Inside Straight

by Ray Banks

  No, sir.

  I liked the way that sounded in my head, so I said it out loud: "No, sir."

  I wasn't like that. I would not be bullied. I was my own man. I made my own decisions. And they were always right.

  "You don't know what you did, Inspector Kennedy."

  See, the way I saw it, if you pushed someone too far, they became unpredictable. Like Jacqui – had a horrible time of it in Odessa. I put her in a similar position during the robbery, and she found an inner strength she never knew she had and she did something about it. She became a better person. And because I saved her life, so did I.

  Me and her, we were the same really. You know, once you actually sat down and thought about it. We were soul mates or something. Two halves of the same person.

  And yet, she hadn't come back to work. I felt that absence more than most, I thought, because of that connection.

  I'd thought about paying her a visit. I had her address. But there never seemed to be an appropriate time. I didn't want to mess it up by looking too desperate.

  Now, though ...

  Now I really had nothing to lose.

  I rolled onto my side and fumbled about in my jacket until I found the sheet of paper with Stephen Laird's details on it. I threw it to one side and dug again, found Jacqui's phone number and address. I pulled myself upright and over to the side of the bed, where I sat blinking at the instructions on the phone. After a spot of button mashing, I heard an outside line. I dialled Jacqui's home number and stared at the carpet as I waited for her to pick up.

  The purr of the ringing phone was soothing. I closed my eyes.

  I didn't know what I was going to say to her. I really just wanted to hear her voice. And if I was honest, I wanted to hear her apologise for grassing me up to Kennedy, because deep down I knew it was her. She'd stayed off work, she'd been in the count, she'd been watching me. We were two halves of the same person. It was impossible to hide things from her. She just knew it all. And because she was a better person than me, she told the police. Kennedy had as good as gloated about it when he cornered me in my flat.

  So I wanted to hear her say sorry, and I wanted to tell her how it could have been different, how we could've maybe gone off together on the ships and enjoyed the proceeds. I was a romantic. I needed a romantic story to send me off to sleep.

  I blinked slowly at the recurring purr in my ear and it occurred to me that perhaps she'd gone back to work.

  But no, it was too soon. She was home. I knew it. I could feel it.

  A click on the line, and then—

  "Hello?" Her voice was sleep-husky and vague. She was a million miles away and still right against my ear.

  I opened my mouth. Nothing but breath came out.

  "I can't ... who is this?"

  I closed my mouth. Something clicked in my cheek. I felt a bit sick.

  "Graham?"

  I closed my eyes and slapped a free hand over them to keep them closed, found myself leaning forward until my head and the receiver were almost between my knees. I took a deep breath in through my nose. It made a rattling sound. My back ached from my shoulderblades down the base of my spine. When I opened my eyes again, tears spotted the carpet.

  I let out a low moan.

  "Graham, is that you?"

  I rubbed at my eyes with the heel of my hand and straightened up a little. I stared at the fire notice on the back of the door, blinking away the tears and trying to focus until I could read it properly: IN THE EVENT OF A FIRE ...

  Another emergency exit, but this time I couldn't move.

  "Jacqui." It was a croak more than a word.

  "Graham, where are you? What's the matter?"

  "What's the matter?" I closed my eyes again. Felt a wave of nausea mould my gut like potter's clay. "What's the matter." I breathed though my nose; it made more noise than breathing through my mouth, a whistling sound that hurt my head.

  "Do you need help? Do you need me to call anyone for you?"

  I shifted the mouthpiece away and concentrated on her voice. I pictured her half-asleep, her hair a mess, wrapped untidily in a dressing gown, a flash of leg and the smell of moisturiser. I fumbled with my zip, but I couldn't get it open and when I looked down, I felt sick again.

  She wasn't Jacqui anymore. She wasn't one of us. She was a grass.

  "Graham—"

  "Fuck off." A weight shifted in my chest.

  "I didn't catch—"

  I bellowed into the mouthpiece this time. "Fuck off."

  "What?"

  "Whore." Then I slammed the phone down so hard it hurt my hand.

  I tried to get to my feet, but my legs didn't want to play, so I slumped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling until my eyes grew too heavy to continue.

  I smiled. I felt good. I felt clean.

  That told her.

  30

  I spent most of the next morning spewing into the sink, and then did it again in the shower.

  Whenever I moved, it was slow and painful. When I looked at things it was through a veil of veins. When I opened my mouth to breathe, I tasted scotch and rum and vodka all over again. These were the reasons I didn't drink, and I could only wonder at my thought process the night before. I didn't recall much of what I'd done or what had happened, but I guessed it was nothing too bad considering all my injuries were old and the most dishelleved part of me were my flies. So I put it down to an overworked nervous system. My brain had just flashed, crashed and burned. It happened. Perhaps I'd been stressed after all.

  I barely remembered that I had twenty grand in cash until I saw it sitting on the chair under the writing desk in the corner of the room. I took it out, dumped it onto the bed and gave it a proper count. It was all there, barring one bundle, which I found in my jacket.

  I was still good. I was hung over, but nothing awful had happened and there was nobody kicking down the door. I was free for the time being, at least.

  I twisted my wrist and checked my watch. It was ten o'clock. It would take me a couple of hours to get to Southampton, so I had a little time in London to grab a few things. It was better to turn up slightly late and composed than arrive early and look like I was on the lam. So I went to the nearest clothes shop, bought a round of shirts, underwear, socks and two plain suits with ties, baffled the diminutive shop assistant by paying in crumpled tenners, and then returned to the hotel to change before check out. I bought a book from WH Smith so I had a better bag, shoved the money inside, discarded the Tesco bag and hopped the train to Southampton.

  This was working. My brain was working. It felt as if I were processing things in a different way this morning. I was more calculated, felt more in control hung over than I ever had before. I knew what I was doing, where I was going. It felt like running a winning pit, and I realised that I hadn't felt that way in a long time.

  As I watched the scenery zip past, a South Coast Line hot chocolate sitting in front of me, I thought that maybe Dave Randall was right about a couple of things. That maybe I hadn't been at my best recently, that maybe my memories of pits won weren't as accurate as I might've liked. It wasn't something I particularly enjoyed admitting to myself – and I wouldn't have done so out loud, especially if it was within earshot of a certain general manager – but it was cleansing in a way. Cathartic.

  My misery had a cause. And now that cause was gone, I was no longer miserable. I could deal with things. I could live again.

  I arrived at Southampton Central, left via the Platform 4 exit and grabbed a cab outside. One ten-minute ride and a ten pound note later, and I arrived at the docks. It was one-thirty, and there was a mist in the air, the kind you only get on the coast. As the cab pulled away, I let it settle on my face. It reminded me of Blackpool. I smiled. It felt like home.

  And then I saw her, the Grand Duchess. She was massive and white, looming through the mist. She looked like those old cruise ships that took people across the Atlantic to start new lives. A man could lose himself on a ship like that. I
couldn't wait. The expanse of concrete between the road and the ship was empty. I guessed that most of the crew had already reported for duty, and that I'd probably get a ticking off for arriving so late. But if they wanted me, they'd have to forgive me. If they didn't, there were alternative routes of escape. I pictured a cross-channel train trip to France, then another to Amsterdam, somewhere they spoke English better than the Brits and where I'd be able to blend until I figured out where I wanted to end up. I'd find work somewhere and I'd probably find a new life there, too. It was exciting. It felt grown up.

  I started across the concrete, my heels clicking, cold breath in my lungs. I was clean, well-dressed and rich, and on my way to a new life. I could feel it in every pore.

  This was it. I whistled to myself, felt the limp of the past week melt into a powerful stride.

  I didn't notice the other footsteps until they were a few feet behind me. Then I half-turned, glanced over my shoulder.

  Jez. Long coat, old and smelly-looking. A hard, tired look on his face. "Graham."

  I opened my mouth to reply. Stopped. Old me would have tried to talk to him, figure him out, perhaps offer him money. Old me would have begged him.

  New me stood his ground. "Jez. Didn't expect to see you here."

  "Barry wants to see you."

  "I bet he does."

  "Got some unfinished business."

  He took a step forward. I took a step back.

  Jez gave me a vinegar smile. "Don't be a fuckin' prick about this, alright? It's been a long night." He waved me towards the car behind him.

  I shook my head. "No. I don't think so."

  I turned and sprinted towards the gang plank. Heard Jez grumble – "Fuck's sake" – but a glance over my shoulder showed me that he'd moved three steps at the most.

  He wasn't going to follow. Too many people around, even if they weren't exactly visible.

  I kept running, bag swinging against my side.

  Should have guessed that Pollard would send someone after me, but I'd been so worried about the police, I hadn't thought of it. And while Pollard was being questioned in some grotty little cell, of course he'd send word to Jez – who hadn't been in the snooker club – to tie up loose ends. And of course the police were too busy to track me down, but Jez had a personal stake in this. From the look of him, he'd driven all night to get here in time.

  That was good. It meant he was too tired to come after me. I was the strong one now. I let out a laugh as I ran.

  A roar cut it short.

  My legs went weak and numb. I stumbled. My knees hit concrete and appeared to buckle in on themselves as my face glanced off the ground. White flashes in my eyes, fresh pain in my nose. I brought my hands round in front of me to push myself back up and dragged a few loose scraps of paper with me.

  The WH Smith bag was ripped, the money raining out like cash confetti which whisked up in a sudden breeze. I tried to grab the cash, but it was already out of reach.

  I couldn't move.

  I didn't understand, my brain locked, until I saw the blood and smelled the urine and felt the numbness of the shock subside and explode into a wild, white agony.

  Behind me, I heard Jez's footsteps and tried to move, but my legs were little more than bone splinters in jelly. I wanted to cry out, but I couldn't find the breath. I tried to haul myself towards the gang plank. Someone in there would help me. They'd call the police. They'd stop him.

  Jez stopped in front of me, his market-bought trainers scuffed with blood. He bent over and whipped the carrier bag from my hand. More scraps of cash whirled in the air. I scrabbled to catch them. A corner of a twenty pound note stuck to the end of my finger. Her Majesty looked disappointed to see me.

  Just the sight of it brought tears to my eyes.

  "Fuckin' baby."

  Jez grabbed my right hand. Looked as if he was about to pull me to my feet. I wanted to tell him that I couldn't stand, it would hurt too much, please, he should just call an ambulance and leave. I wouldn't say anything to the police. I was sorry.

  I didn't say any of it. And he didn't pull me up, he pulled me along, dragging me backwards along the concrete. I tried to see where I was going, but I couldn't get my head round enough. He was dragging me towards the ship, I thought. Maybe he planned on leaving me there for the cruise staff to deal with. The moment the idea crossed my mind, a smile crossed my lips and despite the agony I found the energy to breathe a sigh of relief.

  Then, just as quickly as he'd grabbed me, he let me go.

  I wasn't in the ship. I wasn't even near the ship. I could smell the sea, hear the desperate caws of circling gulls. I blinked at Jez. He was smiling.

  I started to ask him what was going on. He cut me off with a heel to the hands. First the left, then the right. A stamp that jerked the rest of me and a grind that caused me to scream like I'd never screamed before. I tried to twist over, but my arms couldn't move and my legs were in tatters. I was shackled by my body and couldn't think for the pain. I looked up and screamed at him. Called him names. This wasn't fair. He couldn't do this to me. Somebody had to help.

  Jez crouched by me, put one hand on my side and the shotgun on the ground. I looked at him, desperately trying to breathe away the shuddering, crunching pain. He put his free hand on my forehead. I saw the DADDY tattoo on his arm, the muscles moving as he made me close my eyes.

  "Daddy."

  I felt myself roll over onto my side, felt the encroaching agony of injuries old and new, and then I fell. When I hit the water, I opened my eyes and gasped for breath. I couldn't move, couldn't splash, couldn't do much more than suck a lungful of air before I sank like Stephen Laird.

  I saw Jez stand up as I went down. I watched him. My eyes stung with the water. When I shouted, water rushed into my mouth, my throat, my lungs.

  I saw him turn away from the edge of the dock and walk away.

  And then it was noise and light and nothing but the cold of the sea and the shrill dying echo of a million mental tantrums.

  ###

  FREE SAMPLE Dead Money by Ray Banks

  Amazon UK | Amazon US

  Double-glazing salesman Alan Slater is in trouble. He hasn't had a good sales lead in months. His wife rightly suspects him of playing around. His best mate Les Beale has turned into a bigoted, boozed-up headcase. And that's the least of it.

  When a rigged poker game has fatal consequences, Alan finds himself not only responsible for the clean-up, but also for Beale's escalating debt to a man who won't take "broke" for an answer.

  As Beale's life spirals out of control, he becomes ever more desperately reliant on Alan to save his skin. But Alan isn't about to be dragged into the gutter by anyone, least of all his bad-beat, dead money former mate.

  After all, there's no such thing as a compassionate double-glazing salesman.

  "Memorable characterisation, Manchester at night and at its most sinister, lives flooding down the plughole – this is British noir in all its sordid splendour by a writer who has taken more than just an excursion to the dark side." – The Guardian

  "A pitch perfect novel" – Crime Fiction Lover

  "Brimming with pitch-black humour and written with a claustrophobic mania to rival the finest noir exponents, it's compelling and finely honed stuff." – The Big Issue

  "Dark, nasty, funny, and painfully human" – Spinetingler Magazine

  "A tight and pacy read, the prose stripped to the bone and the dialogue pitch-perfect. Fans of Colin Bateman and Elmore Leonard will find it hits their sweet spot. Cohen brother lovers; one for you too." – Loitering With Intent

  "A great story. It's tight as hell and it's so deliberate that it's a complete joy to read... I loved Dead Money." – Dead End Follies

  "An intensive masterclass in how to write." – Helen FitzGerald

  "Banks writes in a clean style, looped with inky black humor, and the plot goes at a lightning pace, heaping dread upon dread." – On The Book Beat

  "Dead Money is a quick read and
a thoroughly enjoyable one, a Guy Ritchie film in prose, minus a lot of the showing off." – Kate of Mind

  Dead Money

  Amazon UK | Amazon US

  copyright 2004, 2011 Ray Banks

  1

  "Place your bets, please ..."

  The Palace was a club for the chip-chaser with delusions of grandeur. It smelled like a gentlemen's club in the pit – smoke from before the ban clung to the heavy curtains that framed brick walls and gave the illusion of windows and an outside world. The lights were dim enough to make most of the punters look attractive, but not so dim as to allow them any funny business. Beneath their feet, a patterned carpet sprawled through the club, sticky to the touch where it wasn't worn to threads around the tables.