Inside Straight

by Ray Banks

  After I'd dressed and discharged myself, I went out to the main reception and waited for Clive's Fiesta to pull up alongside the taxis. Fifteen minutes after the agreed time, I was about to grab a cab and to hell with the money, when Clive turned up. He didn't apologise. Sorry was not a word in Clive's vocabulary. He opened up the passenger side door and waved me on, the engine running. I got in the car, slammed the door behind me. He gave me a crooked grin and pulled away from the hospital.

  "Thanks, Clive."

  "Pleasure's all mine. Never sat next to a hero before."

  "Leave it alone, will you?"

  "No, serious, man. You saved someone's life. You're big news. You were in the paper and everything."

  "Shut up."

  Clive kept one hairy hand on the wheel and twisted in his seat, scrabbling around in the back for something while he kept one eye on the road.

  "Clive—"

  "It's alright, I kept the paper."

  "The road. I just came out of the hospital, I don't want to go straight back in."

  "There." Clive straightened back up, a copy of the Manchester Evening News in his hand. He slung it across onto my lap. "Get on that, son."

  I looked at the paper. Sure enough, there I was, front page material. An old photograph from a promotion at the Palace back in the day. I looked young, fresh-faced and slim. Quite a difference to how I currently felt. I scanned the story and, again, Clive was right. I was being promoted as some kind of hero, the brave pit boss who stood in the way of a bullet in order to save his manager. And of course it was noted that my manager had been a woman. If it had been Dave Randall, I had no doubt that he'd be dead. I folded the newspaper.

  "See what I mean?"

  "Yeah." I looked out of the window.

  "They asked me questions about you."

  "What kind of questions?"

  "Just what you were like, that sort of thing. Not that many people talked about you."

  "What did you say?"

  "I lied. Told 'em you were a great fella." Clive laughed. "Course, that didn't get quoted, did it?"

  I opened the newspaper again. "What did?"

  "Usual shit. 'Keeps himself to himself'. Made you sound like a fuckin' serial killer, you ask me. How you doing, anyway?"

  "Fine." I scanned the article again. He was right – I could've murdered my family, and they'd describe me in the same way. I was grateful that I wasn't tall, otherwise I'd be known as a "gentle giant". "Getting a bit sick of people asking me that."

  "So you're back to normal, then, you prickly bastard."

  I smiled. "I suppose so."

  "But you're going to take some time off, right?"

  "Why?"

  "You've been through a traumatic experience, Graham."

  "I'm fine."

  "No, I mean, you've got an excuse, mate. Take some time off on the sick. Nobody's going to blame you for not wanting to come back in."

  I shook my head. "I don't do that."

  "I know you don't. And that's exactly why you should. Seriously. I'm not joking. You don't want to go back to the Riverside right now."

  "Why not?"

  Clive grinned. "Loads of reasons. They're understaffed for a start. Everyone who was on shift the other night, fuckin' forget about them coming in for the next month. They're taking their trauma time. Second, I know you think you're up to it, but I also know that you're not really the hard arse you like to think you are. You've been stressed the fuck out recently—"

  "No, I haven't."

  "Graham, listen to me. Anyone with a brain in their head's going to get stressed if they had the couple of months you've had, right? It's alright. You don't need to fuckin' bully your way through it."

  "I'm fine, Clive. Really. Only thing that stresses me out is people saying how stressed out I should be. I've been doing this long enough. You as well as anyone should know that—"

  "Alright." One hand in the air, calming me down. "Then how about a third, eh? When I said that they're understaffed, I meant management, too."

  "Jacqui's not in?"

  "Hasn't been and probably won't be for a while. Can you blame her?"

  I hadn't thought about it, even though something about the news felt familiar. I couldn't quite place why, though. And it made sense that she'd take some time off. She was wounded, after all. And she was a woman, so she was probably a martyr to her emotions. "No. She had a rough time of it. Who's covering for her?"

  "Well, see, this is my point."

  I stared at him. "Dave Randall?"

  "Yeah."

  "They've got another manager there. Eileen."

  "And she's covering for the days. Dave's doing the night shifts at the Riverside and some of the days at the Palace. He's not fuckin' happy about it, either. You know what he's like about doing actual work."

  "Why him?"

  "Because they don't want to use anyone good, do they? They're not going to waste talent at the fuckin' Riverside." He shrugged. "Present company excepted, of course."

  "Of course." I looked out of the side window again. It was grey and drizzly out there.

  "So all I'm saying, if you want to take it easy, you've got it all laid out for you, mate. And that's what I'd advise. Fuck the organisation. Have some fun for once. Let things blow over, have a rest, and come back to work the conquering hero."

  "I'll think about it."

  Which sounded like a lie, but I honestly did think about it. I thought about it instead of listening to Clive detailing his ongoing sexual escapades with a valet who looked "swear to God, just like Scarlett Johansson but with like slightly smaller tits". I thought about it after he dropped me off, and I thought about it against a background of white noise from the shower.

  Everything told me to stay away from the Riverside, and it wasn't like I didn't have plenty of excuses. The problem was, if I didn't go back, then I wouldn't know what was going on. And if I didn't know what was going on, then I was ill-prepared for any unfortunate developments. Convictions were secured on tiny details, wasn't that it? A voice at the back of my head nagged at me, told me I'd let something slip but, devil that it was, didn't deign to go into detail.

  I got out of the shower and grabbed a new towel to dry off. I stopped as one of the stitches in my head pulled and stung. I sucked breath. Threw the towel around my waist and wiped a clear path through the fog on the mirror. A beaten-up hostage of a man looked back at me. I grabbed my toothbrush, turned it on. It whirred against my gums. I closed my eyes as I brushed. My whole head buzzed.

  I spat, looked at the basin. Blood splattered the plughole. A couple of nights without flossing, and my gums turned raw. Back to the mirror, and my head was bleeding a little, too. I ran some water through a flannel and dabbed at my cut, then wrung it out, before I finished brushing the taste of blood out of my mouth. I got changed into my pyjamas and went through to the bedroom, where the curtains were always shut. I could see the light outside.

  I was safe. I knew it. I just had to keep reminding myself of that fact. Not let myself overthink it.

  I closed my eyes. I heard birds outside. A slight breeze touched the curtains in my bedroom. I breathed it in and felt myself relax. I heard the first spots of rain on the window turn to full drops, and then become a downpour. Somewhere in the limbo between awake and asleep, the sound turned into visions of waves crashing against rocks and a little boy screaming into the wind. And I thought, just as my legs and arms became immovable, that I hoped I'd left enough time between the knock and the nap.

  I didn't want to die. Not now that I was finally rich.

  18

  When I woke up, I was a rich man with a new job, thanks to Dennis Mendoza. He'd left me a message to call him back, which I did as soon as I'd wiped the sleep from my eyes.

  "Ah, Graham, thank you for telephoning me." Mendoza was as chirpy as ever. "Graham, I have good news, my friend. We would like you to join our crew, yes?

  "That's fantastic. Thank you, Mr Mendoza."

  "Ah-
ah-ah, I said—"

  "Dennis, of course. Thank you, Dennis."

  "You are welcome, Graham. The cruise, it is the one I spoke with you about in the interview."

  "The Canary Islands."

  "Yes, and Western Europe. You remembered. Good, good. I will send you the itinerary and contract and other forms by email, but it will leave on 22nd October. Is that a good date for you?"

  Two weeks on Monday. "That's a very good date for me. What about visas and everything?"

  "Our ship is registered in the UK, so you will not need a visa. You will need to fill out a medical form with your doctor."

  "Right. Okay."

  Mendoza laughed. "Do not worry! You have a skin complaint, I saw. It is just to make sure you have no life-threatening illnesses, Graham. So you do not die on our ship."

  I laughed along with him. "Oh, good. Thank you."

  "Now, two weeks, you will not have any problems with notice?"

  "None at all."

  "Wonderful. I shall send you all of the details. Telephone me here if you have any questions."

  "I will. Thanks again."

  "My pleasure, Graham. Welcome aboard!"

  I spent the rest of the afternoon sat in front of my computer, waiting for Mendoza's follow-up email. While I waited, I checked my calendar. If I worked next week, then I could take the following week to get packed and ready and then leave on the Monday. Or I could take this week and then go on the sick for another week. By the time Dave needed a sick note, I'd be sunning myself in the Canary Islands. But then I wondered if my sick leave record would be a factor with Duchess. I thought about calling Mendoza back, but decided to leave it.

  The email arrived and I opened the pdf itinerary and welcome pack. The Grand Duchess departed Southampton at four in the afternoon on the 22nd. The cruise lasted almost a month and took in Portugal, the Canary Islands, Spain and France before it crossed to Bermuda and then finally docked in Fort Lauderdale. I read and re-read the itinerary. From what I could make out, they could only open the casino when they weren't in dock, so I'd have to work a total of thirteen nights across the whole cruise. It looked too good to be true. No wonder so many staff went on the ships and didn't come back. It was, to quote Aladdin, a whole new world, and it appeared to be mine for the taking.

  Unfortunately, I had a couple of chores to take care of first. I called my GP surgery and made an appointment to go over the medical form with him. At first glance, it wasn't much to worry about – certainly not the kind of in-depth medical questionnaire that I'd been led to expect – but it would still mean sitting down with my doctor and hammering it out.

  The second thing I had to do was go back to work.

  Yes, Clive was right. I could've taken as much time as I wanted, but I needed to keep an eye on the place. The fact of the matter was that a club like the Riverside was a breeding ground for rumour and speculation, and the sooner I got back in the pit, the better those rumours would be. I had two weeks to make sure that my story was the one that everyone believed, and that there was no room for conjecture.

  So I took another shower, shaved and dressed and arrived at the Riverside for the beginning of the night shift. The rain had left a shine on the tarmac, reflecting the blue neon of the sign as I walked across the car park to the staff door. Sure enough, I saw Dave Randall's new-model BMW – a sleek, metallic mid-life crisis on wheels – and parked my Corsa next to it. I half thought about dinging the vehicle and blaming my concussion, but decided otherwise. I had to be mature about this. Be the bigger man.

  I hung my coat in my locker and shared the odd greeting with any member of staff who stared long enough, then I nipped into the gents to let the news that I was back percolate through the club. There was no point in showing my face until it had the maximum impact. I needed people interested and I needed them on my side.

  As I stepped into the toilets, I heard the tail end of a crying jag coming from one of the cubicles. I stopped, and so did the crying. We were both quiet for a moment, waiting for the other to say something. I moved to the sinks, ran some water to break the tension, then saw the middle cubicle behind me open up. Kevin Nash, face cast to the floor, hobbling painfully, stepped out. I watched him in the mirror as he passed behind me, his feet and stick sounding in a weird triple footstep, and approached the sink at the far end of the room.

  "You okay, Kevin?"

  "Fine." He ran hot water and sniffed. He took off his glasses and set them down, then washed his face.

  I nodded at the recently vacated cubicle. "Just, you didn't flush."

  Another sniff. He looked up at me. His face was pink and swollen around the eyes. He wiped his cheeks and replaced his glasses. "I didn't know you were back."

  "Needed to do something with my time, Kevin. Couldn't just hang around at home."

  He smiled sadly. "I know what you mean. Best to keep busy, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  I watched him. His lip trembled, his face crumpled and he turned away from me. There was a low moan and one further sniff, then he cleared his throat. "Sorry."

  "It's okay. Did you pick up your pills the other day? You left them behind."

  "Yes, thank you." He turned back, that sad smile back. "Listen, how are you dealing with what happened?"

  "The robbery? Fine. It's been tough, but—"

  "See, that's what I mean? How have you been sleeping?"

  I wondered what he was getting at, wondered if that business with the lock on the count room door had already spread to the point where I was being blamed for something. "I had a restless night the first night, but I think that was the concussion."

  "What about ... dreams?"

  "Dreams? I don't really dream."

  "Okay."

  "Why do you ask?"

  "I just ... it's nothing."

  "It's okay, Kevin. You can tell me." Was I supposed to be worried about something? Was something supposed to be playing on my conscience? If there were any rumours flying around about me that I needed to kill, then the sooner I heard them, the better. It was bad enough if people thought I had something to do with the robbery while I was here, but if it persisted after I left, then it could affect my future on the ships. "Really. It's okay."

  "Alright." He looked at the floor, rubbed his nose. "Well, since the assault, I haven't been sleeping very well. Nightmares, you know. I just can't seem to get it out of my head. I mean, I know it was one of those things. Everyone told me how random it was – those guys are everywhere, aren't they, even in this day and age? And I know that's true. It has to be true. But I can't help thinking ..." He shook his head. "I can't help thinking that it wasn't random, you know? I can't help thinking that they knew who I was, that it was me they wanted to hurt. Specifically, you know? And I can't explain it. They didn't exactly say much. It's just something I know. Deep down. And it scares me, Graham. I'm really fucking scared and I don't know what to do."

  I watched him in silence. I should've guessed. Of course it was all about him.

  He swallowed and sniffed. "Well? What do you think?"

  "I think if you dwell on something like that, it'll make you mental." I smiled. "Okay?"

  He moved his lips a bit before he spoke again. "Okay."

  "Great. Have a good night."

  I left the toilets, headed down the corridor towards the gaming floor. Honestly, these homosexuals were all about being the centre of attention. Couldn't get over the fact that his piddly little queer-bash had been upstaged by an armed robbery. It was sad, really.

  I pushed out into the club.

  Dave was over by the cash desk, leaning against the counter and chatting away to a cashier from the Union. She was blonde, pretty in a vacant kind of way and, I believe, yet to feature on Dave's hit list, which was probably why she was here. With both Douglas and Sandra down, he would've been in a position to ask for staff, and who else was he going to ask for but fresh meat? He turned from his conversation as I walked out onto the floor and frowned at me. "You're
not on the night shift."

  "I'm on the rota."

  "Not anymore. I've got Jeff coming in to cover."

  "Well, he doesn't need to, does he?"

  "No, he's coming in."

  I frowned right back at him, but did it in a comic way. "Well then we'll be overstaffed for once, won't we?"

  He walked alongside me as I went into the pit. "I'm not sure you should be back at work. I think you should go home."

  "And I think you should back off, Dave. I think you should let someone who knows how to run a pit do their job for once."

  "I've got Kevin Nash—"

  "In tears in the toilets. He's not doing a double, Dave." I looked at the pit sheet. "He's barely managed to scrape through a day. Look, why don't you toddle off back to your fish cashier and continue your futile efforts to gain entry to her underwear? Because you're just wasting my time here."

  He didn't say anything, but his eyebrows had knotted and his mouth hung open. I felt like sticking my pen in there and dotting his tongue. The thought made me laugh, which probably made Dave think I was laughing at him, which I kind of was, and then I shook my head and returned to the pit desk. I noticed the dealers watching the pair of us. Obviously I'd been louder than I intended. I had no doubt that the cashier had heard every word. And that made me smile again.

  "Graham, I'm going to accept that you've had a knock on the head and that you're perhaps not feeling very well—"

  I spoke to the pit monitor. "I've heard that before. You send me home and the next thing I know, I'm transferred somewhere else."