Double Kiss

by Ronnie O'Sullivan

  No point in asking the prick, either, who might have sent him here. Or whose interests he meant Frankie to protect. Snaresby was old school and knowledge was power. He’d not give up anything he didn’t have to, anything that might not serve him first.

  Instead Frankie just stared right back at him, unblinking, into those shark-grey eyes. Let the tosser know he had the measure of him. Let him know he didn’t trust him. Let him know he wasn’t afraid.

  ‘You once told me to keep out of your business,’ Frankie said. ‘I’m now telling you the same.’

  ‘Ah, but you are my business.’ Snaresby stared hard back into Frankie’s eyes. ‘This . . .’ He stretched his spidery arms out wide. ‘. . . is my business. All of it . . . Soho. Mayfair. Green Park. Piccadilly. Haymarket. Fitzrovia. And St James’s . . . All parts of my little kingdom, every square inch. As well as every good or bad beating little heart that resides inside . . .’

  Frankie had heard enough. Turning his back on Snaresby, he marched back into the club. Snaresby called out something after him, but he didn’t turn round. Fuck him. And his kingdom. What Frankie was trying to build here was his. And would stay his.

  No matter what Snaresby or any other bastard he might be working for thought.

  6

  Frankie grabbed the post Slim had left for him on his way into the flat and stuck it on the little hallway table inside, in between the Old Man’s golf bag and the antique hatstand where his favourite straw trilby still hung. He tried not to think about that bastard Snaresby and focused on the tournament instead.

  He still half regretted taking on the job of writing the copy for the brochure himself. Had got a quote from one of the little media agencies round the corner. But it had been way too steep and he’d decided to save the money. He’d almost got an A level in English before he’d dropped out. So he’d figured how hard could it be, writing a ten-page marketing document?

  Answer. Quite hard. Quite bloody hard indeed. It had taken him nearly two weeks all in, every scrap of time he’d had in between getting up and work and hitting the sack at night. Turned out writing about Macbeth and the nature of evil was a piece of piss, next to bigging up an event upon which your entire future depended.

  Still, at least it was done now and he’d even got a logo he’d designed, pinned here on the wall, which Dickie said he’d be able to use. A door with a bright neon bar sign above it, saying ‘Soho Open’, only done with snooker balls instead of light bulbs. And, yeah, it did look shit hot, even if Frankie did say so himself. Art was another A level he’d been halfway to getting when the Old Man had been arrested. He reckoned his old school mistress would be well proud of this.

  He sat himself down at the computer in the living room and carefully went through the copy he’d written. Banging it onto a floppy disk, he hurried round to Dickie’s grot shop over on Beak Street, where the legend ‘PRIVATES ON PARADE’ stood arched in glowing pink neon letters above its tinted, scuffed glass door.

  ‘All right, Ed? Dickie around?’ Frankie asked the heavily tattooed lad on reception.

  Ed the Head, so called on account of a certain part of his anatomy that had frequently featured in Dickie’s more under-the-counter productions, looked over from the lady he was boxing a pink dildo for, and waved Frankie towards the glass bead curtain at the back of the shop.

  ‘Downstairs,’ said Ed, who from the scowl on his face was clearly not enjoying the new Sunday Trading opening hours.

  Frankie made his way along the aisle, weaving past a couple of blokes who were busy perusing the various filth mags, DVDs and sex toys on display. Beyond the curtain, he climbed down a rickety spiral staircase into the cramped basement.

  The smell of joss sticks, lube and rubber was almost overpowering. Frankie checked the stockroom first, but there was nothing in there but stacks of mags and racks of gimp suits. No one in the little studio either, with its white reflective walls and big brass double bed. And thank God for that. Frankie was still getting over the time he’d popped down here unannounced to borrow some jump leads for the Capri a few months back, only to find Dickie busily papping away at some posh old bloke dressed up as a Nazi with a dwarf whipping the shit out of him with a teacher’s wooden cane whilst squirting whipped cream all over his bare buttocks.

  ‘Fuck Off, I’m Busy’, said the sign on the darkroom door at the end of the corridor, in red neon script.

  ‘Oi, Dickie, you Welsh bastard,’ Frankie shouted, knocking hard. ‘It’s Frankie. You in there?’

  ‘Gimme a minute,’ a deep, muffled voice came back.

  The red sign clicked out thirty seconds later and Dickie emerged from the darkroom, shutting the door behind him. He was dressed in a pair of pink goggles, threadbare white Y-fronts, and one left sock. Frankie did his best not to laugh, but didn’t quite make it.

  ‘Aw, leave it out. It gets bloody hot in there, don’t it?’ said Dickie, his big bald face sweating as he scratched at the green Abertillery RFC badge tattooed across his hairy, ample gut. ‘Anyhow, moving on. You’ll be pleased to hear I got some cracking shots of inside the club last week for you. Was just in here developing them now.’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘All a bit sterile, mind, for my taste, personally, but you say that’s what you want . . .’

  ‘Sterile?’

  ‘Well, more corporate, I suppose. But, I mean, that was the vibe you were after, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  Dickie sighed.

  ‘Why? Is that a problem?’

  ‘No . . . not necessarily.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just that – and far be it for me to tell you your own business, like – but I just couldn’t help thinking that the tables inside the club, well, they would have looked better a little bit more adorned . . .’

  ‘Adorned?’

  ‘Yeah, you know, with perhaps a couple of birds draped over the tables. Perhaps even playing, like – and, no, I don’t mean with each other, or anything dirty like that . . .’

  ‘Hmmm. I’m not sure that’s quite the kind of image for the tournament that we’re trying to project.’

  ‘Seriously, though, I could do it quite tasteful. You wouldn’t even need to see their nipples or minges or anything. Trust me, you’d be amazed at what you can conceal with a couple of well-placed balls.’

  ‘Thanks for the idea, but, er, no thanks,’ said Frankie. ‘Just some straight-up photos of the club front and inside will be fine.’

  ‘Right-ho, suit yourself, but if you do change your mind –’

  ‘I won’t. But are you still good for coming along on Friday to do a bit of papping for us? The Topster – that’s the sports agent –’ Frankie explained, ‘he reckons it will be good to have a few crowd shots of the night, as well as of the two pros he’s got coming in to play the exhibition matches, to be able to use further down the line. Should be good too. Both lads are just outside the world top hundred. And both local, so they’re doing it mates’ rates. All we’ve got to do is pay expenses.’

  ‘No sweat.’ Dickie had produced a half-eaten pasty from God only knew where and took a big bite. ‘OK if I bring a date?’ he asked, spitting flakes of pastry out all over his gut.

  ‘Of course, whoever you like. And you are still going to be all right to have these leaflets ready for me in time?’

  ‘’Course. Consider it done.’

  ‘Nice. Here’s your wedge, then.’ Frankie handed him an envelope with the cash they’d agreed. ‘And here’s the copy for the leaflets too.’

  ‘Go, Chaucer,’ Dickie said, taking the floppy disk off him and stuffing the last of his pasty into his mouth.

  *

  It was only when Frankie got back to the flat that he remembered the mail he’d left there on the table. He flipped quickly through it as he walked out to the kitchen to fix himself a cuppa. Bills, bills and more effing bills. This bloody club was like a bleedin’ sieve. The more money he poured in, the faster it poured out.

  He go
t to the postcard last of all. From Spain, just like Slim had said. Palma, Mallorca, to be more precise, although he’d always thought the latter was spelt with a ‘j’. The image on the front showed a strip of touristy restaurants and bars. All smiling, tanned punters and blue skies and jugs of sangria. Like someone had taken a snapshot of heaven.

  But who was it for? He flipped it over, thinking it couldn’t be him. Had probably been delivered here by mistake. But no, there his name was. Frankie James. In block capitals. Along with this address. Written in black biro. Something about the writing he recognized. Something that gave him this weird feeling right in the pit of his gut.

  He read what was written below:

  YOU WERE THERE FOR HIM. JUST LIKE I ALWAYS KNEW YOU WOULD BE.

  That was it. No signature. Nothing else apart from a smudged lipstick kiss.

  But Frankie had heard the phrase before. Almost word for word. Eight years ago now. Right from her own pink-painted lips. The same day his mum had disappeared.

  7

  Monday morning and Frankie couldn’t get his mum out of his mind as he drove his black Capri over to Festive Al’s warehouse in Clerkenwell Green to haggle him down on the seating for Friday night.

  Question after question kept running through his mind. Could it really be her? And if it was her, why now, and why not in person?

  What did You were there for him mean? If the you was Frankie, then surely the him had to be Jack, right? Because Frankie had been there for him last year when he’d needed him most, just like his mum had made him promise her all those years ago.

  ‘He thinks he can take care of himself, but he can’t.’ That’s what she’d said that day she’d disappeared, as his little brother had cycled off down the road in a strop. ‘You know that. And promise me, promise me,’ she’d said, grabbing his wrist so hard it had hurt, ‘you’ll always be there for him. No matter what happens.’

  He remembered every word. Had played them back through his mind a million times. Had she known she’d be leaving them both behind that day? Had she not just been asking him to step up, but had actually been saying goodbye?

  But an even bigger question than these was how could she have found out about him helping Jack last summer? Sure, what had happened to Jack was public knowledge. Splashed all over the papers. But Frankie’s name hadn’t appeared in any of that. Nor what he’d done.

  In fact, there were only four people left alive who knew anything about Frankie’s involvement in clearing Jack’s name. The Old Man, who’d told him to do whatever it took. Tommy Riley, whose tip-off had helped Frankie work out who the real killer was. Snaresby’s deputy, Sharon Granger, who’d nearly pieced together just what Frankie might have done to help get Jack set free. And Terence Hamilton himself.

  Was it really possible that one of them had spoken to his mother? Or talked to someone else who had? But who? And why? And how? How the hell could anyone have done that, unless they’d already been in touch?

  It just didn’t make any sense. Unless, of course, the postcard wasn’t from his mother at all. And it was someone else entirely who’d written this. Someone who, for whatever reason, was intent on messing with Frankie’s head. In which case, they were to be congratulated on doing a very fine job indeed.

  Back in Soho, Frankie watched his old mate Taffy taking out the club’s tables on a bunch of flatbed trucks, and then deliver the single pristine competition table that would be centre stage come Friday night.

  He then called in on Dickie Bird to pick up the leaflets. Dickie was busy downstairs ‘casting’, but had left the leaflets in a box upstairs with Ed the Head. And good news – he’d done a surprisingly professional job, with not an erect penis in sight. The logo on the front and the photos of the club inside looked great too. Even the words didn’t read half bad.

  Frankie stashed them safe and sound back in the flat and then went down into the club. Xandra was at the bar, listening to the answerphone, with Friday’s guest-list folder spread out before her.

  ‘All shaping up nicely,’ she said as he joined her. ‘That was that bloke from Ladbrokes head office. He’s a yes.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Frankie allowed himself a smile. Christ, it really was all coming together, wasn’t it?

  ‘All right if I ask Maxine along too?’ Xandra said. ‘She’s happy to muck in.’

  ‘Sure.’ Frankie smiled again. Good to see a little twinkle in her eyes. It was all well and good her hanging out with him and Slim all the time, but it was nice to see her putting down a few roots of her own.

  ‘And what about yourself?’ she said. ‘You bringing anyone special?’

  ‘Like who? Courteney Cox?’

  ‘I was thinking more maybe Sharon. You do still mention her quite a lot.’

  He blushed a little. ‘Do I now?’ He’d not noticed that he did.

  She meant Sharon Granger, Snaresby’s deputy, who Frankie had been at school with back in the day and who he’d had a fling with last year while all that stuff with Jack had been going on. A fling that should never have happened, as Sharon had made perfectly clear at the time. Only then she’d changed her mind, hadn’t she? Once Jack had been set free. But it had been too late. Annoyed and rejected, Frankie had already moved on. And then she’d caught him kissing another girl and she hadn’t spoken to him since.

  ‘Probably not the best idea,’ he said. ‘Not with half the mob we’ve got coming.’ Mob being the operative word. Listerman the lawyer had now put Tommy Riley down for ten tickets in all. Meaning more than likely ten faces Sharon would recognize from mugshots plastered across the investigation corkboards over at the West End nick.

  He gazed across the cavernous room. It looked so strange in here with just the one competition table and nothing else. This really was it, wasn’t it? His future. And who knew yet which way his luck might go?

  ‘Hello, folks,’ Slim said, making a beeline from the front door to the competition table.

  Frankie smiled. He’d been hoping that Slim might turn up so he could have a go. It was obvious just from looking at the excited grin on his face that Slim was thinking the exact same thing.

  ‘Rack ’em up, old timer,’ he told him. ‘A quid a frame. Let’s see what you’re made of, eh?’

  ‘And you fix the drinks, the usual for me, old chap.’

  Less than an hour later and Frankie was three quid up and zeroing in on the black. Slim was pretty useful himself, but Frankie had been getting better and better these last few months. Had been playing down here a lot on his own early mornings before anyone else showed up. Xandra said it had even got to the point where she’d bought earplugs to stop the incessant clack-clack-clacking from waking her up in her bedroom at the back of the club.

  Frankie was hooked. Snooker kept his demons at bay and it seemed to take him fully over. It allowed him to stop thinking about anything else, to just be . . . Not even running did that for him. When he was in the zone, this was his total focus, where, for just a short while, nothing else outside this beautiful rectangle existed. On the green baize nothing else mattered, apart from this moment, this angle, this spin, this shot.

  And crack – he took his shot now – and watched the pocket swallowing the black, and the cue ball rolling to a rest against the side cushion. And perfection. Just for a split second. That’s what this was, when you got it just right. He knew nothing in the world that felt better than that.

  ‘Well played,’ Slim said, getting up from his seat, a whiskey and soda in one hand, the fingers of his other trailing along the burnished length of the table. ‘You know, maybe you should consider playing one of these exhibition matches yourself.’

  Frankie stood up, the spell of the last hour broken, the real world swamping back in on him again. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘These lads we’ve got coming, they’d wipe the floor with me.’

  Plus, it would hardly look right, him joining in trying to show off, would it? Not when he was meant to be running the show. Though no point in kidding himself, either
. A part of him would love to have a crack.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Slim. ‘Or maybe not. You never know with Lady Luck.’ He raised his glass to her then, the photograph of Frankie’s mum back there behind the bar.

  Lady Luck: that’s what he’d often teasingly called her when they’d both worked here together back in the day.

  ‘Do you ever think about her?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Slim didn’t look at him when he said it.

  ‘I mean about what happened to her that day?’ he said. ‘About where she might have ended up?’

  ‘Aye, but it never gets me anywhere.’

  He’d been hit as hard as just about anyone by Priscilla James’s disappearance. Almost as hard, Frankie reckoned, as him, Jack and the Old Man.

  Frankie thought about the postcard. Should he show him it? He’d have seen her handwriting plenty working here with her. Enough to know if that card was really from her? But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Slim was as good as family, of course. But this was family family business. He needed to talk to Jack first. And, of course, the Old Man.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Slim said, looking at him strangely.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Another frame?’ Slim asked.

  ‘Nah, you’re good. There’s some stuff I need to deal with upstairs.’

  *

  Back up in the flat, Frankie gave Jack a bell on his mobile. No answer. Of course, he was moving into that new flat of his. Today. So he left a message instead to say that he’d swing by there tomorrow.

  Frankie went over to the desk and picked up the postcard from where he’d left it. Turning it over, he traced his fingertips over the lipstick kiss. He pushed his chair back and stared down at the desk drawers.

  Locked. All the drawers were locked. Why? Because that’s how the Old Man had left it. With no key. Because that was his private stuff in there. Paperwork, he’d said. But what sort? Maybe something Frankie’s mum had signed? Frankie read the postcard’s message again and studied the letters. He looked at the way the ‘W’ of ‘WERE’ sloped a little weirdly to the right and matched the ‘W’ in ‘WOULD’. What if he could find some samples of her handwriting to compare it against? Maybe then he could prove it really was her?