by Caro Fraser
Darius, Piers and Anthony wandered into the adjoining room.
‘What would you like?’ Piers asked Anthony.
‘Just a beer, thanks.’ Piers uncapped a Becks and handed it to him. ‘What was all that about taking a holiday from his morals?’
‘Normal rules don’t apply, is what he means. Back home, these boys can’t drink or gamble, and they don’t get much of a chance to sow their wild oats. Whereas over here – well, let’s just say they like to take advantage of our ludicrously low moral standards.’
At that moment Anthony heard a familiar voice behind him, and turned to see Ed piling into the suite with a number of assorted male and female friends. He was as ebullient as ever, pulling off his scarf and unbuttoning his overcoat, and exclaiming about the filthy weather outside.
‘Anthony! I heard they’d roped you into this evening’s shenanigans. You must be bloody mad. Brought a few friends along to witness the carnage. Now, lead me to the champagne!’
Anthony felt reassured by Edward’s presence; somehow it lessened the tension. He wanted to have a good feeling about this game, but it was difficult. He didn’t care for the Saudis, and deep down, he didn’t care for the Egans. Still, he was committed now.
Gradually the other players trickled in, with girlfriends in tow. Two of them Anthony already knew as regular frequenters of the casino – Tom Finnegan, a wealthy young Irishman and crony of Piers, and a German by the name of Klaus Bauer. The other two players were Piers, and a middle-aged Cypriot by the name of Markou, who was a business acquaintance of Caspar Egan’s.
After drinks and some friendly chit-chat, they got down to the serious business of the evening.
‘Right, gentlemen,’ said Caspar, ‘the buy-in is twenty thousand, as agreed. Total pot of eighty thousand. If everyone would like to take their seats?’
Anthony drew Darius aside. ‘You said the buy-in was five thousand.’
‘Did I? Well, we’ve had to up the stakes a bit. Five thousand is small change to our Saudi friends. Even twenty isn’t particularly interesting, but I promised them there would be some pretty girls coming along to liven things up if the poker got dull. Which is where Galina’s friends come in.’ He gave Anthony a dry look. ‘If you want out, just say so.’
Anthony hesitated. Twenty thousand was a ludicrously large amount to gamble, far more than he’d intended, but on the other hand, the higher the stakes, the higher the potential winnings. Apart from which, there was no way he was going to sidle out of this game because of lack of funds, with Piers and Julia looking on.
‘No, I’m in. But I’m only good for five thou in cash right now.’
‘Not to worry. The house will stake you the other fifteen. We know you’re good for it.’
Anthony considered briefly. If he came out even or on top, which he fully expected to, the Egans would have their money straight back. He nodded. ‘OK. Thanks.’
The game started, and the play for the first hour was uneventful. Anthony played cautiously at first, then as he loosened up and grew more confident, his betting did too. The Saudis were unexceptional players. Hakim played irrationally and sloppily, not much caring whether he won or lost, and kept calling for more drinks. Gabir’s play was temperamental, and he was prone to wild betting, but somehow his luck held. Farid was both a lazy and an unlucky player, and by half eleven he had dropped out of the game, having lost his entire stake. By this time, Anthony had amassed a comfortable pile of chips and was feeling buoyant. Those not involved in the game seemed content enough with the little party they had created for themselves in the sitting room; the players could hear muffled music and laughter, but it seemed to disturb no one’s concentration. Occasionally people wandering from the sitting room to get food and more drinks would drop in to watch the game for a short while, then drift away again.
After steady, successful play during the first hour, Anthony experienced a couple of disastrous hands. He bet too much on what he thought was a promising hand, only to have his two pairs beaten by Klaus’s three of a kind. In the next hand he rashly hoped his five of hearts, six of diamonds and seven of spades might turn into a straight, and again he overextended his bet. When the flop went down, the resulting Jack of diamonds, nine and ten of hearts gave Piers two pairs. As he watched Piers gather in the chips, Anthony suddenly began to feel panicky. His pile was dwindling rapidly. If he didn’t start winning, he would finish up like Farid, bowing out of the game with his entire twenty thousand stake gone, and owing the Egans fifteen thousand. He tried to calm his mind, and focus.
It seemed to work. He won three out of the following seven hands, but the betting was modest, and didn’t recoup him a great deal. Still, the tension began to ease. He told himself it was just a question of climbing back up again, and not betting over-optimistically on hands which could easily go wrong.
A quarter after midnight, Hakim had drunk himself out of the game, and went to the buffet to console himself with a large plate of asparagus and truffle risotto, and a few more glasses of champagne. He wandered into the sitting room and flopped down on one of the leather sofas next to Valeriya and Dina, slopping champagne over Dina’s skirt. He laughed and wiped his fat hand across her thigh, and she exclaimed, ‘Dura!’ and shoved his hand angrily away. Hakim stroked her thigh again, trying to push his hand between her legs, and she shouted at him again and got up and stalked away.
‘Only a pig does that kind of thing,’ snapped Valeriya.
‘Shut up, bitch,’ replied Hakim indifferently. His drunken attention shifted across the room, to a glass-topped table where Julia was cutting some lines of coke. His eyes lit up, and he got up and went over and sat down heavily on the sofa next to her, watching and waiting eagerly. Gabrielle, curled up in the corner of the sofa, watched the proceedings dispassionately, inching her feet away from Hakim’s fat thigh. She didn’t touch drugs, though she didn’t care if other people did.
There were now six players left in the poker game – Anthony, Markou, Gabir, Piers, Klaus and Finnegan. All eyes watched as the dealer flicked the cards across the baize. Anthony picked his up. The ace and two of spades. Promising, but everything depended on the flop, the three cards to be dealt next. More spades would be excellent for him, but just as good for any of the other players holding spades. Maybe the betting would throw up some clues. He watched the other players study their cards impassively. The betting opened. Anthony, Gabir and Piers made modest bids. Klaus gave a shrug and folded his hand. A couple of seconds later, Tom Finnegan and Markou did the same, leaving just three players in the game.
The dealer dealt the flop, and as the six of spades, the ten of diamonds, and the three of spades went down, Anthony’s pulse quickened. The ace, two and three of spades, and the six – a flush draw with the potential for a straight draw, if the next two cards were the four and five of spades. The rational part of his brain knew the unlikelihood of that, but the part that had driven him over the past few months to return, night after night, to the poker and roulette tables, had taken over. In his mind he could see the dealer turning those cards over, false certainty driving illusory hope.
The betting resumed. Piers raised the stakes – but only modestly. Gabir seemed unusually reflective, stroking one thick, black eyebrow. Anthony tried to read his face, wondering if he was merely bored, or had something in his hand that merited concentration. As he studied the faces of his fellow players, he was vaguely aware of an increase in the noise and laughter from the food and drink room. Presumably staff from the casino kitchen had brought up the hot supper. He realised, with surprise, that he was hungry.
People began to drift in from the next room, curious to see how the game was going, as though the slightly heightened tension of the game was infectious. Klaus and Tom Finnegan were exchanging discreet banter, but Anthony scarcely noticed. The game was like some kind of cocoon, his own concentration soundproofing him against external realities.
After a moment or two’s thought, Gabir raised Piers. Anthony, with a growing convictio
n that luck was with him on this hand, matched him briskly. Possibly too briskly, he realised, after he had pushed the pile of chips forward. He waited anxiously for the dealer to turn the fourth card. As the ten of spades went down he felt an almost dizzying sense of astonishment and relief. His instincts had been proved right. Now he had an ace-high flush, on the cards already down – only two pairs of ten could beat him.
Piers’ own feelings on seeing the ten of spades were akin to Anthony’s. He already held the ten of hearts and nine of clubs, and the cards which had just been dealt gave him three tens. What were the odds of anyone else having a better hand? Outside, surely. Then again, if either of the others held spades, they had a good chance of having a flush, which would beat his hand. Maybe some confident, tactical betting would give him a better idea of who had what. He stacked up a hefty pile of chips and pushed them forward.
Gabir pursed his lips, his dark eyes shifting back and forth from the cards in his hand to those on the table. He counted out four careful stacks of chips and eased them across the baize, doubling Piers’ bet. Piers knew at that moment that his speculation had been right. Gabir must be holding spades, and he must have a flush. He glanced across at Anthony, whose expression was unreadable, his gaze focused.
Anthony felt his nerve give a little as he tried to rationalise Gabir’s bet. The guy had more money than sense, so the amount he gambled didn’t necessarily reflect the realities of his hand. Also, he had occasionally made wild bets throughout the evening merely to amuse himself, so far as Anthony could tell. Either he was bluffing, or he just didn’t care. Or maybe he held a flush himself. Even if he did, Anthony reckoned it couldn’t beat his own.
Gabir stifled a yawn, then shook himself, frowning at the cards as though trying to concentrate. The gesture made up Anthony’s mind. He couldn’t sit with the best poker hand he’d ever held in his life, and not go with it. The Saudi simply couldn’t hold better cards. With a deliberate gesture, he drew all his chips together and pushed them into the middle of the table, going all in.
Piers was momentarily taken aback. Either Anthony’s move was naive recklessness, of the kind that had made Anthony such a useful customer of Blunt’s, or it was a clear signal that he held an exceptionally strong hand. Either Anthony or Gabir could be bluffing, but from the cards on the table, and from the way the betting had gone, one of them held a flush. His own chances of coming out on top depended entirely on the next card being the ten of clubs – insanely remote odds. He glanced up, and saw Julia on the other side of the table. She was watching Anthony, her gaze intense. Piers saw and read the expression in her eyes. That she should still feel anything for that lower-middle-class waste of space filled him with contempt and anger. He looked back at the cards. He knew the sensible thing to do would be to fold. But suddenly Piers wasn’t feeling sensible.
‘I’ll call you,’ he said to Anthony. Then he pushed all his own chips into the centre of the table.
Suddenly everyone became aware of the sound of shouting, and some kind of commotion in the next room. People began to look round and murmur. Anthony sighed inwardly; the chances were that Edward had started some drunken piece of nonsense, as he was prone to do. Klaus and Tom Finnegan got up and left the table to go and see what was going on. Anthony’s attention returned to the game, where the dealer was about to turn the final card.
The nine of spades went down, and Anthony’s heart jumped. Only in that moment did it dawn on Anthony that Gabir might have spades. He looked up. For the first time in the game Gabir was looking directly at him. Then, as each turned their cards over, Gabir smiled. Anthony’s stomach seemed to hit the floor. The cards Gabir had laid down were the seven and eight of spades. The six, nine and ten lying on the table completed a straight flush, beating Anthony’s. He couldn’t believe it. Just as Piers was laying down his own cards in disgust, Tom Finnegan stormed back into the room and shouted at Gabir in fury, ‘Come and sort out your fucking animal of a cousin!’
Gabir stood up abruptly and left the table, his face dark, and everyone followed, the game forgotten. The commotion was coming from the sitting room. Among the shrill exclamations of female outrage Anthony could hear Tom shouting, ‘You unbelievable Arab bastard!’
Gabrielle met him in the doorway, white-faced. ‘It’s one of the Russian girls. He raped her. Or tried to.’
‘Who did?’
‘The fat one. The boy.’
Anthony went into the sitting room, where shouting and swearing was going on in various languages. Klaus and Edward were trying to pin Hakim to the sofa, but he was violently drunk, and they were having trouble holding him. Hakim’s trousers were undone, roughly hoisted to his waist, his silk shirt loose. Gabir was standing over him, shouting furiously at him in Arabic. Katia was screeching and spitting abuse at him in Russian. Farid Al-Rahman stalked out to the hallway, pushing roughly past Anthony, barking orders into the mobile clamped to his ear. Agitated voices were coming from the room beyond, and Anthony went through the bathroom and into the bedroom. The Russian girl, Dina, was lying on the bed, being tended to by Valeriya and Galina. She was crying and talking woozily, as though she had only recently regained consciousness. Her nose was bloody. Caspar Egan stood at the edge of the room, talking on the house phone.
‘How is she?’ Anthony asked Valeriya, who was crying as she dabbed at the blood on Dina’s face with a tissue. Every woman in the room seemed to be crying.
‘That fat Arab pig raped her! He hit her and he raped her!’
Anthony fetched a glass of water from the bathroom and gave it to Valeriya, then went back to find Gabrielle. There was no sign of her in the sitting room, where Hakim was slumped on the sofa, sweating, sullen and drunk, his struggle abandoned, Klaus and Edward holding his arms firmly on either side. Caspar Egan stalked in.
‘Right. I shall be calling the police in a moment, so I want all this’ – he gestured to the cocaine paraphernalia – ‘cleared up. I don’t want there to be a single trace of any illegal substance when they get here. Not one.’
At the word ‘police’, Farid began shouting at Caspar in Arabic. Gabir spoke to him sharply, calmed him, then indicated to Caspar that he wanted to speak to him away from everyone else. They left the room together.
‘Have you seen Gabrielle?’ Anthony asked Edward.
‘She was here a moment ago.’
Anthony went to the empty room and the abandoned poker game. His unlucky cards still lay on the table, and it hit him forcefully that he had lost everything, and that he was now in hock to the Egans for twenty thousand. Twenty thousand he could ill afford. He stared at Gabir’s cards and remembered his own conviction that he had a hand that couldn’t be beaten. There on the table lay stark proof of the folly of the past few months. It was madness, the idea that if he just hung in there, things would get better. He suddenly recognised the futility that lay ahead if he went on, the endless games of poker, evenings at the roulette wheel, making wins, trying to make bigger wins, then failing, and trying to recoup his losses. A never-ending cycle of stupidity and loss. He’d come this far and had done nothing but lose tens of thousands. There was, he realised, no such thing as winning. He felt sickened.
He felt a hand on his arm, and turned, expecting to see Gabrielle. But it was Julia.
‘You really don’t want to carry on like this,’ she said gently. He could tell she was trying to be kind.
He closed his eyes momentarily, and sighed. ‘You’re right. I don’t.’
Piers sauntered in. He glanced at the table, then said to Anthony, ‘Shame for you that the little fracas next door didn’t kick off five minutes earlier. Things turned out rather badly, didn’t they?’
Julia suddenly reached across the table and gathered the cards up. She squared them, shuffled them neatly and set the deck on the baize. ‘I’m not sure things turned out any particular way. Not that anyone can prove.’
‘Try telling that to Mr Al-Wadhi. Or the Egans.’
‘I think they’re too
preoccupied right now to care much,’ said Julia. ‘The thing is, I don’t particularly want to see twenty thousand of our money go into the pockets of some rich Arab to whom it’s merely so much loose change.’
‘Oh, please – we all know who your noble little gesture was intended for. Reminds me of the way things were years ago, Julia coming to the rescue of poor old Anthony. Still …’ He smiled and shrugged. ‘This way no one goes home a loser. Thank you, darling.’ He kissed Julia lightly. ‘Enough excitement for one evening. Shall we call a taxi?’
‘I thought the police were coming? In which case, we’ll all have to stay.’
‘Something tells me not. I think that was just Caspar putting the wind up our Saudi friends. I suspect a deal is presently being brokered, whereby the fat, would-be rapist gets flown home pronto to the House of Saud by his minders, and Caspar is the recipient of a healthy amount of hush money, as is young Svetlana, or whatever her name is.’
‘She’s been attacked and raped, for God’s sake!’ said Julia angrily.
‘Oh, indeed. She may well want to press charges. Then again, once the bruising has died down, by which time Mr Al-Rahman will probably be well out of the jurisdiction and beyond extradition, she may decide that a few hundred thousand is a price she’s prepared to pay for her – let’s face it – dubious virtue.’ He turned to Julia. ‘Come on – no point in hanging round here.’
After they had gone, Anthony trawled the rooms of the suite – Hakim remained pinned down in the living room, where tidying up operations were in progress, the bedroom was still a scene of weeping and agitation – but Gabrielle was nowhere to be seen. Anthony assumed she must have left, but he couldn’t understand why she had left without telling him.
‘Have the police been called?’ he asked Edward.
‘No idea. Only a matter of time, I imagine. Hey, is there anything left in that bottle of champagne over there? Pass it over, there’s a good chap.’
Anthony retrieved his overcoat and slipped out of the building, keying in Gabrielle’s number. If the police were eventually called and decided they needed to talk to everyone, they could always get hold of him. But there was no reply from her phone. It was half one, but he managed to find a cab without difficulty, and headed to Holland Park.