I forgot.”

  “I suppose it’s no big deal to you. You’ve always had your dad there for you.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Chris, what is it with you?” He shrugged. “I haven’t seen him for years and I didn’t know he’d be there, you see. Isn’t it brilliant! He’ll be on the Island for a while, too.”

  “You’ve never talked about your dad before.” He frowned. “I suppose it must be nice to see him again, but I don’t think I’d want to know mine if he’d ignored me for so long.”

  “Oh, it’s not like that. You don’t understand. It’s not me and Malik he doesn’t want to see. There’s something going on between him and my mum that’s causing the problem. I don’t know what it is, but she made him promise to stay away from us. But he’s back now, and I’m not letting him get away again so easily this time.”

  “How does your mum feel about him being back?”

  “I’m not sure.” It was Sheba’s turn to frown. “We all went out for a pizza that night and got on all right. But then he and Mum were out in the garden, talking and shouting at each other for ages. I hated hearing them at each other’s throats like that.”

  Chris shook his head. “That doesn’t sound too encouraging.”

  “No, that’s what I thought too at the time, so I sneaked into the lounge and peeped round the curtains.” Sheba smirked. “He had her backed up against the wall by then and was kissing her. Among other things.” She grinned. “And Mum didn’t seem to mind too much. At least, she certainly took her time pushing him off.”

  “So will they get back together, then?” Chris felt himself being drawn into the conversation in spite of the fact that he wasn’t particularly interested either way. His own parents were giving him more than enough grief right now.

  “I think my dad would like to, but as always Mum’s the stumbling block. We’ve all been out together a couple of times since, but Mum won’t let us invite Dad back to the house afterward, and you can, like, sense the tension between them.”

  Chris lifted his shoulders. “It doesn’t sound too hopeful, then.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Sheba stamped her foot. “It’s so unfair. If Dad came back we’d be able to live somewhere much better. He’s fun and he’s got loads of money.”

  “What does he do?”

  Sheba looked blank. “I dunno really, and I don’t much care. All that matters is that he comes back and stays. With him in her life, perhaps Mum’d get off my case.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “Well…” She offered him an impish grin that thawed his frozen heart and set it racing painfully in his chest. “I reckon they need a bit of encouragement, that’s all.” She tilted her head, her expression calculating. “I think I might invite Dad to come to the club dinner on Friday night.”

  “Is that advisable, without asking your mum first?”

  Sheba tossed her head. “Don’t be so dense, Chris. If I ask her she’ll only throw a wobbly and say no.”

  “Hm, I guess she would.”

  “But I’m a member of this club too. There’s nothing to stop me inviting my own father to a social evening.”

  Chris looked down at her. In spite of her confrontational tone he could see she wasn’t altogether convinced that her plan would work, and he felt duty-bound to encourage her. “It can’t do any harm, I suppose.”

  “Exactly!” She’d clearly taken his lukewarm response as a glowing endorsement. “Will you help me?”

  “If I can. What do you want me to do?”

  “Well, you could take me to the thing, if you’d like.”

  Chris gulped, his world suddenly seeming a lot less oppressive. “I’d like,” he said.

  “Great, and then you could introduce your parents to my dad. It might be a bit awkward otherwise. I mean, my dad doesn’t know anyone, and Mum’s not really
speaking to him. But your mum’s got class, Chris. She’s great at social chit-chat and putting people at ease.”

  “Sure.”

  Chris smiled for the first time in what felt like forever. It was easy for him to see now that he’d probably jumped to conclusions and misjudged his mother. Even picky Sheba considered her above reproach. Her explanation for her injuries must be true, and he should have been more sympathetic. He tentatively reached out and placed an arm round Sheba’s shoulders, ready to pretend it was no big deal if she rebuffed him.

  She didn’t.

  Yep, thought Chris, unable to suppress a stupid grin. Sheba was right. His mother did have class, and he definitely owed her an apology.

  Jack and Angela were on the show courts, playing in a competitive league match against a team from Seaview. Jack had arrived bleary-eyed and bad-tempered. He’d been on the mainland overnight and only just made it to the club in time. As usual he had a raging hangover, but in spite of that he was in exceptionally good form and was carrying Angela, who was having trouble hitting two consecutive balls in court. They were winning easily, no thanks to her, as were Karl and Jodie on the adjoining court.

  Ed and Stella had managed to get themselves selected as third pair since Joe had a morning surgery and none of the usual reserves were available. But they were out of their depth and faring disastrously, as evidenced by Ed’s constant sniping at his long-suffering wife. As always he was blaming her for his own inadequacies.

  “Wasn’t that a code violation?” Ed glared at the opposing man when he missed an easy shot and whacked a ball against the fencing in disgust. “Equipment abuse.”

  “Give it a rest, Ed.” Jack nodded an apology to Ed’s bemused opponent. “If we pulled you up every time you lost it on court, you’d be paying fines for the next twenty years.”

  The spectators also hurled derisive comments Ed’s way. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but made do with scowling at Jack and had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

  Angela saw Jack casting her curious glances during the meal which followed the match. When the opposition finally left, fueled with copious amounts of alcohol to help take the edge off their loss, he sat her down with a large glass of wine.