Table of Contents

- INSIDE STRAIGHT

- Dedication

- 1

- 2

- 3

- 4

- 5

- 6

- 7

- 8

- 9

- 10

- 11

- 12

- 13

- 14

- 15

- 16

- 17

- 18

- 19

- 20

- 21

- 22

- 23

- 24

- 25

- 26

- 27

- 28

- 29

- 30

- FREE SAMPLE Dead Money by Ray Banks

- Books by Ray Banks

- Don't Miss Out

INSIDE STRAIGHT

Ray Banks

Dedication

To Anastasia

who can separate the past from the lies.

Published by Blasted Heath, 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

Ray Banks has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover photo: Ljupco Smokovski/Shutterstock.com

Cover design by JT Lindroos

Visit Ray Banks at:

www.blastedheath.com

ISBN (ePub): 978-1-908688-40-8

Version 2-1-3

Once upon a time, there was a lovely little forest, and in this lovely little forest lived an orphaned bunny and an orphaned snake. By a surprising yet not terribly plausible coincidence, both creatures were blind from birth.

One fine day the bunny was hopping merrily through the forest, singing a happy little song to himself, when he stumbled over the snake, who'd been slithering just as merrily through the undergrowth.

"Oh me, oh my," said the bunny. "Oh, my giddy aunt and all my dizzy cousins, I do beg your pardon, sir. I'm afraid I didn't see you. I'm a blind orphan, you see."

"Gosh, really?" said the snake. "What a surprising yet not terribly plausible coincidence! I too am a blind orphan!"

"Oh, isn't it terrible?" said the bunny.

"Positively frightful," said the snake.

"Why, I don't even know what I am!" said the bunny.

"Neither do I," said the snake. "Tell you what, let me slither all over you, and I'll try to work out what you are."

"That would be wonderful of you," said the bunny.

So the snake slithered all over the bunny, touching every inch of him, and when he was finished, he said, "Okay, well, you're covered in fur, you have really long, floppy ears, a twitchy nose and a soft, cottony tail. Now I'm no David Attenborough, but given my limited knowledge of the local fauna, I'd say you were a sweet little bunny."

"A bunny! Of course! Oh thank you, thank you!" exclaimed the bunny, clearly excited. "But wait, you're an orphan too, aren't you? Let me feel you all over with my sweet little bunny paws and I'll tell you what you are."

"Much obliged, squire."

So the bunny felt the snake all over with his sweet little bunny paws, and when he was finished, he hopped back and put one sweet little bunny paw to his sweet little bunny chin.

"Hmmm," he said.

"Well?" asked the snake.

"Well, it's difficult to tell. You appear to be smooth and slippery, you have a forked tongue, no backbone and no balls."

"Ah shit," said the snake. "I'm a fucking pit boss."

—Old casino joke

1

Failure looked like an Ordsall trading estate on a dishrag Tuesday morning. Failure looked like the Salford Riverside.

I just hoped that failure – much like the itching, burning sensation that gnawed at the palm of my left hand – was a temporary state of affairs.

The Riverside was supposed to be the organisation's flagship club, the jewel in Sovereign's crown, but with its orange brick façade and blue neon sign the place looked more like a Staples-turned-brothel than a gaming establishment. It wasn't exactly by a river's side, either. The closest thing to water was one of the drainage routes for the Manchester Ship Canal, and that water combined with a nearby KFC gave the place a smell that could only be described as mildewed, half-cooked chicken carcass.

Hardly Monte Carlo in the springtime.

The club wasn't open yet, but I'd piqued the Security's interest with my approach, so he was already halfway to the door by the time I knocked. He opened up. When I told him who I was, he bunched a military-looking moustache. For a moment, I thought I saw something like pity in his eyes, but as soon as I caught a whiff of his breath, I realised it was a hangover.

He let me in, breathing toxic, yeasty fumes as he spoke. "Graham Ellis to see Jacqui."

The receptionist nodded and buzzed through. She motioned for me to take a seat. I did. The chair was dark blue and chrome, and about as comfortable as constipation.

"She'll be through in a minute." The receptionist smiled at me. Her teeth were small, bleached and crooked. "Where is it you're transferring from?"

I plucked at the crease on my left trouser leg. "The Palace."

"Ooh, that's a lovely club, that."

I nodded, and scratched my palm. It was. Traditionally sophisticated, with experienced and knowledgeable staff, the Palace was comfortable and professional – everything this place wasn't. Nobody worked at the Riverside by choice. Behind every new face was the rock-bottom decision to start again in a new city and behind every transfer was at least one terrible night on the tables. My night had been so utterly horrific you couldn't describe it accurately without an extensive vocabulary of what Simon Bates used to call "sexual swear words". And my mother brought me up better than that.

The buzz came back, the receptionist pressed a pedal and Sergeant Security led the way into the factory that masqueraded as the gaming floor.

The inside of the Riverside wasn't much better than its façade. Wall-to-wall blue carpet, more chrome, purple walls – the colours of a branding decision made at three in the morning and now too expensive to change. There were chippers on every table, displays mounted behind the roulette wheels to show the last number spun. More displays on the card tables to go with the shuffling machines, a six-deck capacity on the blackjack, a single on the CSP. With all this technical assistance, I wondered what the dealers actually did apart from stand there and look pretty.

A large, open-plan restaurant area took up the left-hand side of the club and bled into a bar that catered to the Wetherspoons drinker with the usual array of bottled beer, wine and branded spirits. For the more ambitious, a leftover cocktail menu in embossed purple plastic lay on the bar top and promised drinks that sounded like molestation. The seating that littered the areas in between was modelled in the same airport lounge chic as the rest of the place. On the other side of the pit, elevated and packed with cheap, beech-coloured furniture, was what I took to be the card room, home to regular poker comps and the odd Kalookie night. Behind me, a bank of slots looked dusty. I wasn't surprised. Why should punters bother with a fifty-pence slot when there were twenty-five pence roulettes?

Sergeant Security kept one beady, bloodshot eye on me as I went into the pit to investigate further. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again and put a hand to his head. Two thoughts in quick succession could hurt a man if he wasn't used to it.

There was a monitor on the pit desk, a small console underneath. Those little black boxes represented the only tangible improvement to the standard procedure. When we needed a camera check at the Palace, we had to trundle off to the camera room, which normally meant a good five-ten minute delay. And while that was going on, while you were fiddling with a jog shuttle trying to find the exact moment the game went to hell, you had a slow wheel out in the pit, which was a potentially expensive state of affairs. With this monitor, a camera check could be done at the pit desk and sorted within a minute or two. No muss, no fuss. At first glance, it was a good idea. It made camera checks convenient. But then the problem with making something convenient was that people tended to rely on it. A punter was more likely to wave off a check when he knew it was going to cripple the game – other punters would complain, the ball would go cold, the dealer wouldn't be in any hurry to speed it up again – and so checks at the Palace were a last resort. Here, I wouldn't be surprised if the inspectors called for camera checks as often as they called for fills.

And now I came to think of it, there was something else different about this pit, something missing.

"No inspector chairs."

Jacqui Prince. She was slender, dark-haired, blue-eyed. Some people might have described her as handsome. The word that sprang to my mind was sleek.

"That's it. I knew there was something." I shook the offered hand, held my left behind my back. It may have made me look unusually formal, but it also kept the rash on my hand out of sight. Her hand was warm and delicate. "Any reason behind it?"

"They're more likely to stay awake if they're on their feet." Her smile showed even teeth. "Very pleased to meet you, Graham. I've heard a lot about you."

"Dave Randall?"

She nodded. "He can't praise you enough."

I smiled and looked at the floor. My clothes felt tight. "No, I bet he can't."

"Really, he told me he doesn't know how he's going to manage without you." She gestured at me to follow as she headed for the pit rope. "You're the backbone of the Palace, apparently."

I smiled, followed, made a non-committal noise. I hoped it sounded friendly.

Jacqui led me over to the shuttered cash desk. She stopped at a door marked STAFF ONLY, where she hit the corner numbers on a keypad then pushed through into a blue-walled corridor. She turned and rapped on another door. It sounded solid and opened to reveal a dumpy Tintin lookalike, who smiled at her and cocked his head at me. "This is Douglas, our head cashier. Douglas, this is Graham Ellis. He's going to be covering Paul Barlow's paternity leave."

"Ah, right." Tintin offered his limp paw. It felt like a spoiled peach in my hand; I held it for a second and let it go. He noticed my discomfort and blinked at me – took a mental snapshot and tagged it "homophobe". I wasn't, but I wasn't going to play too nice, either. I wouldn't be here long enough for his superficial enmity to become a problem.

We both stood there trying not to make eye contact as Jacqui prattled on about the cash desk procedures. Then Jacqui and I said goodbye to Tintin and went to her office, where she finished off what had become a laborious and entirely unnecessary induction. It didn't matter, did it? I mean, I was going to be working at the Riverside for a fortnight tops, right?

Right.

Well, actually, maybe.

When I interrupted her spiel to confirm that mine was a temporary transfer, she shrugged. "I'll be honest with you, Graham, I'm not entirely sure how long you're going to be with us."

I scratched my palm. "That's interesting. You see, I was told two weeks."

"I know."

"That's how long paternity leave is."

"I know that, too." She smiled. "But there's holiday time to consider."

"I wasn't aware that he'd booked annual leave."

"He hasn't."

"Right."

"Not yet."

"I see."

"But I imagine he will, and I'm not going to deny a father time with his new son, am I?"

I nodded, tried to work out how much annual leave he might have accrued. It was warm in here.

"It isn't an issue, is it, Graham?"

"No, of course not." I mock frowned. "Not at all."

She looked relieved. "Good."

"I was just under the impression that this was a short-term arrangement, that's all."

"Oh, it is." She smiled again. "Don't worry about that."

I rolled my hand. "It's just that, you know, I'm aware how temporary can turn into indefinite ..."

"Six weeks max, I promise."

I'd believe it when I saw it. But now wasn't the time to push, so I nodded my assent.

"Great." She brightened up even more. "Okay, then. Well, I should show you the pit, shouldn't I?"

She touched my arm, guided me to the door. I couldn't think straight until she removed her hand. I didn't like being touched. It was intrusive, unnecessary. But she was management, so she could do whatever she wanted. I just hoped she didn't do it very often.

Out in the pit, Jacqui went through the Riverside pit procedures, pointing out all the usual stuff. I kept my mouth shut and tried to look interested, even though I'd heard it all before. I'd been in the business since I was legal. I'd worked some of the busiest pits in Manchester. I could have run this particular pit with a white stick and stumps.

"So that's that." She opened her arms. "You think you'll be okay?

"Yes, I'm sure I'll be fine." I looked at the pit sheet, ran a finger down the names. "How are the dealers here?"

"It's a mixture."

"I heard they were mostly trainees."

"That's right."

"From Manchester?"

She shook her head. "Newcastle."

"What about the inspectors?"

"Again, a mixture."

"But mostly new, would you say?"

She nodded. "Some seniors, but we keep them for the nights."

"Fair enough." I didn't recognise any of the names on the day shift, which meant I had an aquarium on my hands. "Alright, well, I think I'm set."

"I'll let you get on with it, then." She offered her hand. I brushed soft skin once more, tried not to squeeze too hard. She smiled. "Welcome to the family."

"Thank you."

The smile grew wider. "Oh, and speak of the devils, here they are."

And out came the day shift.

If this place was a family, it was more Addams than Osmond, going by the look of the staff. Shuffling, slow on their feet and thick of accent. If there was a decent dealer among them, they were wearing one of the ugliest disguises I'd ever seen.

Still, I sucked it up for the benefit of their beaming manager. I assigned their tables, watched their posture, and realised that the dealers were satellite dregs, trained by some cruise floozy who wouldn't know a buzzing game if it crawled into her Jimmy Choos. These trainers were used to floating pits and captive, geriatric punters. As a result, their trainees were both mentally and physically clumsy. They spent their first hour of the shift waking up, and when one of them spun up, it was with the same listless gesture that a drunk makes when he wants to be left to sleep.

That might have been fine for the blue rinse brigade, but it wouldn't wash with the likes of the bloke who wandered in just after three o'clock and sat himself at the blackjack table. His head was a bristled cement block dropped onto wide shoulders. He carried himself like John Wayne and pulled up a stool like he was about to order a belt of sippin' whisky. He had a look on his face like he was here to gamble, and the dealer had better be up to it. Looking at the state of the dealer, a emo-looking line drawing, I had similar concerns.

Once parked, the punter chucked a crumpled twenty at the dealer and jerked his chin at me. "Y'alright?"

"Fine."

"Been busy?"

I smiled. "Not really."

The dealer made it look like an afterthought as he slid twenty singles across the baize. The punter scooped them up, showing arms that were laced with blue ink. The tattoos – they were either cobwebs or vines, I couldn't be sure which – slithered out from under the short sleeves of his polo shirt, down over the biceps and forearms, before tapering off over his hands and fingers. These were peacock tats, designed to show the world how dangerous he was. All they showed me was that he was committed to the image. I'd seen dangerous before, and this wasn't it. At the Arches, I'd watched tables clear because a Red Pole bought in. When you worked in a club that was a prawn cracker's throw from the Wo Shing Wo's Manchester head office, you got to see the truly dangerous men up close. They didn't need tattoos, they just were. And this guy at BJ One, he wasn't.

Still, there was potential, especially considering the skinny Scouse inspector with the salt-and-pepper hair had decided that his time was better spent gassing about football with the dealer on the dead poker table than watching the live game. I could see the irritation in the punter's face, saw him scowl at the cards, and flipped the monitor over to BJ One to keep tabs.

The punter showed king-five, the dealer a two. The dealer's finger hovered over the punter's fifteen. "Card?"

The inspector told the poker dealer that he was full of something warm and brown, then he laughed. The punter looked up. "Lads, I'm trying to—"

The blackjack dealer tapped the table. "Stay on fifteen?"

The inspector laughed again. The dealer flipped his card, then flipped again, counting it out: "Two, five, eleven—"

"What?" The punter frowned at his fifteen.

"Twenty-one." The dealer slapped the final card down, then swiped the chips and dropped them into his float. He brushed at his massive fringe and waited for another ante.

Not yet two hours into the shift and the emo kid was on a killing spree.

"Wait a second, I said card."

"No, you didn't."

The inspector turned. The smile was gone, the conversation on hold, an attitude brewing. "What's the problem, Kieran?"

"He's saying—"

"I told him card."

"But he never." Kieran shifted his weight onto one leg and pouted. "I said stay on fifteen. You never said nowt."

The inspector leaned in. "Did you say you wanted a card?"

"Yes." The tension in the punter's voice spread to his shoulders. He had a single in his hand that looked as if it was one disagreeable word away from being snapped in half.

"He never."

I moved away from the pit desk. "How much did you have on the layout?"

All eyes on me now. I glanced at the cash desk. Jacqui and Tintin had both stopped what they were doing. If my reputation had preceded me – and I didn't doubt that it had – then they were expecting the illustrated man over here to kick off.

"Six."

The truth, which meant he wouldn't take the mick when it came to the pay-out. I nodded at Kieran. "Go on. Pull the next card."

Kieran looked at his inspector.

"What're you looking at him for? Pull the card."

He pulled the next card from the machine.

A four.

"Alright, give the gentleman his twelve quid."

"Eh?" The bottom half of Kieran's face became loose.

I leaned in, shifted the cards around so he had visual aids. "The gentleman is sitting with king-five, you showed a two. He asked for a card on fifteen—"

"He never."

"Nobody stays on fifteen, heads-up. Especially when you're sitting on a two." I tapped each card as I mentioned them. "So he asks for a card, you pull a six and put him to twenty-one. He stays on that. Flip your other, there's your three for five, pull the jack for fifteen and then a four for nineteen, you with me? Dealer stays on seventeen or over, so you're staying with nineteen, yes? Which then loses to the gentleman's twenty-one. Pay the man."

Kieran blinked. He looked at his inspector again.

"He's not going to tell you any different." I clipped two fivers and two singles from the float and spread them for the camera. Slipped them together and placed them in front of the punter before I brushed my hands and stepped away. "Sorry for the misunderstanding."

The punter nodded. "No bother."

I returned to the pit desk and double-checked my staff sheet, making a mental note to have a word with both dealer and inspector. The dealer needed to pace his game and the inspector needed to clip his yap. I shouldn't have had to throw my weight around on my first shift, but there you go. The place had been open a couple of months and the staff were already defined by their bad habits.

Well, no more. Not on my shift, anyway. It was clear that this place needed all the experience and professionalism it could get. They needed a Palace man on the case.

Then again, just one clear-eyed glance around the pit reminded me that I wasn't here to teach – this club was more cell than classroom. I was here to be punished, and when I locked eyes with the blackjack punter, he nodded in a way that made me think I'd done something wrong.

So I turned back to the pit desk and performed a quick camera check, just to be on the safe side. You could never be too careful. There was always someone out there willing to take full advantage of a momentary lapse in judgement. And I wasn't going to let it happen twice.

2

The rest of the shift was a slurred parade of penny-ante punters until the tables started to warm up at around half-seven. I had three roulettes open, each with a healthy game, and both card tables were ticking over nicely.

This time of night it was mostly white punters, all dressed up and pretending to be sophisticates in a Ferrero Rocher ad. The men smelled of beer, the women of Glade plug-ins, and they engaged in the kind of lightly grinding chatter that was one rung up from small talk – jobs, houses, kids, weather, holidays. Most of this lot would play a few spins on the roulettes before they retired to the restaurant for an overpriced, gristly steak in peppercorn sauce and a couple of bottles of club plonk. They'd return later, flush-faced and reckless, itching to blow their fifty-to-a-hundred pound limit. Once they'd done their spuds, they'd spend the rest of the night toasting themselves cross-eyed until last orders, when they'd finally stagger off to find a cab.

At half-eight, I saw the staff door open and the night boss arrive to take me off. A line of dealers and inspectors followed. They headed for their allocated tables, tapped shoulders and sent the day dealers who weren't doing doubles into that one last quick spin that signalled the changeover and an early night.

The night boss had a shaven head, darkened slightly by the shadow of male pattern baldness. He wore glasses and I guessed that the frames were fashionable, because I couldn't think of any other reason to wear them; they made him look like a war criminal. I caught a whiff of sweetish aftershave as he leaned in to introduce himself. Strong smells for the start of the shift, which meant he was prone to perspiration – he needed those strong smells to cover the body odour at five in the morning. Right now he was the olfactory equivalent of the Inception klaxon.

"Kevin Nash."

Another homosexual, if his handshake was anything to go by. I gave him my best non-judgemental smile. I'd need this one's support. "Graham Ellis."

"How are you finding it so far?"

"Fine. A bit slow, but days always are, aren't they?"

"God, yeah. Especially here." Nodding, smiling, wide eyes behind lenses. "A bit different from the Palace, I'd imagine."

"Yeah." I smiled at the floor, threw in a cliché to keep the conversation friendly: "But then, you know, every club has its own personality, doesn't it?"

"You can say that again."

I didn't. Once was enough.

He nodded over my shoulder. "I heard you met Barry Pollard?"

I followed the nod, saw the tattooed blackjack punter up at the bar, a pint in front of him. "There was a dispute. Nothing serious."

"He didn't kick off?"

I shook my head. "He was in the right. It wasn't a problem."

"Lucky you. Listen, you want some advice, I would be careful there." Nash grabbed the pit sheet, scribbled something on it. "Keep an eye on him."

"He seemed okay."

"Okay? Oh dear." Nash hugged the pit sheet to what could have been either his chest or the upper part of his gut – the way he was built, I wasn't sure. He leaned in a little. His aftershave made my eyes prickle. "Let me tell you something – two weeks before we opened, Barry Pollard and two of his associates came round looking for Pete Rockwell. You know Pete?"

"No."

"Again, lucky you. He was the original GM, but he wasn't here long. Don't even think he was here for the opening. Right piece of work if you ask me."

I hadn't.

"Anyway, Pollard and his associates turn up, they want to speak to Pete. Turns out they have this proposition for him."

"What kind of proposition?"

"Well, you know, nobody knows for sure, but the general consensus is that Pollard was talking about how nice the new club was, blah-blah-blah, how he wished the organisation the best with it and all that, and how brave they were establishing a new club in such an untested location. After all, everyone knew that Ordsall was packed with villains, didn't they? And it would such a shame if something happened to the place, especially considering it was Sovereign's flagship—"

"Protection."

"Bingo."

"So what did Rockwell do?"

"Nothing. Just told them no and that was the end of it. He handed his notice in the following week. They had to get Jacqui in from Stockport to cover."

"He didn't go to the police?"

"God, no. Why would he do that?" Nash frowned at me. "The police aren't interested in attempted extortion, are they? Not when it's Barry Pollard. No, they want to get him on drugs or a nice juicy murder or something, don't they? Something that'll stick."

"Sounds like you've been following his career."

"Does it? I suppose I have. Nothing else happens round here, Graham, and it pays to know your punters. And all I'm saying to you is that if you did him a favour today, that's fine—"

"I didn't do him a favour; I paid him what he was owed."

"Hey, whatever you say, Chief. I'm just the messenger."

"I understand. I'll bear it in mind. Thank you. Listen, talking of which ..." I flicked the pit monitor onto AR Two. "You might want to keep an eye on the brown suede jacket. His name's Eamonn Dalry. You know him?"

"No."

"He'll play the outsides on as many roulettes as he can and if your dealers are any good, that's all he'll do. The second he settles at any one table, you can guarantee your dealer's spinning to sections. Give him an hour and he'll strip your float. If it were me, I'd switch out your spinner as soon as he takes a seat. Keep him running."

"Okay." Nash looked confused.

"Or, you know, whatever you think is best. It's your pit." I smiled, one of my extra-special friendly ones that used my canines. "Good luck, Kevin. See you tomorrow."

I left the pit and headed for the locker room. The place smelled of armpits, that sickly toasted smell of unwashed uniforms and something else, a sweetish odour that I couldn't quite place. I opened my locker, grabbed and shrugged into my coat before I went through the pockets to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. Then I closed the door, and the breeze sent that sweetish odour back into my nostrils.

Cannabis.

It wasn't unusual for club staff to abuse drugs. It wasn't unusual for them to do it in uniform, either. We didn't enforce random tests like the cruises did, but it had been a long time since I'd smelled cannabis onsite. If I'd been management, whoever it was would have been out on their ear mid-shift. But then, I wasn't management, was I?

Jacqui appeared in the corridor as I stepped out of the locker room. "You away, then?"

"Thought I would, yeah. You don't need me for anything else, do you?"

"No, you're good to go. How was it? Not too stressful, I hope."

I couldn't tell if she was joking, or if she'd been talking to Dave Randall. "Stressful? No, it wasn't stressful at all. If anything, I could've done with a bit more stress."

"Careful what you wish for."

Now that was a joke. Of sorts. It warranted a laugh, so I gave her one, weak as it was.

"Okay, well, good. Thanks again for stepping in at such short notice."

"No problem. Glad to help."

Jacqui nodded and moved off towards the pit.

I headed for the back door. Stopped. "Oh, actually, Jacqui, there was one thing—"

"Yes, Graham?"

"If you're going out to the pit, you might want to ask Kevin if he's noticed any odd smells."

"Smells?"

"Like marijuana."

She blinked at me as if she didn't know what marijuana was. Her eyebrows knotted. "Really?"

"I'm not saying anyone's smoking at work, but there's a definite odour of it in the locker room, and it's probably worth keeping a look out. Or a nose out."

"Yes. Thank you, Graham. I'll follow that up."

"Good. See you tomorrow."

She turned back towards the pit. I watched her leave before I continued on to the back door. Sergeant Security held the door open for me, nodded a goodnight. I stepped out into the car park, felt rain spot my face as I headed for my car.

Free at last. One shift down, only another nine to go.

"I know you, don't I?"

I turned to the sound of the voice as Barry Pollard dropped from the driver's side of a large black truck and started walking towards me. He didn't shout, but his voice was still pitched too loud for comfort. I looked back at the club. One of the front-of-house security, a black guy who looked half-asleep, stood just inside the reception doorway.

I decided to keep it quick and polite. "Mr Pollard, isn't it?"

Pollard squinted at me. "I'm sure I know you from somewhere, like."

"We met this afternoon."

"No, I meant before that. You used to work in town?"

More rain hit my face. I rubbed at it. "I normally work at the Palace."

"The Palace, that's right." Pollard grinned. Something metallic glinted in his mouth. "I knew you weren't one of that lot. Too fuckin' professional." He pulled a pack of cigarettes and moved in front of me, blocking my path. It was an easy, practised manoeuvre, and it told me that he knew which car was mine. He offered me a cigarette. I shook my head. He lit his own, puffed smoke. "So what you doing in there?"

"Cover."

"For Paul?"

"Yes."

"I heard he was having a baby or something."

"I don't know the details."

"Course you don't." He winked at me. "I'll let you get on."

Pollard moved out of my way, back towards the truck. I watched him.

"Oh, I meant to ask ..." He stopped halfway and turned back. "How long d'you think you're going to be with us, Graham?"

"I don't know."

"As long as it takes?"

"I suppose so."

"Well, do yourself a favour and stay around for a couple of weeks, will you?"

"Why's that?"

"Ask me no questions, son, I'll tell you no lies." He tapped the side of his large, broken nose. Two tiny question marks of smoke appeared and then broke into the night air. "See you around."

I didn't answer. I didn't move. I watched him get into the truck, watched him pull away and wave at me as he passed, watched the truck's brake lights glow blood red at the entrance to the car park and then disappear as the truck turned away.

And there was that feeling again, like I'd done something wrong.

3

As I turned the key in the ignition, I told myself that it was just nerves that had put a tremble in my hand. Nerves that made me check my rear view mirror to see if I was being followed. Nerves that snatched the leash from my hand and let my imagination run riot.

And nerves, like everything else in life, could be controlled.

The truth was if you worked long enough in this business, punters like Barry Pollard were a regular occurrence. Most of them were harmless – power-trippers, fake gangsters, wannabe bigshots. They just wanted to feel part of something glamorous. Then there were the others, the proper gamblers who thought they could skew the odds and bag themselves a tame pit boss. It was the organisation's fault. Sovereign didn't like to promote the concept of "us and them", because they felt it was too aggressive, and aggression wasn't part of their core brand values – theirs was a friendly casino chain, after all, one short set of legislation away from an honest-to-God family casino.

But then this business was a combative business for a lot of people. It was us and them. If you asked any long-term employee about their work, chances were they'd come off sounding like a veteran of some dirty foreign war. For some dealers and inspectors it was about the only way they could make sense of their job. Every night they put on their uniform and went into combat, fought tooth and nail until the losers were broke and bitter and the victors bloodied but proud.

I didn't see it like that. I wasn't that dramatic, and it was one of the reasons I'd sneaked up the organisational chart – all that war story stuff was for kids. For me, and for anyone else with a company clothing allowance, our nightly games were little more than a series of commercial transactions. Punters threw their money down and received an adrenalin rush and a three-second dream of financial stability in return. Yes, every now and then, someone would walk out with more money than they'd brought in, but those instances were few and far between. The simple truth of the matter – and one which escaped the attention of a vast majority of punters – was that if casinos made a loss on a regular basis, they wouldn't exist. That didn't stop some punters from thinking they could twist the odds, though. And Pollard, for all his smiles, looked like one of those.

Still, it was nothing I couldn't handle. I'd dealt with worse.

When I reached my flat, I locked the door from the inside, put the chain on, shook the handle to make sure it was secure, then put my coat away and went through to the living room. I turned on the television, checked the box to make sure Doctor Who had recorded. It had. I cued it up, then went through to the kitchen to make myself some hot chocolate. I put a mug of milk in the microwave, stabbed the keypad until it read two minutes and then let it hum.

Pollard would be back. I hadn't shut him down properly.

There were reasons for that. He'd surprised me, so I'd acted emotionally. Plus, I couldn't help but be influenced by Nash's nonsense about Pete Rockwell – the man's reputation preceded him. So I didn't assert myself, let Pollard walk all over me. He had authority, even if it was the authority of a tradesman, the kind of confidence that came with knowing how to unblock a toilet. That kind of authority had never shaken me before, and maybe if I'd been a little more prepared, it wouldn't have shaken me then.

Maybe.

I grabbed some jelly teddy bears out of the cupboard and ripped open the bag. A couple of bears dropped onto the counter. They were the first ones to be eaten. There would be no escapees on my watch. I looked at my palm. It was still red and itchy. I reached into the cupboard for my skin cream, squeezed a pea and rubbed it in as I chewed.

I'd had my confidence knocked. The transfer wasn't ideal, and if I was honest with myself, I was probably still a little raw after my run in with Les Beale.

No, let's be brutally honest here: I knew I was still raw after what happened with Beale.

Last week, I'd arrived on shift at the Palace to be greeted by a losing pit, thanks to Lorraine, a trainee pit boss who'd realised three hours too late that half her dealers were section-spinning. Word spread, and it wasn't long before a whale named Vinnie Collins had squeezed himself through the front doors to take advantage. By the time I got to the pit, he was on plaques and the roulettes were bleeding.

It was bad, but it was manageable. I'd dealt with worse.

Then there was that double drop on the slots. Sirens wailed wins, wouldn't shut up until I throttled them with the slot key. But it was more annoying than catastrophic, a couple of hundred quid gone in spare change to a Chinese woman who looked like she wanted to kill me with her mind. A part of me suspected she probably could, too, so I was quick about killing the machine and returning to the pit.

She wasn't the only Chinese in the place that night. Chinese punters had a way of making a club seem packed, even if there were only a few in. They were loud, they were animated, they were quick to laugh and scream, they took the mick out of each other and the dealer, and they bought in cheap and stacked the layouts. Some of the day dealers weren't used to the skyscrapers that teetered on their tables and it wasn't long before many of the games resembled Jenga more than roulette. It was only a matter of time, then, before the first tower dropped to the baize and the screaming began, quickly followed by lengthy camera checks and forensic pay-outs. Meanwhile, Vinnie Collins was using those plaques to drain the floats.

And then there was Les Beale.

Les Beale wasn't anyone special. He was a double-glazing salesman. He was an alcoholic. He was a baby in a suit who should have been on a life ban, but Dave Randall was softest with the people who deserved it the least, because he was terrified of conflict. I knew something was building – a good pit boss has an instinct for such things – and I even remembered warning Alan Slater, Beale's perpetually soused mate, to keep an eye on him. Beale had been drinking, after all, and I knew what kind of aggro merchant he was when he'd had a few too many. I would have asked Dave to keep an eye on him too, but he was nowhere to be seen, which was typical on a busy night. Perhaps if he'd been there, he could have stopped Beale from losing his temper on the Caribbean Stud and beating some poor lad half to death.

Later, I heard that Beale had called out the young Chinese lad for cheating, which was virtually impossible to do on the poker table. It was nonsense, anyway – Beale hadn't kicked off because the Chinese lad had insulted his sense of fair play, he'd kicked off because he was drunk and doing his dough, which was the same old, same old as far as Beale was concerned. The only difference this time was the ferocity of the tantrum – he broke the lad's finger, hauled him from the stool and attempted to stamp his face into the carpet. It was loud, it was messy and, worst of all, it had killed games stone dead. I shouted loud enough to snap his attention away from the bloody bundle on the floor, but Slater hauled him out of there before I got a chance to do much else.

I didn't see Dave Randall until Slater and Beale were out of the building. When he did arrive, he was all smiles for the remaining punters and calm assurance for the lad's mates, assuring me that he'd call an ambulance, yes, but the police were out of the question. "Let's make sure he's alright before we start pointing fingers. Bad enough there's blood on the carpet, but there's no need to make a bad situation toxic by packing the place with police."

"Dave, I'm not kidding." I was shaking. I didn't know if it was anger or adrenalin. I knew I couldn't look him in the eye without wanting to hit him. "If you don't call them, I will."

He stepped in close. "I think we've taken enough damage to our reputation for one night, don't you?"

I stared at the carpet. "Depends on the reputation. If you're looking to attract the slap-happy drunk, then I'd say tonight was a roaring success, what do you think?"

"I'll ban him, okay?"

"How long?"

"Now isn't the time, Graham."

"Yes, it is."

"I don't know. As long as it takes."

"That's not an answer."

"Because it's not a decision we can make on the spur of the moment." He frowned at me, studying me as if I was brain-damaged. "We need to weigh up the pros and cons, Graham."

"What are you talking about?"

"Mr Beale's been a member for a long time."

"He's a liability. He killed the floor."

"Oh, come on." Dave flashed another smile at the punters clustered around one of the moribund roulettes and spoke through his teeth. "You should be grateful, Graham. He stopped Vinnie Collins, didn't he?"

"No, he just made him cash out before we could recoup. Which means we're down sixty on one punter."

The smile disappeared. "Really?"

"We would've had him otherwise."

"Maybe." Dave looked round at the receptionist who had appeared in the pit. She nodded that the ambulance was here. "Listen, we'll talk about this later, okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

By the time we shuttered for the night, we were down eighty-five grand. That was a hefty price for a non-London Sovereign club and a big enough number to warrant detention, which was why I hung back. After the staff left, Dave asked Errol the Security to do a quick lock check and beckoned me to the restaurant. He attempted a smile that made him look like an aggressive chimp. "You know something, Graham, I think you may be the best pit boss we have."

"Is that right?"

"I think so."

"Well, thank you, Dave. That's very kind of you."

He gestured to a chair. I took it. As he lowered himself into the chair opposite, the smile turned upside down. "Of course, I have to say, I think we may have exploited that fact."

"How do you mean?"

He looked at the pit. "Well, you've been run ragged these past couple of months, haven't you?"

"Not really."

He jerked his chin at me. "How many doubles this week?"

"Three." It wasn't an unreasonable amount. Certainly no more than I usually did. "I like to keep busy, Dave. I work better that way. It's all about momentum."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps?"

"Look, everyone deals with stress in their own way—"

"I'm not stressed." I looked at the raw patch of skin on my left palm. "I'm really not. Not stressed."

"Okay." He shrugged, opened a hand at me. "Pressured, then. Better?"

"Not particularly. What are you getting at?"

"Some people cope with pressure better than others, Graham. Someone like you copes with it remarkably well."

"Thank you."

"But you can't do it forever, can you?"

"I'm fine."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Good." He nodded, the smile returning. "I'm glad to hear it. But I still think you should take a couple of days off."

I shook my head. "I don't have any annual leave. I already booked a week in November." I started to pick at a loose thread on the arm of the chair. "And I was over in San Diego this year, so—"

"Well then, why don't we just put it down as sick leave?"

"Because I'm not sick."

"I know, but—" He opened his mouth, clamped it shut, and his lips thinned as if he was attempting a smile that refused to form. His face only relaxed when he looked away. "I know you're not, Graham. I understand that. But I think I'm going to need you to go ahead and take a couple of days anyway, okay? Don't worry about your record. I'll square it with HR."

"Why?"

"Because I can."

"No, why are you telling me to take time off?"

"Again, because I can." It sounded like a threat. Looked like one, too. Then he slapped his hands against his thighs and stood up. "I'll give you a ring in a couple of days, see how you're doing, alright?"

So that was that. Decision made, no right of appeal, nothing to do but go home and fill my time.

I spent two days pottering. I read some comics, watched my DVR backlog, caught up on blogs and forum posts, got the better of a Nolan fanboy who didn't realise he was dealing with a thirty-two-year-old whose knowledge of the DC canon, vocabulary and rhetorical skills far surpassed his own. I turned the idiot inside-out and hung him out to dry like Ed Gein's laundry. It was fun, but after two days, I started to feel a little like I was under house arrest. God help me, but I actually started to miss work.

On the second night, Dave called. "Hey, Graham, how are you feeling?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Listen, I just got off the phone to Jacqui Prince at the Riverside ..." He gabbled the rest so I wouldn't have a chance to interrupt. The Riverside were a pit boss down thanks to paternity leave, so would I do the honourable thing and fill in for a couple of weeks? I didn't say anything. Didn't need to – Dave make my decision for me. "That's brilliant, Graham, thanks a lot. I'll let her know to expect you on Tuesday morning, okay?"

Decision number two made, still no right of appeal. And the more I thought about it, the more I felt like I was being set up, shoved out of the way while Dave sorted out the Beale situation with Regional.

God only knew how long that would take. Regional weren't known for their speed. Meanwhile, I was stuck at the Riverside.

I dumped two heaped teaspoons of hot chocolate into the warm milk and stirred slowly. I couldn't stay on the days, not if I wanted to keep my sanity. From what little I'd seen of Kevin Nash, he wasn't close to my experience or ability, so Jacqui would be actively wasting resources if she didn't stick me on nights as soon as she could. If I was best pit boss at the Palace – and I was, without question – then I was certainly the best pit boss at the Riverside. Give me two weeks, I'd have that place running like the proverbial well-oiled machine. I'd have to have a word with Jacqui, try to sort something out.

But right now, I had other plans. I sucked the spoon, tossed it into the sink, and then took my hot chocolate through to the living room to watch Doctor Who.

4

After a week, the day shifts began to take their toll.

The move from night to day was a tough one to make at the best of times. Most people could handle it once or twice a week – the normal shift patterns were four nights and a day followed by two days off – but when you were used to the nights, it was murder. I hadn't done a day shift that wasn't part of a double in about ten years, and so my body clock ticked on Nightowl Standard, which meant I was wide awake and pacing at three o'clock in the morning.

Halfway through the second week it occurred to me that maybe I was being professionally abused.

A couple of days later, I became convinced of it.

As much as I wanted to help out – or as much as I'd been forced by circumstance and courtesy to help out – there was a limit to my patience. I could have done great things at the Riverside, but in order to do those great things, I had to graduate from day to night. I tried to talk to Jacqui, but it was difficult, or at least I seemed to find it difficult. Normally I was efficient, straight to the point, and God help you if you tried to argue, but in front of Jacqui I was rambling, shuffling, half-blushing and cotton-mouthed. It was weird. Her proximity alone turned me sweaty and dyspraxic. And yes, she was a striking woman – maybe if I'd been a few decades older and not working in the same club, I'd have found her attractive in a superficial kind of way. And maybe, lying in bed, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, I'd allowed my thoughts to stray in that direction, purely as a rapid means to a sticky and sleepy end. But I wasn't about to let those thoughts intrude on what was a perfectly decent working relationship. I was a professional, after all.

An added complication was that Jacqui met any mention of a shift change with a frown that put three short lines between her eyebrows and wrinkles into her top lip. "Yeah, I don't know, Graham. I really haven't had a chance to look at the rotas yet."

"That's fine. I'm just saying, when you do—"

"Okay." She smiled, but it was placating rather than agreeable. "We'll see, eh?"

Which meant no. "We'll see" always meant no. And something about the brush-off irked me no end. "You don't have any better pit bosses here, Jacqui. We both know that."

"Paul Barlow was primarily a day boss, Graham."

"And I'm not."

"But you are covering him. Maybe if you were joining us permanently, we'd be able to discuss it further."

I felt a twitch develop in my arm. I held it, straightened my posture, tried to channel my nerves into something purer, something more like anger. "So when's he coming back?"

She regarded me for a moment. "I'm sorry you're not happy here, Graham—"

"Happy's got nothing to do with it. I'm absolutely fine, as it happens. I'm just not feeling very challenged and I believe that you're not using what you have to your best advantage. At the end of the day, it's your prerogative, and there may be politics here that I don't know about, but look, all I can go off are the numbers. Have you been keeping track of the numbers, Jacqui?"

"Graham—"

"Because I have. Every day I hand Kevin Nash a winner of a pit and every night he struggles to hold on to it."

A pause. "I understand your frustration, Graham."

"Do you?"

She nodded. "Leave it with me. I'll see what I can do."

And like that, the freeze had set in. It was my own fault. I'd gone too far. I'd disparaged her staff, which disparaged her club and, in turn, disparaged her, so she'd brought out the ice. She was no good to me now.

So I had to go elsewhere for help. I didn't want to, but I was still on the Palace payroll, Dave Randall was still my real boss. He was responsible for all this, so it was up to him to make it right. I called Dave on his mobile, and I made sure to do it from the admin office so he wouldn't recognise the number. Sure enough, he answered. Even sounded breathless, as if he'd raced to pick up the phone. "Hello?"

"Dave, it's Graham."

I pictured him looking at his phone display and swearing under his breath, the way he always did when he was caught by Regional. I could hear the muscles in his face creak into action as he worked up a fake smile. "Hey, yeah, great to hear from you, Graham. How are you?"

"Been better. Listen, I thought I'd give you a ring about the Riverside situation."

"Ah, okay. Tell you the truth, Graham, I'm a little busy right now. I'm sure Clive's already filled you in."

"No, he hasn't. Do you need me back?"

"What? No."

"Because I can come back if you're busy. I'm only pulling days here."

"No, it's not that kind of ... Look, no, I've already told Jacqui that she's welcome to keep you as long as she wants."

"Right." I picked up a stapler, clicked it a couple of times. Staples dropped onto the desk. "That's not what I was told."

"Sorry, Graham, but that's the way it has to be for the time being."

Clih-click. Another staple dropped. "I don't have a say in the matter?"

"At the moment ..." He sighed down the phone. There were voices in the background. I heard one of them call his name. "It's not a good time, Graham, alright? I've got to talk to the police—"

Oh, now he wanted to talk to the police. "What happened, Dave? Place get robbed while I was away?"

A sigh. "So Clive did tell you."

"Clive didn't tell me anything. I haven't spoken to him for weeks. What happened?"

"Nothing to worry about." Dave cleared his throat, which meant there was plenty to worry about. "The Securicor guy was taking the weekend cash out, and they jumped him just outside the doors. Naz saw it all. They were already gone by the time I got there."

I bet they were. I could see it all so clearly. Naz on reception, called for "Mr David Randall" over the speakers. Dave heard his Sunday name, knew it was trouble and scarpered to the toilets until he was sure it was all over.

"They get much?"

"We don't know yet. Still doing the sums."

Which meant it was a lot and he didn't want to tell me. I didn't blame him.

"You know who it was?"

"We're looking into it. The police are here now. Look, I have to go."

"Of course you do. Speak to you soon, Dave."

He hung up without saying goodbye. I pushed off the desk and out of the admin office just in time to see the day staff muppet-shuffle down to the pit. I followed them out, watched them open tables and made sure the pit desk was clean and prepped. A Glaswegian midget by the name of Eileen was supposed to be day manager, but she was probably out the back having a cigarette. She looked like a sadomasochist, emphasis on the first two syllables, and had a voice like a dog choking on a lolly stick. She was supposed to be here for the opening, but I wasn't going to argue. I'd learned that opening up was easier when there wasn't management around to get in the way. Once the first four tables were open – two roulettes and the two cards – I sent off the first breakers. At two o'clock, I gave the Security the nod, and he unlocked the glass reception doors to a grand total of no one.

Something in the pit of my stomach trembled like the first twitches of a new illness and made a noise like a Predator.

Over at the Arches on George Street, we had a name for the two o'clock opening – the Mahjong Derby. Just before we opened, there'd normally be a crush of small, bag-faced old Chinese ladies pressed against the doors. The assembled staff took a quick look at them through the glass, picked their runners, and then we opened up to watch them dash the hundred yards to the Mahjong tables. A long run for old birds, but they took it with speed and ferocity, kicking, tripping and slapping each other out of the way as they battled to take their favourite seats. The first woman sat and shuffling tiles was the winner, and whoever had her number would find himself a hundred quid richer on the first break.

There was no Mahjong Derby here. No punters waiting outside. Nothing but grey clouds, thick rain and a bad smell.

The Professor came in at three. He hadn't shown his face at the Palace for a while, but it made sense that he'd made the Riverside his new home. While he didn't exactly blend in with his brown cord and tie-and-sweater combination, he was exactly the kind of tin-foil mentalist this place was bound to attract. He set up camp at AR Two, fumbled out his notebook and bookie pen and twirled a finger at the dealer to spin up.

The dealer's posture was one long sigh. He moved as little as possible, passed a slow ball around the wheel. The Professor watched it, his lips moving in silent calculation. The ball landed. The dealer dollied the empty number. The Professor scribbled down the number.

And repeat.

Another twirl. Another spin.

Another dead number.

And repeat.

The Professor didn't spend money, not unless management insisted. He wasn't a gambler; he was a mathematician. Applied mathematics, in that he was applying them to American Roulette in order to devise the chip junkie's Holy Grail – the foolproof winning system. The only drawback was that he was still firmly in the data collection stage. Hapless berks like the dealer on AR Two were his lab rats, spinning their days away. If this had been a Palace day shift, I would have made him buy in by now, but the dealer was a trainee and needed the practice. So The Professor continued to twirl his finger and make the dealer spin up, pausing only to catch the attention of the day valet, a mouse of a girl with dead spider eyelashes, peroxide hair and no chin. He ordered his usual milky tea and pack of custard creams. The valet knew him of old, knew he wasn't going to tip, so she took the long way back to the kitchen.

I watched her go, didn't notice Barry Pollard until he spoke. "Y'alright, Graham?"

I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. It didn't work. "Alright? Yes."

"You sure?"

"I'm fine. Yes, absolutely." I cleared my throat.

He pulled up a stool and bought in for twenty quid. The dealer changed the note to singles, then Pollard pulled out an extra fifty. "Give us fives for that, will you?"

The dealer changed the note into ten reds and gathered up the cards to perform the first manual shuffle.

Pollard smiled at me. "See they still got you on days."

"That's right."

"Seems a shame, man of your experience."

"What can I say? They don't know talent when they see it."

"Say that again." Pollard reached forward, cut the six deck. The dealer shoved it into the shuffling machine. "Still, you're better off here than the Palace, right?"

I didn't look at him. "You talking about the robbery?"

"Card." Pollard hit sixteen against a five. "Another one."

A seven put him over. The dealer scooped the chips and waited for another ante.

Pollard rubbed the side of his nose. "Place was robbed, was it?"

"You didn't hear?"

Pollard shrugged.

More cards came out. Pollard showed twelve against the dealer's king.

"Card." Four on the twelve. Pollard gave the dealer a look. "Sixteen's my fuckin' number today, isn't it? What do you think, Graham? Against a king. Think I should take another one?"

"You know I can't give you any advice, Mr Pollard."

"Nobody'll know. Just us three."

I tapped the edge of the table. "They're all miked. If you won, I could get into trouble. People might think we're in cahoots."

"In cahoots? Christ Almighty." He laughed. "Better watch I don't say nowt they could use against me in a court of law, eh?" He leaned back on his stool and squinted at the camera dome in the middle of the pit. "That's a camera, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Thought so." He leaned forward again. "Alright, son. Against a king? Against a king, I believe I'll take a card."

"Card?"

"That's what I said."

A three.

"And I will stay on nineteen, thank you very much."

The dealer flipped a seven and paid.

Pollard left his ante, assimilated his winnings into the stack of singles. "You're good luck, Graham."

I smiled politely. "And that's my cue to leave."

"Aw, come on, that's not fair. I'm winning, not robbing the place. You tell Mr David Randall to stay where he is."

I looked at him. Blinked. My left hand itched.

He showed teeth when he smiled this time, but didn't meet my eye. "Card."

Mr David Randall. A test of my mettle and of his reputation.

I returned to the pit desk and looked at the blank pit sheet. When I scratched the itch on my hand, it moved to my wrist. I felt in my pockets for my cream.

He was watching me, waiting to see what I'd do. Waiting to see if I reached for the phone, if I called over the manager, if I made any move to grass him.

I didn't. Truth be told, I didn't want to get involved.

So all I did was rub cream and try not to scratch myself to ribbons.

When Nash came in for the nine o'clock changeover, I had everything ready for him and I didn't hang around to gossip. I needed to get out of there. I grabbed my coat from the locker room and pushed out the back of the casino. Pollard's truck was parked a little way up from my car. Someone sat behind the wheel, but I couldn't make out any features and something about the build told me it wasn't Pollard.

"You alright, Graham?"

The bald, big-eyed Security I'd nicknamed Fester was frowning at me.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just ..." I smiled. "Thought I'd forgotten my phone, that's all." I pulled my mobile from my coat pocket. "But no, here it is."

"Ah, right."

I said goodnight and dialled two nines on my mobile before I realised the police wouldn't care. What was it that Nash had said? They wouldn't touch Pollard unless it was something big?

A casino robbery was big, wasn't it?

Yeah, if he'd actually done it. If I was honest, I didn't have much to go on. A hunch and hearsay, some kind of vague, winking confession.

I cleared the display, called Clive, hurrying towards my Corsa. I figured they wouldn't try anything if I was on the phone. I just hoped Clive picked up.

Five rings later, he did. "You heard, then."

"Yeah, from Dave."

"What'd he tell you?"

"Nothing, really."

"Well, no, he wouldn't, would he? He was in the toilets."

I knew it. First sign of trouble and he'd scarpered for the gents.

"How's everyone else? Alright?" I made it to the Corsa and looked around. No movement from the truck. I got in the car, pulled the door shut after me. "Nobody got in the way or anything, did they?"

"We were all inside. Middle of a day shift, wasn't it?"

"Good."

"Telling you, mind, I'm not staying. I'm offski, mate. I'm going on the ships."

I started the engine, checked the mirror. Still nothing. "You always say that."

"I'm serious, man. You know they've got Lorraine running the night pits?"

"Jesus, really?"

"Really. It's a fuckin' travesty."

"Suicide." I pulled out of the car park. Checked my mirror again. Clear behind me. "You talked to Dave?"

"Unless you're willing to grow tits and offer him a tongue-stud blowjob, Dave doesn't give a flying fuck what you have to say. Brick wall, mate."

"You're seriously going?"

"I'm already gone. I'm a networker. I've got contacts. I'm going to call Dennis after my shift."

"Dennis?"

"Mendoza. He works for Duchess now, but we did a couple of horror show Fred Olson cruises up to St Petersburg, so it's like we're fuckin' combat buddies. He's been on at us for ages to come on the ships. Hey, telling you, Graham—"

"No, Clive."

"Hear me out."

"I already know what you're going to say."

"Well?"

"This isn't forever, Clive."

"Come on, Graham. You know better than that, mate."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Traffic lights up the road blazed red. I slowed to a stop and checked for police now. I didn't want to be caught on the mobile. I rubbed my palm against the steering wheel. "Dave's said something, has he?"

"He doesn't need to."

I glanced in the rear view mirror. A green mini sat behind me, a vaguely attractive and slightly geeky-looking blonde woman behind the wheel. "He can't get rid of me, Clive. He needs me too much."

"You still think that?"

"I know that."

A braying horn behind me. I glanced in the mirror, then saw the green glow of the traffic lights in front. I pulled away, watched the blonde overtake at the first opportunity.

"So they still got you on days or what?"

"How did you know?"

"It's a running gag round here."

"Great."

"Telling you, Graham, they're taking the piss. You ask me, you're a fuckin' patsy."

"Thank you, Alex Jones."

"I'm serious. Dave Randall's been up to Regional about the Vinnie Collins thing, the Beale thing, the whole lot. Bet you any money he's hung it on you."

"No, he wouldn't do that. He wouldn't have the nerve. And they wouldn't believe him."

"It is what it is. All I'm saying, I think you need to seriously reconsider your place in the organisation, mate."

"Okay, I will."

"Don't fuckin' placate me, Graham."

"Yes, dear."

"I'm serious about Duchess an' all, mate. They're up to their eyes in dealers, but they're experience-poor. They're after quality land-based staff. A pit boss with your experience shows up, they'll jump through hoops for you."

"I'll think about it."

"You do that. Let me know when you're ready to skip the country."

He laughed. My face twitched at the sound. Clive had a way of making a joke sound like an attractive proposition and vice versa. I wasn't that good at telling the difference. Back when we were more friends than work colleagues, he used to tease me about it to my face. Now he did it behind my back. "Listen, I've got to go. I'm driving and talking here."

He called me Public Enemy Number One. I laughed, but it sounded girlish. Then I rang off and tossed my mobile onto the dashboard.

Maybe Clive was right. Maybe I was being set up.

I glanced in the rear view again, as another prickle of paranoia marched up the back of my neck.

The question was, what was I going to do about it?

5

It wouldn't have been the first time that Dapper Dave Randall had sacrificed someone else's career in order to further his own. His path to management was littered with the bodies of those naive enough to trust him or weak enough to find him intimidating. Of course I hoped that Clive wasn't right, that I wasn't just another in a long line of disposable staff, but current evidence yelled to the contrary – Dave was letting all his calls go straight to voicemail and wasn't returning mine. I began to suspect that he'd talked to Jacqui, too – whenever I mentioned the shifts, I met a glacial reception. And all the while, there was Barry Pollard watching me from the blackjack table, waiting to see what I'd do. He didn't accost me after hours anymore, but that didn't mean he wasn't building up to something.

So I did the only thing I could; I knuckled down, kept quiet and did my job until it was time to knock off. Then I tried to forget about the grind of the days by scouting eBay for things I'd never watch, read or play, hoping to quell my anxiety with clutter. And when my lower back hurt too much for me to stay slumped over the computer, I went looking for something to eat. The fridge and cupboards threw up all sorts of possibilities, as long as every ingredient was a condiment of some sort, so I ended up grabbing my coat and heading out.

It was wet and cold, the ground slick and the sky black. The air tasted clean for once and the brisk walk got me thinking. There wasn't much I could do about work other than take the path of least resistance. Dave wasn't going to have me back at the Palace – I could wave goodbye to that club for good. Jacqui didn't seem to want me on the nights, either. So the only logical thing to do was explore Clive's offer of the ships. I knew most people would have jumped at the chance. There were tips and trips and regular meals cooked by chefs instead of pockmarked, oil-burned kitchen porters. There was a chance to see the world beyond the M60 and feel the sun on my skin for once, which might do my itchy palm some good. Then again, there were the horror stories of choppy seas and being stranded in townships where the men wore bullet belts instead of shirts. Not fun.

I pushed into the supermarket, grabbed a basket.

It was dangerous, that was the problem. Not very dangerous, not appreciably dangerous, even, but dangerous enough to put second thoughts into my head. It would be uncomfortable, too. I'd have to meet new people, learn new things. I might even get sea sick, I didn't know. I couldn't think of the last time I'd been on a boat. I tried to remember my trip to San Diego for the convention, but that was a plane, and I'd taken sleeping tablets for the flight so it didn't really count. And hey, now that I came to think of it, that was another consideration: what if the ship sunk? What if the captain was like that Costa Concordia bloke? People died there. Not many people. but enough that I could've been one of them. Bottom line, I could say what I wanted about the Riverside, but at least while I was stuck on day shifts I wasn't in any physical danger and I certainly wasn't likely to drown.

"Fuckin' hell, fancy seeing you here."

I turned at the voice, saw Barry Pollard behind me. I opened my mouth, but I didn't know what to say, so I swallowed instead. I looked at my basket: a pack of Rolo pots, a jar of hot chocolate and a large multipack of Wotsits. I didn't remember picking up any of it, and when I saw it all there like a kid's birthday lunch, my face felt warm. "Mr Pollard."

"That's right."

I cleared my throat. "What a coincidence."

A laugh rumbled out of him. "I wouldn't say that, like."

"Sorry?" I shook my head. "I don't understand."

"No, I've been looking for you." He grinned. "Thought you'd been in here sooner or later. It's your days off, isn't it?"

"I don't …" I couldn't stop blinking. "Have you been following me?"

"I wouldn't put it like that. Not really."

"How would you put it?"

He looked around the aisle. "I just thought this might be a nice, neutral place to have a chat."

"About what?"

"Aw, come on, Graham." The grin hardened at the edges. "You don't have to do that. You're a bright lad."

It clicked. "The Palace."

"Attaboy."

"Well, I don't think I have anything to say about that."

"Really?"

"Really. It's none of my business." I looked at the shelves, grabbed a tin of beans that I didn't want and wouldn't eat and dropped it into my basket just so I'd have some vegetables in there. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr Pollard—"

"Hang on." He put a hand on my shoulder. He squeezed. It hurt.

I stopped. Tried not to show the pain. My chest felt tight. I breathed out once through my nose. "Mr Pollard—"

"Sorry, son." He let go, showed me his open hand. "Don't know my own strength."

"It's okay. I'm just not used to people—"

"You don't like being touched."

It felt like a confession of weakness. "That's right."

"I know, I saw a programme about it." He wiped his hands with a flourish. "All that business."

"No. That's not ... It's not an illness." All that business was meant to show the camera that you weren't palming chips. It was the same reasoning that meant dealers couldn't wear watches and their uniforms weren't allowed to have pockets. Bottom line – the organisation didn't trust its employees. Having worked with those employees, I didn't blame the organisation one bit. But still ... "That's procedure."

"Not in Sainsbury's, it isn't."

"Alright, a force of habit, then."

"Hey, I'm not judging, son. I'm saying I understand. I know what's going on with you. I've been watching." He pointed at me. "And I know you're not happy at work."

"If people were happy at work, Mr Pollard, it wouldn't be called work, would it?" I turned and continued back down the aisle, pausing instinctively by the spaghetti hoops before I carried on.

He followed. "Nah, it's not that kind of unhappy. It's not normal. I've seen you, son. You look like you're this fuckin' close." He snapped his fingers.

"I'm fine, Mr Pollard."

"Call us Barry."

"I'd rather not." We stopped in front of the bakery section. The smell of the doughnuts was the only thing keeping me sane. I grabbed a loaf of Mighty White and dropped it into the basket. "I can't afford to get too familiar, Mr Pollard. It's called fraternisation, and I could lose my job."

"I've got six of your dealers coming to mine. Been regular since the place opened."

"That's ... it doesn't matter. I don't care." I cared; I wished he hadn't told me. Now I'd be looking for them. "If somebody asks—"

"You won't tell 'em."

"If I have to, I will."

"You never told no one about the Palace."

I looked at him, rolled my shoulders. "How do you know?"

"Because I've still got a front door. And I'm not down the fuckin' nick."

"Why did you tell me?"

He smiled. The gold tooth made an appearance. "Because I needed to see if I could trust you."

"Well, you can't." I went back the way I came and turned into the first available aisle. It was full of kitchen roll and toilet roll, stacked high and imposing.

He was right next to me every step of the way. "Come on, Graham, don't mug yourself, eh? You're a good lad. Believe you me, I know a good lad when I see one. Hang around with scallies and fuckin' chancers your whole professional life, you can spot a level fella a mile away. And you, Graham, I could put up fuckin' shelves with you, son."

I squinted at him. "Is that a compliment?"

"How long you been doing this now?"

"The clubs?" I looked at toilet rolls. A litter of puppies looked back. "Sixteen years."

Sixteen years of dealing and inspecting and running pits. When I said it like that, it sounded like a long time.

It was a long time.

"You know what I think, Graham? I think that they're never going to make you management. Your man, Dave Randall, I know him from when he used to run the pit himself. He was a prize cunt then and he's a prize cunt now. He's not going to let you anywhere near management because he knows what you're like. He knows you're too fuckin' good for the job. He knows you're going to show him up. So what happens then, eh? What happens to you?"

"I'll be fine."

"You'll retire a pit boss or else you'll flip your fuckin' lid again."

"What're you talking about?"

"Your breakdown."

"I didn't have a breakdown." I shook my head, laughed a little, and moved back towards the bakery. "I think you're mistaken about that." I had a mental shopping list at one point, things to get, an order to get them in, but now I didn't know where I was or what I'd picked up already. All I wanted to do was jettison the lot and get out of there, but every step I took, Pollard took one with me. He weaved like a boxer, anticipated every move. I had to stop and hold up a hand. "Please, Mr Pollard, I can't—"

"I know." His hands were up now, too. He showed gold. "Fraternisation."

"I'm not about to jeopardise my job for no good reason."

"What if I gave you one?"

"Sorry?"

"A good reason."

I laughed. Something hurt my throat. The laughter became a cough.

Pollard took a step towards me, his voice lowering. "I'm going to rob the place, Graham, and I want you to be a part of it."

We were in the frozen section now. Blind panic had brought me here and utter incomprehension kept me rooted to the spot. I looked at Pollard. Behind him were rows of Ben and Jerrys; their jaunty flavour names were like a dozen badly-timed and poorly-written jokes. My basket was heavy. I wanted to swap it to my other hand, but I didn't have the strength or the force of will.

I tried to say something like "Excuse me?" but my throat kept closing like a panicked sphincter and all that came out were a series of quiet, choking squeaks.

"It's okay."

I moved my mouth. I started to shake my head. "Wuh-we—"

"Don't think about it too hard, Graham. I'm not asking you to tool up. Only thing I need off you is a bit of information."

"I don't know anything." I put my basket down on top of the freezers.

"Nah, you know more than you think, son."

A middle-aged woman pushed a trolley between us. She looked appalled at the price of ice cream. I was glad of the interruption, watching her shopping glide past us as I tried to work some saliva back into my mouth. My wrist itched and burned at the same time.

When she turned at the top of the aisle, I moved back against the freezers, pressed my wrist against the cool glass. "I can't. I mean, I don't know what you want to know but I can't give you that information. Even if I knew it. Which I don't. I mean, I just arrived, I can't—"

Pollard held up a hand. I hated myself for shutting up. "Don't start talking bollocks just yet, alright? I know it's a bit of a leap for you, goody-fuckin'-two-shoes that you are. I know you'll probably need a bit of time to get your head round it an' that. So here's what I'm willing to do—"

"No." I blurted it out, too loud and too high.

"You what?"

"I can't do it. You can't make me."

Pollard frowned. He dug one hand into the pocket of his coat. I opened my mouth. He put a finger to his lips.

My first thought – Jesus, he has a gun.

My second thought – wait, people don't get murdered in a Sainsbury's. An Aldi or a Lidl or a Tesco Metro attached to a petrol station, yes. But not a Sainsbury's. It'd be like getting raped in Waitrose – it just didn't happen.

"Wait." I moved up against the freezers, nudged my basket. I felt it move, saw it slip from the glass and drop to the floor. The hot chocolate smashed open, coughing 70% cocoa into the air. I blinked at it. Everything was going wrong. "Mr Pollard—"

"Easy, son." Pollard showed me a mobile phone. It was small, cheap and disposable.

And now, apparently, mine.

"I don't want it."

He grabbed my left hand. I wanted to scream. He forced my fingers open and slapped the phone into my raw palm. "Just give us a call when you've had a proper think about it."

I shook my head. I couldn't look at him. My wrist hurt. I wanted to cry.

I stared at the floor, making my mouth tight so my lip wouldn't tremble.

"Graham." Pollard's voice was hard.

I shook my head. Focused on the hot chocolate that dusted the floor.

"We're going to do this. It's going to happen, with or without you. But it's going to be a lot quicker and a lot cleaner if you help us out." He leaned down so I couldn't avoid him. "Someone on the inside means less people get hurt. Do you understand what I'm saying, Graham?"

I nodded. He made a move to pat me on the shoulder, but I flinched out of it.

Pollard smiled. "Sorry."

I watched him walk away out of the corner of my eye. He turned at the end of the aisle, where the ice cream sauces and meringues were, and then disappeared. I straightened slowly and stood against the freezers, uncurling my fingers from around the phone. I wanted to fling it down the aisle, but I couldn't find the energy.

Instead, I looked at my basket. I needed another one. I needed to start all over again.

And more than that, I needed to stop crying.

6

When I was a kid, I used to scream at the sea.

I grew up in Blackpool, not far from the beach, and whenever the pressure got too much – whenever Mam and Dad turned the air blue and dotted the inch-long shag with blood; or, even worse, when they tried to be civil to each other, muttering platitudes through gritted teeth – I used to wake up early in the morning, just before it got light, and I dressed, sneaked down the stairs, put on my frog-eyed wellies and then toddled off down to the pier. I walked with a heavy, thumping head; each step I took closer to the sea made the pressure inside grow until it felt as if my eyes were bugging out of my skull. And then, when I reached the end of the pier, I exploded. The worse the weather, the better it was. The darker and more dangerous the storm, the more it ripped the yell from my throat and swallowed it in its own howl, until I could feel my scream tear out of me but heard little more than the wind buffeting my ears. I kept screaming until my throat was raw and the spit burned the inside of my mouth, until my chest felt packed with ground glass and my legs struggled to remain steady against the wind. Then, finally, I would drop to the end of the pier and let my feet dangle, leaning forward to see between the boots at the rocks below. The wind would lash rain at my head, but I barely felt it. Sometimes I found the energy to cry; most of the time I didn't. Either way, I sat there, numb and motionless, until the clouds lifted from my mind and I felt well enough to return home.

I left school at sixteen, worked as a valet until I was old enough to train as a dealer, and soon after that I found that I didn't need to go down to the sea anymore. The pressure and frustration were gone. There were rules here. Rules as to how a game would be dealt, and rules that dictated a dealer's conduct from the moment he strapped on his dicky at the start of the evening to the moment he left the club. The job gave me purpose, it gave me structure, and it worked me long enough hours to exhaust me both mentally and physically and make me think I'd achieved something. I was safe in the pit, surrounded on all sides by gaming tables. It was my fort, my sanctuary, and it remained constant and controllable.

My parents weren't happy, of course. They wanted me to go to university. They wanted me to have a career. They wanted me to do a lot of things that I wasn't going to do, because what they wanted didn't matter. They didn't control me anymore. I was my own man, in charge of my own life, and I'd made my own decisions.

Or so I thought.

These days, the nearest large body of water was forty miles away. Manchester had canals, right enough, but they weren't the same. If you screamed at the sea, nobody heard you; scream at the canal, the next person you spoke to would be wearing a police uniform. And the police were the last people I wanted to talk to right now.

That shouldn't have been the case. I was a law-abiding citizen with a strong moral compass. I should've called the police the moment the front door was shut and double-locked, but I didn't. Instead, I went and sat in a silent living room and stared at a dead television.

I couldn't call the police. It wouldn't do any good. The police wouldn't do anything except maybe bring Pollard in on suspicion. Plus, if I told them what he had planned, there was a good chance they'd tell me to keep in with him, string him along, and jump him in the act. More pressure. And if Pollard found out, I had no doubt that he'd murder me. I thought about calling Clive to see what his take was, but then he was the most amoral man I'd ever known, so I knew he wouldn't be much help. He'd suggest I go along with it, see how much money I could make. Anything for a quiet life and quick cash.

So I needed to work this out for myself. In the meantime, Pollard's phone was my ball and chain. I couldn't leave it anywhere in case he called, but I couldn't keep it on me at work for the same reason. So I kept it turned off, but stashed in my coat pocket when I was at work, and sat on the coffee table when I was at home. I knew it was ridiculous, but I didn't know what else to do. I tried to ignore it. I watched classic Who – Fifth Doctor only, my childhood Doctor, my comfort Doctor – and read comics I'd already read a million times before. I found myself trawling the net looking for game torrents to use with my newly-downloaded Amiga emulator, bought a LucasArts combo pack of two Indiana Jones games and Loom and pointed and clicked my way through them, one eye on eBay for second-hand Fighting Fantasy books. I dived into distraction, and the day shifts staggered by. I ran efficient but unremarkable pits. Anywhere else, people would talk; at the Riverside, they were just grateful for a nine o'clock surplus.

And all the while, my focus kept returning to the mobile phone in my coat pocket and what it meant.

Pollard and his gang – I supposed it was a gang, but the word didn't sit right in my head because it suggested handkerchief disguises and six-shooters – were going to rob the place. That robbery was a dead cert, an indisputable fact of the future. It had been promised regardless, and the only variable was my participation. If I said yes, it would be easier on everyone. If I said no, then people would get seriously hurt, and that group of people would probably – no, definitely – include me.

There was only one thing to do, and that was retreat. If I wasn't working at the Riverside, then I'd be useless as an inside man. My second day back, I called the Palace from the admin office and asked for Dave. Lorraine told me in her crisp little teacher's voice that he was busy, but the statement came too quickly and emphatically for it to be anything but a lie. I told her it was urgent, that I knew he was avoiding my calls, and that I didn't want to have to go Regional without discussing the matter with Dave first.

And sure enough, he was on the line in less than a minute. "Graham, great to hear from you. What was it you wanted to talk about?"

"When am I coming back?"

"I thought you said this was urgent."

"It is. When am I coming back to the Palace, Dave?"

"Well, we've not really had a chance to discuss anything along those lines, Graham, not with the robbery—"

"That was a week ago."

"Have you talked to Jacqui about it?

"It's got nothing to do with Jacqui. I'm employed by the Palace—"

"You're employed by Sovereign."

"To work at the Palace, which happens to be the club on my pay slip." I struggled to keep the desperation out of my voice as I spoke. "Look, Dave, if Jacqui needs staff, she can source them from somewhere else. I'm sure there are some half-dead pit bosses up at the Union who'd love a change of scenery."

"I don't want to leave her in the lurch, Graham."

"You won't. All she needs is a body in the pit."

"And that's a good thing, right? Just what you need, a bit of a respite from the pressure—"

"I'm not stressed." Too loud, too harsh. I paused, mouth hanging open, turning that rage inside out for a split-second before I shook it off with a long blink and a deep breath. There was some dry skin on the back of my hand. I picked it off. "I know that's the way you sold it to Jacqui. I dare say you told Regional something similar. Good for you, pass off your bad night as someone else's, I don't care, but we both know that stress didn't put me here, Dave, so when am I coming back to the Palace?"

Dave didn't say anything. I heard noise in the background, someone asking him for something. It sounded like Lorraine, and it sounded as if she'd been prompted. "Okay, look, Graham, I've really got to go. Leave it with me."

"I left it with you already, Dave."

"I can't do this."

"Can't or won't?"

He hung up. I blinked at the phone. Thought about hurling it across the room for a second, then hung up myself. Hard. Then I did it again, harder, for good measure.

Of course Clive was right. He might have been a lot of things, but he wasn't a liar, and he wasn't one to make up gossip for the hell of it.

I wasn't going back to the Palace.

Regional had swallowed Dave's story – I was overworked, I was stressed, I couldn't handle the busy nights anymore, if only there was somewhere I could go – and the dance of the lemons had begun in earnest. I should have recognised what he was doing the moment he sat me down in the restaurant. I'd seen it so many times already. Thanks to the unions and the nature of the job, management couldn't dump their staff without some kind of gross misconduct. If a dealer or inspector burned out, there was a good chance that it was the long hours and lack of support that had done it to them, so if management bumped them, they'd bounce back with an unfair dismissal claim packed with health and safety concerns. And even if the burnout's case was as shambling and incoherent as they were, Sovereign liked to maintain the kind of "one big happy family" reputation that didn't have room for emotionally exhausted and bitterly litigious members of staff.

So the organisation didn't like to sack anyone. It was too much work. What they preferred was their problem staff to leave of their own accord, and so they invented the dance of the lemons, where the burned out, non-compliant or downright incompetent waltzed from club to club until they either broke down or dropped out.

The only difference was that I wasn't a lemon. I was a good pit boss. I was the best they had. Which meant it was personal.

"You okay?"

Jacqui stood just inside the doorway to the admin office. I hadn't noticed her come in. I glanced at my watch. "You're early tonight."

She nodded. "Were you just talking to Dave Randall there?"

"Yes." She must've seen my tantrum. She didn't appear shocked by it, which meant she knew more than she'd originally let on. "Paul Barlow isn't coming back any time soon, is he?"

"Not for a while."

"Do you know when?"

"Not yet."

"So it isn't paternity."

"It is, but he's asked for a sabbatical."

I smiled; it made my mouth feel tight. "I didn't even know we did those."

"In some special cases, yes."

"Lucky him."

"He's a good pit boss. We didn't want to lose him permanently."

"Yeah, I'm well aware of how this organisation treats its good pit bosses." I looked at her shoes. They were shiny. "So I'm here for the foreseeable, then."

"Yes."

"Lucky me."

She bristled a little. "I don't know if you've noticed, Graham, but the Riverside is a much larger club than the Palace."

"Yes, I had noticed that as a matter of fact. It's all the empty space that does it."

"Okay. Look, I meant to tell you, Graham." She looked sincere, which made it worse. "I really did. I just couldn't find the right time."

"It wasn't up to you to tell me." I rubbed my nose, checked my finger to make sure I hadn't dislodged anything. "It was Dave Randall. I just wish I'd known. Still, it doesn't matter. I know now, don't I?"

"I suppose so." She tilted her head to one side. "Are we okay?"

I nodded, pushed off the desk. As I eased past her, I caught a whiff of perfume that shook something inside my chest.

"You sure?"

I couldn't lie and tell her I was fine, but I could move my head and she'd still believe me.

She watched me go, smiling. "Okay, then."

I went back to the pit, tugged my shirt cuff over the angry red patch of skin on the back of my left wrist. I must have been scratching it unconsciously. I had to watch that. It didn't look professional. There were dealers in every club for whom gossip was the main currency, and I knew they would've just loved to get their hands on my little one-act tragedy. No doubt some of them were already aware of the stress rumours and had made a mental note to keep a beady eye on me, just in case. Any physical discomfort was grist to the mill, so I had to keep it out of sight.

They wouldn't get anything out of me. If there was one thing I'd learned over the last sixteen years, it was how to keep my stronger emotions under wraps. It was a key part of the pit boss job description. If you kept your composure, you kept their respect.

I unhooked the rope instead of hopping it and walked to the middle of the pit, where I turned my attention first to the sheet and then to the monitor. Slowly I started to feel at home again. The pit desk had a way of levelling me out. It was my calm in the middle of the storm.

The doors to reception opened and I looked up to see Alan Slater walking into the club, a smartly-dressed Asian man at his side. I thought Beale was supposed to be on a club-wide ban, and I'd assumed that Slater would have joined him, but that clearly wasn't the case. I wasn't surprised that Dave had buckled on the ban – he was a six-foot yellow streak, after all – but I wasn't about to allow Les Beale into the Riverside. And just like Mary's little lamb, wherever Slater went, Beale was sure to follow.

I watched Slater as he crossed the gaming floor, turned to see him head for an older Asian man who was sitting near the back of the club. This older man was well-dressed, too, but had a more flamboyantly expensive look to him, as if he belonged in one of those kaleidoscopic Bollywood movies where the women danced like metronomes and sang like strangled cats. It was an odd sight, Alan Slater palling around with a couple of Asians, given his mate's obvious prejudices, but maybe he was trying to close a deal. There was no room for bigotry in business, after all. I watched him take a seat and talk to the older man.

There it was, right in front of me, plain as day – you could be involved in GBH on the gaming floor, put a lad in hospital, stain the carpet with blood, and after a couple of weeks, the organisation would let you come back to blow your dough. Sovereign didn't care about anything but their take.

"You got any dealers in here today or what?"

Pollard sat at BJ One, his thick fingers spread on the layout and an even thicker grin spread across his face. I looked around for a dealer, then realised that I'd just sent him on his break. "Sorry, Mr Pollard. We'll have someone out in a minute for you."

"Good." He raised his chin. "I don't like waiting around, know what I mean?"

"Yes. And I do apologise. Normally we'd have someone on the table, but we're a little short-staffed at the moment."

"That why you're still on the days, is it?" He kept smiling. It made him look like a shark.

I tried to remind myself that the pit was my domain. I had nothing to fear here. "I'm happy on days."

"Course you aren't. Who's on nights, then, the poof?" He chewed something that could have been the inside of his cheek. "He's no good, that one." A brief wave of his hand. "I'm not talking about him being an arse bandit or anything – what he wants to do behind closed doors, all that ... No, he's just shit at his job. All over the place."

"If you have any complaints, I'm sure management would love to hear them."

"Ah, now, I don't think so, do you?" Pollard winked at me. "No need to get official about it. Things have a way of changing, don't they?"

"Do they?" There was a catch in my voice that showed me up. Behind me, I heard the staff door opening and the breakers returning to the pit. "We'll get that table open for you now."

I waved at the dealer who'd just come off the blackjack and tapped the float cover. He gave me a Bassett hound look and dawdled over to the table. Pollard sat back on his stool and cast a lingering look around the pit. A buckled twenty sat on the table in front of him, the Queen staring up at me with one squinty eye. If I didn't know better, I could've sworn there was a smudge of marker on one corner. The spot where we checked for counterfeits at the Palace.

"See you later, Graham."

I nodded, smiled, retreated. It was warm in here, and getting warmer by the minute. I watched that twenty out of the corner of my eye until the dealer slotted it into the box. Then and only then did I let my mind drift onto the day's work.

7

I spent most of the next afternoon watching a senior inspector named Jeff try not to collapse against AR Two.

He was drunk, I was certain of it. I couldn't smell anything on him but an abundance of cheap aftershave, but his eyes were red-webbed and there was a lean and sway in his posture. I reckoned if it wasn't alcohol, then it was probably drugs, and if it was neither then he needed to see a doctor as soon as possible because there was something seriously wrong with his inner ear. Luckily, he was a senior inspector, so he wasn't dealing. Less luckily, he was watching Kieran, the emo trainee, who I'd since discovered wasn't great with maths, something that you may have thought would have precluded young Kieran from becoming a croupier, but there you go.

Jeff ran a hand over thinning hair and moved the mousy moustache that only partly camouflaged a particularly gruesome hare lip. He swayed towards the wheel. I made a move to prop him up, but he righted himself in time. He turned and half-smiled at me, apparently surprised at the attention, his voice like someone grinding gears in a small car: "Something I can do you for, Graham?"

I stepped back. "What's on your clicker?"

He showed me the float sheet and the clicker. I checked it against my tally. Too early to have much more than a couple of hundred in the box. He smiled with the other half of his face. I gave him a warning look and nodded at AR Two's layout. "Watch your game."

A quick salute and Jeff leaned against the pillar that separated the two tables. I still wasn't sold on standing inspectors. Yes, taking away the chairs made them more alert, but they also had a way of making the pit look untidy. Where they used to sit, now they slouched like gang members in a Broadway musical – all that was missing was a toothpick jerking around in the corner of the mouth. Thanks to some spectacularly short-sighted pit design, there was also the problem of blind spots, specifically the black hole between ARs One and Two that meant an inspector watching the roulettes had to stay moving, which was a problem. Outside the pit, movement was a kind of visual white noise. Inside, it was something to be noted; it made me think something was going wrong. It made me jumpy.

At least, that was what I told myself.

Jacqui unhooked the pit rope. I hadn't seen her around, didn't know she was in this afternoon, just assumed she was on nights all week. As she approached, I wondered if she'd had a chat with Pollard – she was greenish around the jaw line and didn't meet my eye.

"Something wrong?"

She shook her head, offered a half-smile. "No, I'm fine."

"Doesn't look like it."

She tried to turn the half-smile into a full one. A little colour returned to her face. I went back to watching Jeff. He'd straightened up, shoulders back, Jacqui's presence putting him on his guard. Jacqui came a little closer and pretended to inspect the pit sheet. Her perfume was floral but clean. I noticed a slight blemish by her right ear where she'd neglected to blend her foundation properly.

When she spoke, her voice was low and she didn't look at me. "Kevin Nash just phoned in."

"Feeling poorly?"

"I suppose that's one way of putting it." She replaced the pit sheet. "He's in the hospital."

"Nothing contagious, I hope."

"He was attacked."

"How bad?"

"They broke one of his knees and an arm, I think." She held up one hand to show me. "And his fingers." She turned her attention to the pit monitor. "I didn't speak to him for long. To be honest with you, he wasn't exactly coherent. Sounded like they had him on some kind of heavy duty pain medication."

"And he phoned?"

"He wanted to." A shrug. "You know what he's like."

I didn't, but I nodded anyway. "He's called the police, then?"

"I don't know."

"Does he have any idea who did it?"

She looked up at me, the three lines between her eyes. "I really don't know, Graham. You'd have to ask him."

"Of course."

"It wasn't that long a conversation." She shook her head. "I mean, I spent most of it wondering who was going to cover his shift." She looked pained. "That's bad, isn't it?"

"I don't think so."

"He was supposed to be on tonight, you see."

She watched me. Waiting for me to offer my services, which I wasn't about to do.

"That's a shame, Jacqui, but I'm sure you've got a senior you can ask—"

"Come on, Graham, don't be like that. I thought you were sick of the days."

"I am. I just have other plans tonight."

She blinked at me. "Girlfriend?"

I double-checked her expression. She didn't look like she was taking the mickey out of me, so I stayed civil. "No, it's just a bit short notice for me."

"Okay." She surveyed the pit, chewing her bottom lip. "I'm sure I can dig up someone from somewhere. Maybe Jeff—"

"I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"I don't think he's sober."

"Okay. You'll be alright covering the rest of the week, though, won't you?"

"I don't know. I don't think I should."

"Just the nights, Graham. I'll get someone to cover the days."

I wanted to say no, because I knew that if I agreed I wasn't just saying yes to Jacqui Prince. Pit bosses didn't just get beaten up, gay or otherwise, and if Pollard wanted me on the nights, giving Nash a kicking was a brutally effective way of going about it. Unfortunately my brain refused to give up examples of "other plans" I could've had for the rest of the week, not unless I invented a girlfriend or a sick relative, and I didn't trust myself to maintain a lie like that. "Yeah, okay. I suppose I can cover."

She lit up. "That's great. Thanks, Graham. I promise, anything you need, any time you think it might be too much for you, just let me know, alright?"

I smiled, but I didn't mean it. She smiled, and she did. It was at once the prettiest and most terrifying thing I'd ever seen, and I couldn't look at her anymore.

When I got home that night, I called Clive on his mobile and asked him if he'd been serious about the ships.

"Course I was. What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Doesn't sound like it."

"Nothing much. Just been a bad day, day being the operative word. I think you're right about Dave Randall. I talked to him, he even tried to sell me the stress story."

"Wanker."

"It doesn't matter. Listen, any chance you could give me your guy's number?"

"Yeah. Haven't got it on us at the moment, but I'll email you when I get in."

"Alright. You're not on the count or anything, are you?"

"I'll be out at five."

"Okay. Thanks, Clive. I appreciate it."

I waited by my computer the whole night, even though I knew he wouldn't be able to send anything until he got home. I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't concentrate on anything else, either. I was scared. I felt sick. I didn't want to leave, but I knew I couldn't stay.

When he emailed at half-six, the sky was beginning to turn grey. I opened the email, stared at the number. I couldn't call it then. I was too tired, needed some sleep first. I just needed to make sure it was there. I entered it into my mobile's contacts and then went to lie down.

I didn't call that afternoon, or the next. My head didn't feel clear enough. Working nights after so many days had pulled the time out from under me. When I called, I needed to be the perfect candidate. I needed to be controlled, clear-minded. I needed to be more wanted than wanting.

So it could wait another day.

The night shift at the Riverside was a different crew altogether. Some of the dealers and inspectors I recognised from other clubs, some must have come from other organisations. They'd been trained well, but not by us. You could always tell the dealers from other places. They had different ways of handling the dolly, slinging the cards and tapping the bet. They could chip for themselves when they needed to, and their jaws didn't go slack at the prospect of a rainbow heads-up surrounded by skyscraper splits, corners and streets. In short, they tended to be better than anything that had escaped from Sovereign's satellites, and they were a godsend for what quickly became a medium-busy pit. For a few hours between ten o'clock and one, I forgot where I was, why I was there, and actually started to enjoy myself. It didn't even matter that we were an inspector down, a lad by the name of Stephen Laird. Apparently he'd just vanished, run off without telling anyone, not even his flatmates. Rumour was, he'd jumped onto the ships. It happened all the time. It was an easy escape. I could've used one just like it.

"Graham." A voice rising above the clattering chippers. Lauren was staring at me, stood between ARs Three and Four, her hip cocked at a painful angle and her bosom thrust out. Every time I looked at Lauren I wondered what had made her pick those particular breasts over something smaller, more natural and less immediately sluttish. She moved her head as if she'd already asked me a question, then huffed as she repeated it: "How is he?"

"Who?"

"Kevin."

"He's in the hospital."

"I know, but how bad is it?"

"You miss him already?"

"What? No." She pulled a face, showed a wad of gum in her mouth. "I'm just asking."

"I don't know how he is. You'll have to ask Jacqui."

Lauren smiled. Her teeth had been recently bleached. "I've already asked Jacqui, haven't I? She never said nowt."

"Well then, maybe she doesn't know anything either." I nodded at AR Three. "Get him spinning, or he'll be drowning in chips. And tell him to stay away from the neighbours."

"Like he can spin out of section."

"He can spin into one. Watch him. Keep him working. And next break, Lauren, lose the gum, alright? It's unprofessional."

Which was the nice way of saying it made her look like a Cheetham Hill whore. She knew the implication, looked at me a moment longer, her tongue wedged firmly in her cheek and her mouth open. I twirled a finger and she pivoted on one heel, back to the tables she was supposed to be watching. I glanced at her backside as I turned to the pit desk.

My mobile rang. The display showed an unknown number.

I connected. "Graham Ellis."

"How come you're allowed to have a phone in the pit and us lot aren't?"

I looked up and around the gaming floor. It was semi-busy, crowds clustered around tables, a little foot traffic, mostly white punters already flushed with drink and adrenalin. I couldn't see Pollard but there he was, right in my ear. "I can't talk now."

"Course you can't. You've got people coming back off their break. But do yourself a favour, will you? Turn the other fuckin' phone on. We need a talk."

I turned, saw the breakers heading back just as the line went dead. I disconnected and assigned tables without thinking. There were no immediate complaints, or else none that I heard. I still couldn't see Pollard. I turned off my phone and dropped it in my jacket pocket. My face felt hot. I touched stubble, which worried me because I was normally careful about grooming. As my hand came away from my face, I caught a whiff of bad breath. That must have been me, too. I blinked and searched the pit desk for my Gold Spot.

"Everything okay, Graham?"

Jacqui watched me, looked mildly worried. I realised I was sweating and hated myself for it. I wiped one palm on my trouser leg and smiled at her as I flicked the cap from my breath spray. "Yeah, I'm just—" Spray, spray and smile, spray again. "It's warm tonight, isn't it?"

"You should be here in the summer. The union rep's out with the thermometer every half hour. How are you getting on?"

"Fine. Most of the tables are up, the only one down is a new open, so it's just teething. Reckon we should be up on the night, but otherwise nothing to report."

"You look tired."

"It's just the changeover. The old body clock just needs to adjust. I'll be fine next week."

"I hope so. I need you fighting fit."

I smiled, and then I saw him. Over her shoulder, up there at the bar. Pollard was watching me, his face stone. The barman put a pint down in front of him. Pollard paid with a note and waved off the change.

"You need any help in the meantime, Graham, just give me a shout, alright?"

I kept smiling while something burned in my throat. Give her a shout? I wished I could.

8

A wide, toothy smile defined Dennis Mendoza. That, and a musk that smelled of fermenting fruit. "May I call you Graham?"

"Of course, Mr Mendoza."

A finger in the air. "If I call you Graham, you must call me Dennis, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay!" He laughed – a loud, rising trill – even though there was nothing even remotely funny about our conversation. Dennis Mendoza was a tiny Filipino, probably a borderline midget, and the epitome of cruise ship efficiency: compact and immaculate in his crisp slacks and pressed white shirt, both of which sported creases that could cut glass. He was as otherwise bland as his surroundings, a cookie-cutter office in one of the new glass blocks in the city centre. A small window behind him showed a grey sky and rain spots. Between our cheap office chairs was a twisting, hard-weave carpet. The only sign of sunshine and happiness came in the form of a poster of Duchess' biggest cruise ship, the Grand Duchess. There were people on deck, tanned and dressed in white. They were too good-looking to be English.

Mendoza leaned forward. "You must call me Dennis because I am not Mr Mendoza. Mr Mendoza is my father, okay?"

"I certainly hope so."

Another laugh. He hadn't heard that one before. He slapped one tiny thigh. If there was one thing Mendoza liked to do, it was laugh. He laughed when I came into the room, he laughed his way through most of the introduction, he laughed about how small the room was – and how he didn't mind, ah-hee-hee-hee – and he went on laughing now like some demented pull-cord doll. I couldn't hope to meet his enthusiasm for life, but I had to do my best. After all, this was my escape.

"So." Mendoza's laughter ebbed into a slow chuckle and appeared to turn inwards, putting a sparkle into his eyes as his mouth went straight. "You are interested in working for Duchess, Graham?"

"That's right. Clive Lewis told me you might have some vacancies coming up."

"For experienced staff, yes. Always."

"That's good."

"Not dealers." A glimpse of a frown, the curl of his top lip. "Always too many dealers. Dealers, dealers, dealers. Everywhere. And British dealers." He made a disgusted sound. "They are always drinking. Or drugs." He shook his head, waved a hand. "I do not like it."

"I don't drink."

A sly look from Dennis. "Really?"

"Really."

"Not even one beer, hmm?"

"Not at all. I don't like it."

"Wonderful. We have many, many applicants for dealers, yes. Always too many. But not for pit bosses." A twirled finger that settled on his top lip as he perused my CV. "It is company policy to promote from within, but this is still very difficult. Senior staff, they marry, they have family, they settle down. They do not want to be away from home."

"I'm not married."

"Girlfriend?"

First Jacqui, now him. I was getting sick of people asking me that one-word question. It was probably crossing some sort of line HR-wise too, but after a second's thought I decided that I didn't care. "No girlfriend."

A grin on his face, the first syllable elongated: "Boyfriend?"

"No, no boyfriend either." I gave him the kind of pleasant smile that was supposed to put his mind at ease about my sexuality as well as my lack of offence at being asked such a personal question. As it turned out, of course I was offended. The only man who didn't mind being called a homosexual was a homosexual. "I am completely free."

"This is good. And so why do you wish to work on our ships, Graham? I see you have not worked on board before?"

"You're right, I haven't. I've been UK-based, land-based, my entire career. The cruises are something I've always wanted to try, and when Clive told me that you were looking for experienced staff, I figured that there was no time like the present."

Mendoza watched me as if he expected more.

"A man can't spend his whole life in Manchester, can he?"

"You want to see the world?"

"I suppose so, yes."

Another laugh, roaring out of him this time, followed by another slap of the thigh. "Of course you do! Everybody wants to see the world! It is a beautiful place! Now, do you have a visa?"

For a second, I thought he meant a credit card, then my brain caught up. "No, sorry, I don't think I do."

"I did not think so." Dennis frowned properly now, thinking. It was a weird sight. "And you have not worked overseas before."

There wasn't much I could do about a visa. When I'd mentioned it to Clive, he told me not to worry. Get the job first and worry about the paperwork later. That was his line, but then this was a guy who'd once spent an entire double shift with his flies down just to win a hundred quid bet. He wasn't exactly trustworthy on matters of procedure and fine print.

"How much notice?"

I snapped back to Mendoza. "From my current place?"

His head was cocked to one side. "Yes."

"None."

Mendoza raised both eyebrows. "Really?"

"I'm working on a temporary transfer at the moment."

"Ah. Good." He nodded, looked at my CV, and scribbled something on a blank part. "We have a cruise for the Canary Islands and Western Europe in October. Would you be free?"

"Yes, absolutely I would." My brain reeled with dates as I tried to work out how long October was from now, how many night shifts I would be expected to do, and when I could logically get a visa.

"I will need to confirm, but you look fit and healthy, yes? No problems?"

"No problems."

"And raring to go?"

"Yes." I grinned.

"Then we will be seeing you soon, I hope."

"I have the job?"

"I will let you know very soon."

Laughter. I joined in. Dennis stood. So did I. We shook hands. His disappeared into mine. He kept laughing, a low, liquid chuckle, and I didn't mind it at all now. As he showed me out, I realised that I was shaking.

Outside, rain spotted my jacket. I shrugged into my coat as I walked. I felt like screaming with relief. I was free. Or I would be, certain to the usual rigmarole, which I assumed would be over pretty quickly, given that October was only a couple of weeks away. Worst case scenario, he meant the end of October, but that would still be fine. I could still jack the Riverside job and have enough money to live on until I went away. And when I came back, I could go somewhere else in the country, or perhaps just stay on with Duchess. After all, their casino staff jaunts were six months a time. With a little careful saving, I could easily take the other six months off. After all, room and board were provided, so what else was I going to spend my money on?

The more I thought about it, the more the original fear turned into anticipation. By the time I arrived for the night shift, I was almost excited. I didn't let it show, though, and when Barry Pollard came in at ten, I did my best to ignore him. He would've been an idiot not to notice. I didn't care. I would be gone the moment my new friend Dennis called to confirm.

Which reminded me: I needed to speak to Jacqui. I left it until my meal break, and decided to forgo the fried junk they called food and managed to catch Jacqui out on the floor. She was standing by the cash desk, chatting to Tintin when I approached.

"Jacqui, mind if I have a quick word?"

"Sure, no problem." She followed me through the staff door. "What's up?"

"I need to book some holiday time."

"Oh." She looked disappointed, as if she wasn't aware that I was allowed holidays. "How many days do you have?"

"About a week, I think."

She crooked an eyebrow at me. "And when were you thinking of taking off?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe next week? Some friends of mine from the States are going to be in London and I don't get to see them very often, so I thought I'd pop down."

"I don't know, Graham. It's a bit short notice."

"Sorry." I didn't want to play my trump card, but I had to. "You said if there was anything you could do to help, though. And I'll be honest with you, Jacqui, I didn't want to say anything, but I'm not sure I'm ready for the nights yet."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

I looked around as if I was checking for eavesdroppers. "It's not the night shifts per se. I don't know. It might just be the transition. I don't think I'm a hundred percent yet."

She nodded to herself. "I suppose I did kind of drop you in it, didn't I?"

"I should have said something earlier."

"No, it's okay. Listen, you take the days, I'll get someone to cover, and we can talk about it more when you get back, alright?"

"Thank you."

"But do me a favour, Graham, okay? Take it easy while you're off. I don't want to put more pressure on you, but you're really the only truly experienced member of staff we have. Even if you're not working at your peak, you're doing a better job than anyone else out there, so I need you to take care of yourself."

I swallowed. My chest hurt. I smiled through my discomfort and said nothing.

"I know about stress, Graham."

"Okay."

"I'm serious. I worked land-based in Odessa for three years, you know."

I looked at her. Odessa wasn't a cushy cruise. I'd heard stories about the Ukraine and they'd all involved gangsters and guns. "I didn't know that."

"I don't talk about it."

"Bad time?"

"And then some."

"I mean, you hear things—"

"Only reason I mention it now is so you know I'm not Dave Randall. I do understand. I've been in the shit myself."

I smiled. "Okay."

She smiled too, and I wondered if she knew what a liar Dave was. I wondered if she knew what a liar I was. "Listen, enjoy your days off. Get some rest because I'll be working you like a dog when you get back."

"I look forward to it."

I watched Jacqui sway a little as she headed back to the floor and wondered how much of the movement was her heels and how much her attitude. And then I started thinking about things that would get me into trouble if I dwelled on them, so I shook it off and walked away. There were things you didn't do, things that Dave Randall had no compunction about doing over at the Palace, but I wasn't Dave Randall. As Clive put it, you didn't stick your stack near a company chipper unless you were willing to lose the lot.

He was right, even if he'd ignored his own advice on plenty of occasions and still managed to keep his job.

But then I wasn't Clive. I wasn't Dave. I wasn't the kind of man who could get away with something like that. Of course, I would've been lying to myself if I said I didn't find Jacqui Prince attractive, and that a large part of that attraction derived from the fact that she was senior to me in every way, but there were things you pursued and things you left well enough alone. It was entirely possible that she was interested – the way she kept touching me, for instance – but I'd been burned by friendliness and dyslexic readings before, and I couldn't risk being wrong again. Even though I was supposed to be part of a generation that had been brought up by women, I still didn't feel as if I knew much about them. And I'd rather have stayed alone than be branded a creeper again.

I undid my shirt cuff, stuck two fingers up my jacket sleeve and scratched my arm. Felt the skin flake under my nails and the warm pain of an over-scratched itch.

It didn't matter, anyway. I was out of here. There was no sense in looking for reasons to stay, especially when they were as spurious as my feelings for Jacqui Prince. If there was one thing I'd learned about emotions, it was that they were unnecessarily messy and irrational – they turned punters into screaming children and female dealers into blubbering wrecks. Better to be born without them than suffer the indignity of a crying jag in the middle of a busy, bustling pit.

Talking of which, I was needed. And if I was going to leave, I was determined to go out a winner.

9

Once the last of the big spenders had gone for the night, Fester locked up and the dealers and inspectors set about closing the tables as I tallied up the final sheets.

I didn't need to spend too long on it. We were up, of course we were, significantly so for a midweek night and Jacqui was surprised when I gave her the figures, asked me if I was sure. Of course I was. I'd been keeping a close watch all night, made sure my running total was accurate. Overall, I figured that I'd been conservative in my pit management, kept both staff and punters moving yet happy, but the last thing I wanted to do was hand her a loser. That was Kevin Nash's job.

While the dealers closed up the tables, I checked my phone. There was a text from that unknown number.

WE NEED TO TALK

I read it, digested it, then deleted it.

If I didn't talk to him, I didn't have to make a decision. I could stay ignorant. He was pushing because he wanted to get on with it, wanted my cooperation. A robbery here would take some planning, it would require some inside knowledge, and a man like Pollard wouldn't try to take the place without doing his homework. All his talk about robbing the club whether I was a part of it or not was starting to feel like a bluff, one forced with every phone call and text. He thought I'd break because he thought I'd see the light about the organisation, about how badly they'd been treating me all these years, and realise that without him and this fire exit of a robbery, I was stuck.

I wasn't stuck. All I had to do was call Dennis Mendoza, then I'd pull a Stephen Laird and disappear. Pollard wouldn't be able to find me and the rest of them here would just have to deal with it. I wasn't hurting anyone by running; I just wasn't saving them, and I didn't think that would give me many sleepless nights.

Jacqui and I went through the count with a couple of the quieter dealers and an inspector who appeared to know what he was doing, so the boxes were dumped, bundled and bagged in less than forty minutes. We let the staff go and hung around outside the cash desk, watching Tintin tag the sacks. The floor was still warm with dropped money and boozed-up bodies. There was a smell in the air, a peculiar mix of sweat, perfume, alcohol and disappointment. That smell brought out the Kilgore in me; it smelled like ... victory. It meant we'd nailed them hard enough to fill the boxes, but not so hard that they'd give up gambling for good. It was a balance that every pit boss aspired to, and eminently satisfying when it was achieved.

"Thanks for tonight, Graham." Jacqui touched my left arm.

I pulled away. "You're welcome."

The shutters came down on the cash desk. Jacqui stayed with me a little longer, watching the metal slide down, then went over to Fester to talk about the final lock-up. I leaned against the wall and breathed out. She'd noticed me flinch under her hand. There was no way to explain something like that.

Tintin emerged from the cash desk. I followed him to the reception, grabbed my coat and left. I watched Tintin head for his naff little Nova and Jacqui duck into the back of a waiting cab, then headed across the empty car park to my Corsa. I stopped and breathed in the night air. It was cold, clean, better than the recycled breath I'd filled my lungs with all night. I turned to look at the club. Fester watched me from the glass reception, and then the lights went out.

A week off, and then I'd be out of there. It could work. If I wasn't on shift, then Pollard couldn't touch me. I'd just avoid the Sainsbury's until then, maybe get my food delivered. It wasn't as if he knew where I lived, was it?

So I was safe. Or I thought I was.

I didn't see them as I pulled into the car park, but they must have been waiting in the shadows for me, because as soon as I stepped out of my car, there were enough hands on me to throw water into my knees and a knot into my stomach. I spun against them, started to protest, about to yell for help when someone found that knot with his fist. The breath coughed out of me. I stumbled, doubled up. They pushed me into the shadows and up against a wall. My gut quivered, burned. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't see straight for the pain. I felt like throwing up, but they kept me upright and my shoulders back, and my brain told me I'd have plenty of time to vomit later if they left me alive.

Three of them. I couldn't see faces, doubted I'd recognise them even if they were visible, but I knew their type. If they weren't related to Pollard – cousins, brothers, sons – then they were close friends. The orange light of the block car park bounced off the middle one's skinhead, broke and danced in front of my eyes. He was going bald and had shaved his head to hide it. It was a sign of vanity that didn't extend to his clothing – not unless that was a designer tracksuit he was wearing.

"You think you're fuckin' special, son?" He had a slight lisp. It made him sound effeminate, faintly ridiculous.

I shook my head. I heard him, but my ears were ringing.

"What happens when someone calls you?"

"I don't know." I really didn't; my brain had locked up.

More hands, pulling this time, wrenching me away from the wall, only to shove me back. My head met brick and something flashed white behind my eyes. I tried to put a hand up to the back of my head, but someone held my wrist. Dug their finger into the raw skin. I struggled, but it was a feeble effort and everyone knew it.

"Where's the phone?"

"What phone?"

"The fuckin' phone."

"Coat. Coat pocket."

The speaker took out a mobile. The display illuminated his face. He was rat-like, a large nose intruding on otherwise small features, his ears curling at the edges like old bacon. He pressed a number, put the phone to his ear and stared at me. "It's switched off."

"I know."

"Get it out."

"What?"

He lunged forward, grabbed my face, squeezed until it felt as if my cheekbones were about to crack. I let out a breath, made a noise like an owl. I wanted to struggle against him, but I knew better. I'd read things. You didn't fight back, not in a situation like this. Not unless you wanted much, much worse. Best thing to do was play possum and wait it out and just pray that you weren't too badly hurt or humiliated. I felt the pressure on my wrist disappear. The skin burned. I reached into my pocket for the disposable mobile and showed it to the rat.

The rat let go. "Turn it on."

I turned on the phone. It made a desultory nurp sound, followed by a higher pitched double beep. There were sixteen missed calls, but no messages. The sight of them made my stomach roll.

"Keep it on."

I nodded, leaned back against the wall.

The rat dialled a number, staring at me. He waited for the call to connect, then: "He's ready to talk."

He killed the call. Stared at me for a few seconds.

The disposable phone rang. The rat nodded at me.

I connected the call, held the phone to my ear with one trembling hand. It was Pollard. He didn't need to speak. "Yes, Mr Pollard?"

"There you are."

I swallowed. Something tasted like sick. I wondered if I'd thrown up after all. "Yes."

"What's your answer going to be, then?"

"I don't know."

"That's not an answer, son."

"I know, Mr Pollard."

"Call us Barry."

"No."

"No?"

"Sorry."

"Way you're talking, it sounds like you don't want to be part of this. Is that a fair assessment of the situation, d'you think?"

"Yes."

"So you're telling me no?"

I opened my mouth. The breath balled in my throat. Three men in front of me, all waiting for the word from Pollard. I swallowed again. "I really don't know."

"Well, let's see what we can do about that, eh? Obviously you have concerns, Graham, so maybe I can put your mind at ease."

"I hope so."

"So what's the problem, then?"

"I can't ... It's kind of difficult to—"

"Don't mind the lads. They won't do anything unless I tell them to. So, come on, tell us what's on your mind."

I blinked at the tarmac. It shone. It must have rained. There was a hot pain in my throat. I wanted to cry. "I don't want to die."

"You're not going to die."

I pushed a knuckle across one eye, stared at the men with the other. "I don't want to get hurt."

"You're not going to get hurt, either." He laughed. The line crackled. "Not unless you specifically request it."

"Why would I do that?"

"It's got to look real, Graham."

"I'm not ... I'm not comfortable with this. I can't—"

"You don't have to be comfortable with it. I'm glad you're not. If you were, it would mean you were used to fucking people over. And I wouldn't be able to trust you if you were like that, would I? So no, you don't have to be comfortable with it, but you do have to be comfortable enough to do what you're asked."

"I don't know if I am."

"Then we'll take that as a no, call it a day. Give Jez the phone back and we'll not mention it again."

"But you'll still rob the place?"

"That's the plan."

"And what about me?"

A sigh that crackled on the line. "If it turns out that I don't have your cooperation then I'll probably need to make sure you're not at work to fuck things up for us—"

"Like Kevin Nash?"

"Nah." A pause, and a hardening of the voice. "More permanent than that."

I choked. I tried to move away. Hands kept me steady. Those hands had snapped Nash's fingers, broken his legs, put him in hospital. Those hands made me want to scream. They might just do that before the night was out. "Wait, wait a second."

Pollard's voice was warm again. "You don't care about those people, do you? Really?"

"No."

"They're shit, Graham. They're the dregs, son. You're not one of them."

I swallowed against a dry throat. I looked up at the block of flats. There were lights on, but I knew nobody was watching. Nobody cared round here. You kept yourself to yourself. It was one of the reasons I'd moved here in the first place. My neighbours were invisible strangers, singleton shut-ins with no discernible social skills, and that was just the way I liked it. The way I used to like it. I put a hand on my gut and rubbed.

"Still there, Graham?"

I thought about it. I blinked. I trembled. I sweated.

I came to a decision.

"Okay."

"That a yes?"

I felt the shadows moving away from me, felt the circulation return to my limbs. "Yes, it is."

"Alright, then. You've got a week."

I opened my mouth to protest, but he'd already hung up. I looked at the three men who were watching me.

I opened my arms. "It's okay. He said it was okay."

Jez the rat laughed at me. A text beeped on his mobile. The laughter stopped. He gestured to his two mates and they turned away. I watched them head for the gates, kept still even though every fibre of my being wanted to run home. I couldn't let them know which flat was mine, so I waited until they were gone, and then I waited a little longer, already thinking, already planning, already trying to come up with a heist good enough to save my skin.

10

My first conclusion was that a week wasn't long enough.

I cancelled my holiday time, much to Jacqui's delight, and decided to get right to it, but it became all too clear all too quickly that I couldn't possibly scope the place properly in one five-night run. I started to think that maybe I should've asked Pollard what he'd originally planned and then build from there, but it was too late – I couldn't talk to him now. I couldn't even think about the man without breaking into a sick, viscous sweat.

So I took notes, spent my off-moments scribbling on the back of a roulette card like The Professor. Mostly numbers, nothing too incriminating. Nobody but me would be able to decipher it without prior knowledge, and even then it would be tenuous. But it was necessary. I needed to see it written down in black and white. I couldn't hold all this in my head.

Lucky for any prospective robbers, the Riverside boasted a series of obvious security issues. You had a staff door that was open to the gaming floor, where anyone passing could spy the security code that would get you not only behind the scenes, but also one door nearer the cash desk. Of course I'd give Pollard the code for the door, but the point was that it was plausible for them to have the code by other means. Anyone with an eye and an interest would be able to peek at the keypad on any number of breaks and work it out. That was good. Above all else, my job here was to keep me safe and pre-empt any wild accusations of an inside job. So, a set of breakers going off every two hours was at least three chances to clock the code, implying that they all went through at the same time. Then there was the restaurant and valet staff. Some of them didn't like walking through the kitchen to get to the staff room, so they used the staff door, too. On the first night I counted no less than twelve uses of the staff door where the code was entered; all it would take was one glance to note and another to confirm.

I also watched security. Fester was the only one out of the three regulars who had any serious army time behind him. The other two – the perpetually dozing black guy named Jason and the one with the military moustache whose name I hadn't bothered to learn – were a two-three hitch maximum, if they'd ever been in the forces at all. Both worked to my advantage. Fester had the experience, but he was too old and flabby to use it. The other two weren't a threat, especially if Pollard and his men were emphatic and quick, which would be my immediate recommendation. As far as I could tell, Fester and his boys fell into the same old club security routine – doormen with a drunk-bouncing remit if required, but mostly there as a deterrent. If that was the case then they'd fold just as quickly as the average punter the moment they saw the fallen eight of a double-barrel.

Even though robbing the club while it was open was a definite no-no, crowd control was still my main concern. I'd decided that the best way to keep an eye on people was to keep them in one place, but that was a tricky proposition. Even after we closed, there were still plenty of staff on the premises. Herding them into the middle of the pit was probably the best course of action – it would bring them out of the shadows and into the glare of the main pit lights, and there was enough space to keep them separated so they couldn't confer and wind each other up with heroic ideas. The only problem there was that when we closed of a night, most of the staff tended to congregate up around the restaurant area where there were comfy seats and a plasma television. So they'd have to be physically moved, which opened up opportunities for resistance which, in turn, opened up opportunities for people to get badly hurt.

A problem, but a subsidiary one. I knew I was supposed to minimise casualties, but the bottom line was I didn't know these people. Nor did I care about most of them. They were names on a sheet and a whinging white noise. If they got hurt, then it would be their own fault. My real job was to keep this robbery as quick and clean as possible. If I succeeded there, then I'd keep breathing. Everything else was gravy.

I swapped breakers, kept the pit sheet up to date and left the inspectors to their own devices. I'd already received some odd looks tonight. It wasn't like me to let people get on with it. I liked to keep moving, keep checking, keep monitoring the tables to make sure we weren't on any losers. I just played it off like I was growing comfortable with the place, and perhaps I was becoming complacent into the bargain. It didn't matter if we lost money tonight. We'd lose significantly more before the month was out.

My pen ran dry. I grabbed one of the Moon Festival flyers from a pile on the pit desk and scribbled on the back of it until more ink came out. The flyers were glossy and professional, and we had way too many of them. I glanced around the tables. There was supposed to be a nice supply of flyers on each and if anyone asked, we were supposed to shove them into their hands, which threw up a whole host of potential security issues that I was the only one sensitive enough to notice.

I turned over the flyer. There was a date written in bold white letters: Sunday 30th September 2012. Around the date curled brightly coloured dragons that carried glowing lanterns in their claws. The Moon Festival wasn't really a thing in any of the other clubs, not even the Arches on George Street where you'd expect it. According to Jacqui it was a kind of Chinese harvest festival that took place every autumn on a full moon. Whatever the occasion, it was an excuse for an all-you-can-eat buffet and cheap tables, both of which were designed to bring in the short-term punters, which also meant a boost in take for that Sunday night. That take would be added to the Saturday cash and wouldn't be banked until the following Monday, which meant there'd be tagged bags sitting in the cash desk even before the count.

Someone laughed over at the cash desk. It was Tintin, must have been, because it was too feminine to belong to his little colleague whom I'd nicknamed Spaniel because of the two curly flaps of hair on either side of her scrunched-up little face. Her voice made her sound like a teenage boy in drag, and her attitude didn't help the comparison.

I looked from the cash desk over to reception, tried to work out the distance between the two. It was too far to run without being seen, and you'd need to be Mo Farah to get to the desk before the shutters were down. Once that happened, any robber would be out in the cold unless he found a couple of spare hours and a welding kit. Even then, the shutters were reinforced, as was the door to the count room. Out of all the rooms in the club, that was the most expensive one to build, and the organisation wouldn't have skimped this time, especially if they were setting up in Salford.

The inside of my elbow itched. I wanted to scratch it, but I couldn't go digging around under my shirt in the middle of the pit. Instead, I leaned against the pit desk, rubbed my hand over the outside of my jacket.

There was no way you could bring anyone in through the front and get them to the cash desk without it all going pear-shaped. I hadn't timed the shutters yet, but if it was less than five seconds, I needed another way in. On top of that, you need to herd the staff and keep them under control. Meanwhile, Tintin or Spaniel or whoever it was who'd been unfortunate enough to pull that shift would hit the alarm behind the corrugated steel and that would be the beginning of the end. The only other way into the cash desk was from the staff side, and while that open staff door was a security risk, it was also placed too far away from any of the entrances or exits to be rushed.

So.

Think.

The rubbing wasn't working.

I asked Jeff to take over the pit for a second and strode to the rope. I timed myself as I walked to the staff door. Ten seconds from the middle of the pit. Another one-two to put the code into the keypad, and I was in. A sharp turn to my left, and there was the door to the count room. Beyond the count room, the cash desk. I stopped, let the staff door ease closed behind me, looking at the door to the count room and thinking. Then I remembered the camera above the door and pushed on up the corridor. I ducked into the toilets, removed my jacket and rolled up my shirt sleeve. My left arm looked raw. The air made it itch even more. I felt around in my jacket pocket until I found my cream, then squeezed a grape into my hand, slapped it onto the itchy part of my arm, and then rubbed it in all the way down to my wrist, smothering the itch. I looked like I was about to help a cow give birth. My hand was slick, and I still wanted to scratch through the lotion. This wasn't right. I'd had skin problems before, but never this bad and not for a good long while.

I washed the rest of the cream off my hands. My left arm was cold.

My reflection showed me how bad I looked, sweaty around the hairline and puffy and pale of face. Normally it wouldn't have bothered me. Put it down to poor diet, too little sleep, not enough exercise, too many shifts, too much sugar and caffeine. For all intents and purposes, that was what the outside world would've seen and thought. If anyone had a mind to think differently, though, there was every chance I'd be seen for what I was – suspicious and cornered. I pulled my shirt sleeve down over my arm and buttoned the cuff before I shrugged back into my jacket.

I wasn't sure I could think of a way for Pollard to rob this place without someone getting hurt. Not without additional on-site assistance on my part, anyway, and the thought of being even more involved nauseated me. But sure enough, it was coming to that, wasn't it? I would have to put myself at risk, not only of harm but of being sent to prison, in order to protect a majority of the staff.

I breathed out. I felt warm. I splashed water on my face.

There was a friend of mine, he once posted a picture of himself with a T-shirt that read: WWSD?

What Would Spock Do?

Spock was our Jesus. He was cold, logical, and normally correct.

So ask the question, WWSD?

And get the answer back, his dying words from The Wrath of Khan, that cornerstone of Vulcan philosophy which sprang from a Dickens novel: "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few ..."

... or one.

Logic dictates, Jim.

More water on my face. Jeff wouldn't be able to hold the pit for long. Any longer than ten minutes on any given task and his attention drifted.

I needed to get back. I dried my hands with a scratchy paper towel and stepped out of the toilet.

The truth of the matter was I liked to think I stood above the rabble, looking down. And it was true that their petty arguments and out-of-club activities didn't figure into my day-to-day unless there was an inspector/dealer relationship that threatened the integrity of the club – the staff handbook was crystal clear on workplace romance and how it was to be actively discouraged. Most of the time, though, the staff were cattle to herd from table to table and break to break, and they didn't factor into my life much beyond that. I didn't go out drinking with them, and outside of Clive I wasn't really friendly with any of them. As far as I was concerned, they were their own family, incestuous as it was, and I was the social worker.

But it was different now. Pollard had made it different.

You always think of yourself as a good person. Or at least, you don't think of yourself as a bad person. You always nurture that warm idea of yourself as someone who, given the choice, would do the right thing. Of course, as soon as that right thing makes itself known, you find yourself doing everything in your power to avoid it, citing your god, your health, your family, your myriad weaknesses both real and imaginary. You make excuses and call them reasons, and you do so in the knowledge that the only thing stopping you from the true moral path is your own cowardice and self-regard. And then, inexorably, you choose the wrong thing because it's the easiest to do.

Not this time. Not me.

If I'd harboured any fantasies about controlling this remotely, they were long gone now. I had to make sure that everything went according to plan, make sure that it was as quick and clean as I needed it to be. Not just for the staff's sake, but for my own, too.

I knew it was the right decision to make. It was unselfish decision, really. It was the moral decision. Deep down, I knew it. Because deep down, I felt physically, violently sick.

11

I managed to get a doctor's appointment the next afternoon. It wasn't worth the wait or the hassle it had taken to get registered, weighed and interrogated by a nurse who seemed unduly superior, given her own weight problem and obvious alcohol abuse, but I did it. By the time I saw a doctor, I just wanted it over with. Luckily for me, he was of the same opinion. He examined my arm, the back of my wrist, the palm of my hand and sank back into his chair.

"Well?"

The doctor was elderly, his chin dusted with dark grey hairs that looked like ash at this distance. He wore half-moon glasses above flared and tufted nostrils, and his pursed lips looks like two squashed prunes. "Have you experienced these rashes before?"

"No, never."

He raised an eyebrow. "Never?"

"Well, I mean, I had it when I was a kid sometimes."

He nodded. "Have you noticed it changing with the weather at all? Warm or cold climates?"

"Not really."

"Any contact with poison ivy, nickel, wet cement, anything like that?"

"No."

"How is it with sunlight?"

I smiled. "I don't really see much of that."

He nodded. Wrote something down. "New washing powder?"

"Not as far as I know."

"As far as you know?"

"Maybe they changed the formula."

"Maybe they did, Mr Ellis. Maybe they did." He put pen to paper, but it looked like he was drawing something rather than writing. He smiled, showed a canine edged with brown. "Are you using any cream?"

I brought out the moisturiser that I'd been using. He regarded it from behind the desk and over his half-moons, then showed the canine on the other side before he went back to his drawing.

"Well? Is it serious?"

"It will be if you keep using that stuff." He wrote out a prescription. "You'll want to use a moisturiser, of course, but stay away from your perfumed lady things. Thicker the better, something with petroleum jelly in it, ideally. Do you shower?"

"Of course I do."

"Keep them short, avoid scented soaps if you can, keep the water lukewarm." He finished writing the prescription and slapped it onto the desk between us. "That's for a corticosteroid ointment. Wait for an hour or so after you've used your moisturiser, then use that if it gets particularly bad." He pointed at me. "Sparingly, though. Only if it gets particularly bad. Also, get yourself some calamine lotion for the itching."

I nodded, tried to remember it all.

He leaned forward. "What did you say you did for a living?"

"I'm a pit boss."

"Stressful job?"

"No."

He clicked his pen, showed me both canines in a large grin. "Atopic eczema can be exacerbated by stress, Mr Ellis."

"I'm not stressed."

"I'm just saying—"

"I know what you're saying." I smiled. "Thank you, Doctor. But I'm not stressed. No more than usual, anyway." I picked up the prescription. "Thanks for this. This'll clear it right up, yes?"

"It'll help."

I stood. "Thank you."

Went to the door, but had to stop.

The doctor looked at me. "Something else?"

"Probably nothing, but I'm up for a job on the cruise ships, and I wondered if this would keep me from getting the job."

"Eczema? No."

"It's not that serious?"

Click-click. "No, not at all. Just do your best to avoid triggers like smoking, drinking, that sort of thing."

"I don't do either."

"Oh really?" Another double click. "Well then, you should be fine." He nodded at the prescription. "Remember: sparingly."

"Thank you, I will."

I didn't. By the time I reached the chemist, I was half-insane with the itch. I was three steps out before I'd cracked the cap on the tube and rubbed a good couple of grapes into my red, irritated skin.

Then, tired and sticky, I continued on to work.

The night shifts grew worse as the foul weather forced more punters into the Riverside. It was hot and damp and grumpy, punters elbow-to-elbow at the tables and a majority of the staff were too inexperienced to cope properly. There were a few kick-offs, more than a few camera checks, and all the while I kept an eye on proceedings, wondering where I was going to find that one clue that would bring inspiration. I watched the staff close up the tables for the night. Counted them off in my head. The same number, give or take, every night. And then I watched them head off to the changing rooms and staff room to grab their stuff, knowing full well they'd go up to the restaurant area. While they did that, I timed it roughly in my head as I went into the count with two dealers, an inspector and Jacqui.

I went to close the count room door and it stuck for a second. I fiddled with it, and it sprang back open.

Jacqui looked confused. "Graham?"

"It's not closing." I gave the handle a quick jostle and then pushed it properly shut. It clicked. I pushed it again to make sure it stayed closed.

"We ready?"

I nodded and joined the dealers and inspector over by the count table. I tuned out their chatter as they dumped the boxes onto the table, counting them off. I watched Tintin and the Spaniel in the cash desk. I saw the movement on the monitors in there – they had two cameras, one outside the count room door and one trained on the gaming floor. They were covered on both sides. I shook my head. Then I looked back at the count room door. I went over to it and tried it again.

Jacqui watched me.

"Sorry. I just wanted to make sure it was still locked."

"Is it?"

"Yeah, I think so."

I returned to the table, got on with the count.

The inspector was holding court. "What about Jerry tonight, eh?"

"What a fuckin' joke." This from a new dealer, acting like an old hand.

"Give us me fuckin' chips!" The inspector's breath smelled like stale coffee. I shifted away from him.

"Yeah, get 'em yourself, they're down the chipper."

I pulled tenners out into piles. They were talking about Jerry Grant. He was an accountant, apparently. Used to tell the dealers all about the odds, and how he had them all worked out because he used to work for JP Morgan. But Jerry was an emotional gambler for a man who professed a clinical mind and an iron nerve, and when he lost – which was often – he was prone to acting out. Luckily for the staff, the worst Jerry ever did was shout and scream, and that was amusing more than anything else – that impression the dealer just did hit it pretty much on the nose – a high squeal of a voice, edging onto indignant tears. I had to smile, which caught their attention.

"You ever get Jerry over at the Palace, Graham?"

"A couple of times. It wasn't his kind of club, though. He likes sympathy. And I think Jeff played it well tonight. Just be stone with him and he'll come round."

"You're a hard man. Them and us, eh?"

"It's them or us."

The dealer snorted a laugh. Something wet appeared on his top lip before he wiped it away. "Old school."

"If that's old school, what's the new school?" I looked at Jacqui. "Did I miss a meeting or something?"

She smiled. "You're supposed to be providing a service, Graham. Did nobody tell you?"

"Oh, I see. We're customer service operators now, are we?"

She turned the smile to the pile of money in front of her. "That's correct."

"Thought as much." I nodded. "Just means we have to smile as we steal."

The new dealer laughed again. It was starting to grate.

Jacqui put a pile of twenties next to me. "Now you're just being cynical."

"That is my factory setting, right enough."

It was Jacqui's turn to laugh now. I was keeping everyone in stitches, it looked like. I wondered if there was a lack of oxygen in the room. That, or they were patronising me for some reason.

We carried on the count like that, having an odd, gentle laugh and a joke around. And it began to feel warm in the count room, especially when Jacqui's hand brushed mine over the money. Later, when the Spaniel had tagged the sacks and we let the floor staff go and get changed, I caught Jacqui watching me.

"What?"

"You've loosened up a bit."

"That so?"

"Yeah."

I smiled at her. "I didn't mean to."

She wagged a finger back at me. "Watch yourself, Graham. You might actually enjoy yourself one of these days."

"Heaven forfend."

"I think so. I think you might actually be getting more comfortable here. What do you think?"

I couldn't exactly tell her the truth, but she did have a point – I no longer cared what people here thought of me, and there was a part of me that no longer cared if the casino made any money. So if that came across as me looking settled and comfortable, then so be it. "I'm no longer as uptight as I once was, no."

"The Palace was a stressful place to work, was it?"

"The place? No. The people ..."

"You're talking about Dave Randall."

"How did you know?" I smiled. "It's nothing, really. He's just incompetent and untrustworthy."

"Is that so?"

"Why do you think I'm here?"

"I needed cover. I asked around, and Dave said you'd had—"

"A bad night at the tables? Listen, I've had worse before, and I dare say I will again. These things happen. Dave's just looking after Dave, and he's not afraid to let someone else take the fall for his poor management."

She cocked her head, looked at me with narrowed eyes. "You know something? I'm not quite sure what to make of you, Graham Ellis."

"I'm sure you'll come up with something."

"I'm sure I will." She put a hand on my arm. "Listen, I'm glad you're here, Graham. Really. You've been a godsend. And I want you to know that you're a valued member of staff. Properly. And nobody's going to put you in harm's way here."

I laughed. I couldn't help myself. It sounded funny.

"What's—"

"No, it's not you." I shook my head. "Really. Thank you. It's a relief thing, that's all. I've just – you're right, I haven't been comfortable here for a long time and now I feel like I'm fitting in a bit more, you know? I'm glad to be here, too. And thank you. You've made the transition a lot easier."

We went out into the corridor. We were alone. The other staff must have been waiting out by the restaurant. The count room door closed behind us.

"So ..."

"So." I looked around. "I should probably go and get my coat. Do you have yours?"

"It's in my office."

"Okay, then."

I started up the corridor, wondering what I'd just missed, because it felt like I missed something there. A pause, perhaps, where I should have said something I didn't, or done something that I had no clue what it was. I shook it off and pushed into the locker room, but stopped halfway through.

There was a breeze. I went back out into the corridor and carried on down to the staff room. The breeze came from the kitchen. I went in, turned on the lights. The strips flickered and then caught. I could hear rain. I went through the kitchen, deserted and pristine, and out to the back door, which was standing wide open. I stood in the doorway for a moment and looked at all the cars in the car park. Saw the taxis start to assemble to take some of the staff home, and I suddenly felt a chill that stuck me like a stiletto blade.

I turned off the lights and stood in the dark for a minute, my brain ticking over.

It came to me then. All of it. Everything from the first footstep to the final scream.

I closed the kitchen door, returned to the locker room and grabbed my coat. I felt around in my pocket for the disposable mobile and in the silence of the locker room I scrolled through to the one contact number and pressed dial.

12

The Costa was packed with buggies and young mothers most weekday mornings and today was no exception. I sat at the back of the place with a copy of the Guardian, a grande hot chocolate with extra cream and a white chocolate and raspberry muffin that was too solid to be fresh. Some afro-tinged jazz played on the speakers, but nobody really heard it. I watched the mothers and their kids when I wasn't pretending to read. Everywhere I looked, some toddler was mashing something squidgy into the table top and squirming around in their seat. Used to be, kids followed their mothers and fathers to pubs. This was a whole generation growing up in coffee shops. I didn't know if that was a good thing. Then I didn't know if I cared. Probably not.

I sipped my hot chocolate. The cup vibrated against my lip. My hand was shaking. I put down the cup, pressed my palm flat against the table and held it there until the tremors disappeared. My fingers came away sticky. I rubbed them with one of a mound of napkins I'd taken from the dispenser.

When I looked up, Pollard was halfway through the doors, another man behind him. The man was the leader from the other night, the rat. As he entered he looked around as if checking for exits. Outside, I saw the car that I assumed was Pollard's ride. It was large, silver, looked expensive, but I didn't know the make. His way of travelling incognito, obviously. The rat went to the counter and ordered as Pollard smiled and squeezed his way through the pushchair jungle to get to me. He scraped a chair and sat opposite. He stared at me, didn't say anything. I wanted my hot chocolate, wanted to cover my mouth which threatened to break into a hysterical grin, but I didn't dare in case the trembles started again.

"So. Coffee shop."

I nodded. "Yep."

"You don't drink, do you?"

"No."

"Used to, did you? Bit too much?"

I shook my head. "I never got the taste for it."

He narrowed his eyes, then smiled. "I suppose I should be grateful. Got enough pissheads already work for us." He glanced across at the counter. The rat was being served. "He's hungover, that one. Thinks I don't know, but I do. I know everything about the people that work for me. And that's the only thing you need to know."

"I don't work for you."

"You do now."

I didn't say anything.

Pollard leaned back in his seat. "What was it changed your mind?"

"What do you think?"

"Jez? Don't be daft. He didn't do owt to you."

"He was part of it. I'm not going to lie."

"He can be persuasive."

"He can be physically threatening, yes."

"Physically threatening? Our dog's done shits bigger than him." Pollard laughed. "They transferred you permanent, didn't they?"

"Yes."

"Thought as much. You're a better man than that."

"Yeah. Clearly." I couldn't say it without smiling.

"Give your conscience a shake, will you, son? Might not feel like it now, but you're doing the right thing." He shifted around in his seat, nodded to the mothers. "Busy in here."

"Well, yeah, I thought that would be best."

"Plenty of witnesses, is it?"

"Who're busy with their children, yes."

"There's a Starbucks up the way."

"Which is always full of students, who would probably be a bit more interested in what we're talking about. Only thing this lot are interested in are themselves and their kids."

"So what are we talking about?"

Jez came over with two coffees – one latte and one cappuccino. The cappuccino was apparently Pollard's.

He regarded it. His lip curled. "Is there a fuckin' war on?"

Jez pulled up another chair. "Sorry, Barry."

"Never put enough chocolate on it. Wouldn't get this shit at Starbucks."

I took the opportunity to pull a wedge out of my muffin. "Starbucks would have burned the coffee."

"That right?"

I nodded as I chewed. "High turnover, low standards."

"Fuckin' shame. Nobody's got pride in their work anymore. You know they're skimming on their tax an' all?"

"I heard that."

"Robbing bastards." He stirred his cappuccino and gestured at Jez. "Anyway, just so you've been formally introduced. This is Jez. Jez, this is Graham."

"Aye, we met." Jez smiled briefly.

"So what's the story, Graham?" Pollard smiled at me. "Talking like you've got it all sorted for us. What you got?"

"Well, that depends on your proposed cut."

Pollard showed teeth. His eyes crinkled. "Fuck me, he's haggling."

I looked at my hot chocolate. "Percentage-wise. I mean, you can offer a fixed fee, but it's in your best interests to keep it to a percentage. The bigger the take, the more I have invested in it."

"Take, is it?" He pointed at me and nudged Jez. "Look at him, he's been watching his telly, hasn't he? Fuckin' hell."

"I'm not kidding."

The smile remained, but his eyes went to the cappuccino in front of him. His bottom lip overwhelmed the top and he nodded. "Yeah, I know you're not. You're a very serious young man, Graham. I knew you were right from the get-go. And I appreciate you lending a hand like this."

"It'll be services rendered."

"Of course. And that's why I think I can maybe stretch to ten percent."

I shook my head. "A third."

"I've got expenses, son. You'll get ten percent."

"You wanted my help. You came to me. You wouldn't have done that if you thought this was going to be easy. You said yourself that it would be a better proposition all round if you had someone on the inside—"

"You hard of hearing, son? I said ten."

"Then I say no." I sipped my hot chocolate and then wiped my mouth. "And that's all I'll say. I'll just leave and you can sort this out yourselves."

"You think you're going to be safe on a ship?"

"Who says I'm going on the ships? I could have another offer with Stanley or Grosvenor. I could be land-based in Prague in a week. You said it yourself – I'm better than that place. And if you want my help, you're going to have to pay for it."

Pollard laughed. He looked at Jez, then shook his head like I was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. "Alright, how about you tell us what you've got?"

"A third."

"Fuckin' hell, he's a parrot, this one, eh?" He waved at me. "Let's see what your plan's all about first, see if it's as airtight as you reckon, then we can talk about your fuckin' third."

I waited. Paused for effect. Then I reached into my pocket and retrieved the flyer. I put it on the table between us. Pollard looked at it, but didn't make a move. "That's your date."

"Sunday?"

"Sundays, there's normally two days' worth of money on the premises. You make it a Sunday at the end of the month when you've had the pay day punters and a major Chinese festival, you're adding another zero onto your take."

"Alright." He looked at Jez, who shrugged. "Sunday."

"And if you go in there without me, you'll mess it up. I'm not talking about the staff here, either. Sovereign don't care about the staff. People heal, and turnover's high anyway. But you lot, go in there without my help, you'll wreck the fixtures and fittings. That's unforgivable – means the organisation have to put in a bigger insurance claim. And as you know, there was a lot of pressure not to open the place in Salford anyway. They said it was a security risk."

"They were right."

"Didn't help that you came round demanding protection."

"Did I do that?" He smiled at Jez. "Did I do that, Jez?"

"Doesn't matter if you did or not. That's the story. That's Pete Rockwell's story."

"Pete Rockwell." Pollard raised his eyebrows. "Jesus, there's a blast from the past. How is Pete? You talk to him recently, have you?"

"No."

"No, I didn't think so." Pollard and Jez shared a chuckle.

I didn't want to push for an explanation, so I decided to change tack. "Soon as the place is robbed, they'll come to you. You know that."

"Don't you worry, son. I'll be fine."

"I'm not worried about you, I'm worried about your team."

"My team?" Pollard smirked. "They'll be fine."

"You're sure about that?"

"Trust me."

"I wish I could. But you need to make sure. Way I heard it, the only reason they haven't pulled you in on the Palace robbery is because it wasn't big enough. This one, this here, this is going to be big enough. And it's going to be close enough to the Palace to suggest a pattern if you let it. Which is why you need to listen to me, Mr Pollard, and listen closely, because you're going to need to follow my plan to the letter. You don't do that, I promise you – and I promise Jez here, too – that you'll be in Strangeways for Christmas."

Pollard moved his mouth. He touched the rim of his cup. There was a different kind of smile on his face now, as if he was being reminded of an embarrassing story. He jerked his chin at me, but kept his gaze on his cappuccino and his voice low. "What's the plan?"

"Quick, simple and clean. This isn't a smash and grab. If you rush this place, panic the staff, then someone's going to do something daft. I don't think either of us wants blood on our hands if we can help it. Which means you can't hit the place while it's open."

Jez scoffed. Pollard glanced at him.

"I'm telling you, you can't do the club when it's full of punters. Yeah, you might pick up another couple of grand in wallets and watches, but all it takes is one bad pawn shop to put you in prison, and some of the punters are probably going to put up a fight. Trust me, I've watched these people for sixteen years. They'll gamble it away, but never give it up without a fight."

"And the staff?"

"The staff don't care. They're trained to step back. Not their money, not worth the risk."

"When do you suggest, then?"

"The count."

"Which is what time?"

"Casino closes about four, the boxes come out shortly after that. I can give you an exact time if we sort out the cut. The benefit of hitting the count is obvious. All the cash is out in the open, you don't need to bother with the table boxes and your cashiers are otherwise engaged. There'll be a couple of seconds' leeway on any surprises. Everyone's knackered that time of the morning."

"Not gonna work, Barry." Jez shook his head. "The count room's built like Superman's shithouse."

"A door's only as good as its locks. You won't have to worry about that. I'll be in there. I'll sort it out."

"What about alarms?" Pollard wiped a speck of chocolate from the side of his mouth.

"One in the cash desk. I won't be able to do anything about that."

"For fuck's sake." Jez rolled bloodshot eyes. He was smiling, but it was more out of disbelief than any actual mirth. "This one's a fuckin' chancer, Barry. He's talking out his arse."

I interrupted him. "Alarms won't matter. Like I said, everyone's knackered, they'll be slow. So say two minutes before they hit the alarm. You've got clear roads at that time of the morning, but even then there's an average police response time of about fifteen minutes for urban areas."

Jez frowned. "How d'you know that?"

"How do you not? The Met were hauled over the coals last month for the drop in response. Check it out. It's all available online if you know where to look . And the way the alarms have been going at our place, unless they get a phone call or secondary alarm, they're not going to treat it as a priority, so you can add another five minutes to that. All in all, you're probably looking at twenty-two minutes to pull this off, which is about the length of a Big Bang Theory if you want to time it."

"What the fuck are you talking about, mate?" Jez shook his head, his eyes slits. "Barry, you want to—"

Pollard held up a finger. Jez shut up and turned his gaze to the table.

"Now your only real problem is going to be crowd control. The first thing that'll happen when you come in is they'll break for the back, which means you have to block those exits off. There are three main exits and entrances." I pulled a napkin. "You got a pen?"

Pollard tapped Jez on the arm. He chucked a chewed bookie pen at me. I didn't want to use it, but I didn't want to seem prissy, either. I held it lightly and after a brief scribble to make sure it worked, I drew a rough outline of the casino and crossed the main entrances. "This one you know. The main reception area. You're asking for trouble if you come in through there – two mechanised doors and they're both toughened glass, locked tight after four. Anyone makes a move for them, you'll see them, but they'll also see you coming a mile away if you try to make it your entrance, but it'll do as an exit point. Be as noisy as you want going out. Won't matter by then."

I drew a box by the front entrance, then I tapped the furthest back entrance.

"You see this?" I drew another large box by the entrance. "This is the main staff entrance and it's a fire exit, so the door opens outwards. If you put something solid and high in front of that like a van or a truck, you'll block the exit and probably knock out the camera into the bargain."

"What about security?"

"They'll be on the floor. Couple of ex-army, emphasis on the ex. I never met an ex-army who was much cop at anything but sitting on his backside."

Jez nodded at that. "Else they'd still be in."

"That's right. So your other entrance here is through the kitchen. Kitchen staff and valets are long gone by closing, so you'll just need the code, which I'll give you. You come in through there with a truck round the back and your getaway up front. Run up this corridor, take a right and you'll be in the count room. Take a couple of guys out onto the gaming floor to weaken the staff constitution. They won't run out the front because of the car. If you get any gyp from Security – if he's on, there's one might give you a bit of mouth – feel free to get the blood running. They're paid for it. The rest I think will buckle without much of a push. There's no way to alert the police from the pit without you seeing and if you get their mobiles, the lines should be effectively cut."

Pollard frowned at the napkin. After a short pause, he looked at me. "You're sure about the staff?"

"How d'you mean?"

"No one's going to fuck us about?"

"I don't think so. They're mostly trainees, those that aren't rejects from other clubs. They should be too busy filling their pants to give you any trouble."

Pollard finished his cappuccino. He took the napkin I'd drawn on and wiped his top lip with it. "Where will you be while all this is going on?"

"The count room, trying to make sure everything goes according to plan."

"What about the manager?"

"She'll be in there with me, most likely. There's a good chance she'll curl up into a ball and stay that way until the police turn up. She worked land-based in Odessa for a while, and I get the feeling it traumatised her. For all intents and purposes, I'll be the senior member of staff because I'm the one with the most experience. People will do what I tell them to do."

"And what about afterwards when the plod turn up?"

"I'll tell them the truth." I shrugged. "I was following procedure. My first and only priority is to make sure none of my staff are hurt. The official company line is that we protect our own above the money."

"And the unofficial?"

"Is that I'll have missed key opportunities to hit the second silent alarm in the cash desk, or the first if one of the cashiers doesn't do it. That I was too busy watching my own back to take proper control of the situation. And after the police have finished with me, I'll no doubt be pulled up by Regional and given a good going over. But I'm there for a reason, aren't I? I'm a reject just like the rest of them. They make a noise like they're going to get rid of me, I'll claim stress and go on the sick."

"And then you'll bugger off."

"Hopefully. Nothing's confirmed yet."

"You let us know when it is."

I shook my head. "I'll be gone, Mr Pollard. You won't have to worry about me."

"So you've got it all worked out, have you?"

"The count room door's been playing up, or it has when I've been trying to lock it, anyway. There'll be nobody in the back of the club when we're in doing the count, so we won't know what's hit us until your boys come out through the staff door."

"What about exits?" Jez looked confused. "You said it was toughened glass."

"It is, but it's still glass. Whatever you're using as weapons should get you through it. Or you could have someone from your car smash their way in once the boys are in view. It's entirely up to you. Nobody's going to get in your way."

"Good." Pollard smiled. He wiped his mouth on the napkin and dumped it on the table. He nodded to Jez, who got to his feet.

"So are we agreed on a third?"

"No. But I'll cut you in for twenty percent if you make sure that door's open and the alarms stay quiet."

"Okay."

"Give us a ring when you get your timings." He pushed his chair back, leaned in as he did so. "Oh, one last thing, Graham. You're a bright lad, and you've planned all this out and everything, but do yourself a favour and stay on the fuckin' level. Don't think you're brighter than me, alright?"

There was a dead look in his eyes.

I nodded. "Alright."

"Yeah? We clear?"

"Yeah, absolutely. One hundred percent."

"Good lad."

And as he walked away from the table, I had to push my hands into my lap to stop them from shaking.

13

Sunday night. Paper lanterns, or at least their health and safety alternatives, hung from the ceiling and flickered too regularly to be anything but electric. The place smelled like the inside of a Chinese takeaway thanks to the buffet that stretched the length of the restaurant. The club was packed with punters looking for cheap tables and a free feed, just the way Jacqui wanted it, and she beamed at me from the middle of the pit as I hopped the rope for the night shift. Next to her, Kevin Nash was sat uncomfortably in an old inspector's chair. He gave me half a smile and a weak wave. Otherwise, he looked worried, swollen and in a considerable amount of pain.

Jacqui patted Nash on the shoulder. "Guess who couldn't stay away?"

I smiled. "I can see. I didn't think we had inspector's chairs."

"Had one brought in from the Union especially."

"Nice of you."

"You want some mooncake?" Nash gestured to a plate on the pit desk. What looked like a particularly unpopular pork pie had been cut into slices and left to go stale. I noticed crumbs of pastry on the pit monitor and something shuddered inside me.

"Maybe later."

"Nothing's going to get you into the spirit of this, is it?"

Jacqui was smiling when she said it, so I was smiling when I replied. "You never know. Let me get settled first. How you feeling, Kevin?"

"Not bad." He shifted on the chair. The movement sparked something that made him gasp and tighten his face.

"You need anything?"

He shook his head ever so slightly. "Just not a hundred percent yet."

"No, doesn't look like it. One day at a time, though, eh?" I put out a hand and he shoved the pit sheet into it. We were under even, and he'd opened the bottom pit. I noticed a dealer and inspector on AR Seven in the top pit, stacked with a small change game when all the action was down here. I couldn't close it now, though. I'd just have to re-open once that lot up in the restaurant filled their boots. That was the thing about the night shift – once a table was open, it had to stay that way.

Nash cleared his throat. "Everything okay, Graham?"

I realised I was frowning. "Yeah, everything's fine, Kevin. I'll just do a quick float check."

Which I did. Not that I didn't trust him, but from the looks of the pit sheet he'd been winging it all afternoon, and not altogether successfully, either. That was the thing, you couldn't have a pit boss sat in the middle of the pit all shift. He had to be mobile. He needed to see his clickers and floats to keep tabs on what was coming in and what was going out. I gave it a quick tot and concluded that we were already heading for a large loss on the day shift, which meant I was working from negative equity. It didn't bode for a good night, and it was unprofessional. But like Nash said, he wasn't a hundred percent yet. That was if he ever had been. I knew his type. He was a caretaker.

There are two main types of pit boss – your caretaker and your cop. Most people running a pit will have an element of both, but they'll still lean towards one or the other. The caretakers ran family pits, and their chief concern in any given shift was to make sure their staff got the right number of breaks and weren't worked too hard. Anything else – like, say, the pit keeping its shirt – was gravy. Dave Randall was a caretaker back when he used to work for a living, and he'd taken those skills into management. It was possible, then, for people to fluke their way up the ladder, especially as the organisation's ostensible priorities went from profits to punter satisfaction.

Then there was the cop. That was definitely more my line, and it was perhaps an old-school way of working. The pit took priority. I didn't care if I had to spin them sick, I'd keep dealers on tables for as long as it took to get that money back. It meant for some uncomfortable shifts sometimes, but then I knew most of the staff respected me even if they didn't particularly like me. It also meant I brought in the numbers for Regional, and that meant more to me than any whinging croup. The trouble was, it was the cops of the pit who were usually charged with cleaning up the mess left by the caretakers. And looking at Kevin Nash's pit sheet, I could see that nothing had changed on that score. I wouldn't have minded normally, but tonight more than any other night, we needed to be up.

I scribbled a few notes onto the back of a roulette card and then returned to the pit desk. "We should get on. Going to be a busy night. I bet Kevin's wanting to get off, aren't you?"

"You don't have any problems, then?"

I looked at him, trying to work out his tone. The look on his face was suitably contrite, so I let it go. "Nothing I can't handle, Kevin. You alright to hang around for a little bit while we go and brief the night staff?"

"Yeah, no problem."

"Excellent. Jacqui?"

She led the way. I chanced a look over my shoulder, saw Nash staring at me. He was serious about something, but I didn't know what it was. Maybe he thought I was muscling in on his job or his pit. If that was the case, then he couldn't have been more wrong. I had a feeling that it was something else, though, and it was a feeling I couldn't shake off.

In the briefing room, I was greeted by the usual assortment of fish and experience, and I hoped the experience would keep its eyes to the floor and not play hero later on. Jacqui ran down the list of reasons why tonight was special without naming the one that had taken up permanent residence in my head. Pollard had said he'd listen to my suggestions, which was very corporate of him, but I'd had no confirmation since. No more personal visits, no phone calls and I'd kept the burn phone on at all times. It was sitting in my jacket pocket right now. I wondered if tonight was still on, but then I couldn't go off down that path, otherwise I'd be a nervous wreck all night. Better if I just went ahead with what I had to do and if it didn't happen, then it didn't happen. If it did, then at least I'd know what was supposed to happen, unlike these poor sods.

I led the night shift out into the pit and watched them break off to their respective tables. Nash hauled himself out of the inspector's chair. "Need any help there, Kevin?"

"No, I'm fine." He reached for his stick, which was still propped up by the side of the pit desk. I could have handed it to him. I didn't.

"So what happened?" I watched the dealers tap and spin, the moment that defined the new shift. "You get knocked down or something?"

"No."

"I heard there was an accident."

His lips had disappeared. "No."

"You don't want to talk about it, that's fine. I'm sorry I asked."

Acting like I didn't care, and knowing full well that there was nothing a man like him enjoyed more than being the centre of attention. The more you acted as if it wasn't a big deal, the more he'd want to share his story. I waited for the inevitable "oh, alright then", but it didn't come.

Instead he set his stick to the floor and mumbled a goodnight as he lowered himself from the inspector's chair. His eyes crinkled as he leaned on the stick, and he let out a puffed breath every other step. Watching him walk away made my legs ache.

Jacqui approached and unhooked the rope for Nash, then followed him over to the staff door to open that for him, too. I had to admit, they'd done a number on him. That limp would linger, probably for the rest of his life.

Rather him than me.

Nash turned at the staff door and looked at me as he spoke to Jacqui. I busied myself with the pit monitor, switching table views for no good reason. I saw a bottle of pills on the pit desk. Painkillers, strong ones with a difficult name that ended in "pam". That would explain the state of the floats – Nash was bombed out of his skull. I turned to search for him, but he was already gone. I shook the bottle, dropped it in my pocket. No sense in leaving them round here for the dealers to snatch; I'd hand them off to Jacqui as soon as she returned to the pit.

When the punters had shoved enough of the buffet into their gobs, they wandered back to drop their cash and the top pit kicked off, attracting the dregs from the busier tables. I put Jeff and Lauren up there as inspectors – they both looked awake enough to handle the four-table mini-pit without doing too much damage – then I opened the Punto Banco to skim coins from the penny-antes. I had to make sure I had a decent card croup to hand for ten o'clock, too. That was when Mickey Braun came in. Mickey was a Sunday night blackjack player from way back, and his slight size and tiny voice belied the fact that he was a killer card player, and as such deserved to be treated with a little more respect that the kind of punter who insisted on calling it pontoon. He sauntered up to the BJ One, took a stool, and played a couple of fiver rounds before the distaste became all too apparent.

I sauntered over to him. "Having a good night, Mr Braun?"

"Top end on here ..." He breathed out.

"I know. I've got breakers coming back in five. I'll have BJ Two open at a pony minimum, how's that?"

What passed for a smile creased his face. He showed a couple of small, tobacco-brown teeth. "Aye."

My decent card croup was Alex – I had others, but they were female and Braun wasn't keen on female dealers because he found them too distracting – and I had him open up the blackjack with Gerry, the only inspector in the place I could trust to manage a card and roulette at the same time. It wasn't ideal – typically your inspector would watch two cards or two roulettes at the same time, but the way this place was laid out, the second blackjack table was flanked by a craps table on one side and a roulette on the other. But Gerry was solid enough to pull it off and with a couple of strong dealers he wouldn't have to do much more than observe.

Of course, as soon as the table opened, the cheaper punters came round, but they recoiled quickly enough once they found out it was a twenty-five quid minimum.

One in particular became immediately indignant in the way that only truly stupid people can. "What's the deal with that, like?" He was a red-faced man with the kind of blonde hair that made him look as if he didn't have eyebrows. Short-sleeved shirt, whitish chest hair showing, something gold around his neck. "Who d'you think I am, Alan Sugar?"

"The other blackjack's a pound minimum."

"There's no room."

I looked behind me. There were two free seats. "Really?"

"How come you've only got the two?"

"We have three. There's another blackjack in the top pit."

He followed my point and moved his mouth. "It's dead down there."

"Plenty of seats, then."

Some people would moan about anything. Truth of it was neither dealers nor punters liked that top pit. It was disconnected from the rest of the club, and it never quite heated up as much as it could have. Even when midnight rolled around and the immediate pit was hammered with skyscraper roulette games, the top pit was positively civilised by comparison. We had the Chinese punters in by now, bunched up around the roulettes mostly, nudging, shouting, slapping and screaming with every jump of the ball. Lucky for us, we had experience on the wheels and working choppers, because there were about twenty stacks of colour hitting the pan with each spin. If there was one thing the Chinese roulette player loved, it was buying low and stacking high. And there was certainly a good amount of "ooh"ing whenever one of the big stacks swayed. One false move and it would all come down. For a moment there, it was like being back at the Palace.

When I did my hourly float tally at one, I discovered that we were way up on the afternoon, which was a relief. After a brief and broad-stroke account in my head, I figured we were on the path to a good seventy-eighty on the night, with a good few hours to go. If I added that to an average Saturday night's takings, then I figured there'd be a hundred thousand or so in the cash desk tonight. Not quite the high six figures I promised Pollard, but it was good enough. That was if it was still going ahead.

When I turned, I got my answer.

Jez. Dressed like the usual weekend punter, all short-sleeved striped shirt and chinos. The clothes were clean, but the arms were inked. I could see a blue tattoo running up the inside of his right arm. It read DADDY in big, childish letters. He'd just sat down – I saw the previous punter pulling at his trousers as he walked away. I stayed where I was. I couldn't risk talking to him, not on a miked table. He wasn't here to gamble; that much was obvious by the stained fiver that hit the layout in front of him. If I didn't know better, I could've sworn it looked like it had been stained with one of the dye packs that were loaded into the cash boxes. I'd seen some programme about how they were putting DNA strands in the dye, so they could tie the money back to specific robberies, and I suddenly started to think that it was from the Palace job and why was he spending it here if not to try and incriminate me in some way.

Or maybe he wasn't winding me up at all. Maybe ...

I approached the table and took the fiver from the layout before Andrea could slot it down into the cash box. It was stained. It could have been dye. I looked at Jez. He looked back, placid. I could smell the booze on him. This was stolen money. He was playing something, or else he wasn't fit for purpose. It was a test. Or maybe it wasn't. But it was safer not to have this cluttering up our cash boxes, even if it was going to be taken back later on.

"What's the matter?"

I dropped the note on the layout. "Do you have any other notes, sir?"

Andrea looked at me with an odd smile on her face. She obviously hadn't recognised it as stolen currency.

Jez smiled at me and lifted one buttock to retrieve his wallet. He opened it to reveal a large wad of notes. All of them had similar stains.

I nudged the fiver back to Andrea. "Drop it."

Andrea slotted the money and changed it for five one-pound chips. Jez closed his wallet and replaced it. I just hoped he wouldn't spend too much time or money at the table, and I made a mental note to make sure any dyed notes were in the bag later on.

I watched Jez out of the corner of my eye. It was difficult not to stare.

"You okay?"

Jacqui. Again, I hadn't seen her. She had a way of appearing when you least wanted her to. I showed her Nash's painkillers. "Kevin left his pills on the pit desk. I didn't want this lot getting their sticky fingers on them."

She took them from me. "I'll let reception look after them until tomorrow."

"Okay."

She left the pit. When I looked over at the blackjack, Jez was gone. He was up by reception, holding the door open for Jacqui. He said something that looked as if it was supposed to be charming. She flashed him the same smile she flashed anyone who flirted with her. Jez watched her behind as she left. Then he looked my way and my throat tightened.

He'd dropped the money because he knew he'd get it back. They couldn't come out and tell me, so they'd decided to be subtle about it instead. Even so, their message was undeniable and plain.

Tonight was the night.

14

After the last stragglers had been ushered from the premises by Fester, I snagged two dealers and an inspector and led the way to the count room, where Jacqui was waiting for us. I stopped at the door, made sure I was last in. I also made sure to put my body between the lock and the camera, clicking it back and forth a couple of times to make sure everyone heard that I was having trouble, and that it had finally locked.

I'd experimented with ways to make the door seem locked, and my original idea of surreptitiously taping the tongue of the lock was too makeshift and easily spotted, or at least it had been when I tried it at home. Instead, I'd built up a short history of struggling with the count room door every time I had to lock it. By now, nobody bothered to say anything, just assuming that I'd managed to lock the door when I turned back to help them with the count. I'd set up a narrative then that would be easy to understand after the event – "I thought I locked it. You know I've been having so much trouble ..." – and was simple enough to avoid the need for props.

Jacqui turned my way. "Still giving you problems, is it?"

"Yeah."

"You want me to—"

"No, I think it's okay now."

"You got it?"

"Yes."

Jacqui nodded at the dealers to empty the cash boxes out onto the large table. The table dominated the room; it sported a lip around the edge to stop errant notes from falling, as well as a boxy-looking electronic cash counter in one corner. Once the boxes were empty and there was a mess of money in the middle of the table, the dealers set about organising the notes into piles according to value.

It was four-thirty by the clock on the wall. It took us an average of forty-eight minutes to count a reasonable take, and I had to make sure it took no less than that. I could delay with the counting machine if we were going too quickly, fuss with the paper bands or else make a hash of it some other way. The money had to be ready to be bagged, but still in the count room, or else we'd be in trouble. That was my priority, and it kept me occupied beyond ignoring the inane banter that passed for conversation. Each glance at the clock felt obvious and planned. I was sweating despite the air-con; sweat ran down my nose and I had to sniff it up. The third time I did it, I thought Jacqui was going to say something, but I found a clean tissue in my pocket and excused myself for a second to blow my nose.

Ten to five. The minute hand shuddered on. My stomach made a noise. I wanted to go to the toilet. My left arm started itching again.

I snapped a band, asked the Spaniel for some more. She chucked me some.

Five o'clock. The notes were banded and laid out for an easy final count, which the cash desk would tally themselves before the cash was thrown into the large bags. I moved a little up the table. I nudged Jacqui by mistake. She laughed and moved out of my way. I caught a breath of her perfume and blinked.

Five past five. An agreed count. A couple of grand shy of a hundred thousand. A huge haul for a single night, especially for a provincial club like the Riverside. So we were looking at knocking on a hundred and forty for the two nights. Not a bad take.

"Fantastic." Jacqui looked giddy. "Okay, let's bag it up."

I glanced at the count room door. Strained to listen. Nothing.

The dealers got to work putting the banded notes into one of the bags. I edged a little closer to the pile of cash boxes in the corner. Nobody talked to me. Nobody noticed me. Jacqui was in a world of her own, no doubt basking in the glory of a good night's work; the dealers were still cracking on with each other and Tintin, who was double-checking the bands as they went into the bag. The Spaniel was in the cash desk. I watched her. She was the one who had the monitors, the cameras watching the floor. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

I backed into the cash boxes. They tumbled to the floor, crashing all around me. The rest of the count team jumped out of the way.

"God, I'm sorry. I didn't even—"

And with all eyes on me, the count room door flew open to reveal two men in ski masks and Man City shirts. The one up front was heavy and broad-shouldered. He moved quickly for an older man. He showed us the shotgun, told us to put our eyes to the carpet and get moving. I felt a rough hand on my back – another robber, skinnier, younger, quicker – pulling us all out of there. I did what I was told, saw the carpet of the count room whisk away to the corridor outside and then finally the dark blue of the gaming floor. We ran at a stoop. I turned slightly to see another man at the cash desk – same gear with the mask and football shirt, carrying an axe – pull the Spaniel out under the shutters by her hair as the broad robber pushed. She screeched like a scalded cat and hit the deck like a bag of shoes. Someone punched me in the fat of my back. "Keep fuckin' moving."

I did what I was told.

The staff had been herded into the middle of the pit. Everyone was sat on the floor in a huddle and stared at the carpet in front of them. The count team were shoved forward and told to do the same. The dealers dropped where they were. I found myself bang up against Tintin and Jacqui near the edge of the pit. I hazarded a quick look around. Cash and colour chips were strewn across the floor. There were sounds of the robbers ransacking the cash desk, and the shutters were stuck halfway open. Over by AR Four, Fester was propped up against the chipper, his jacket on the floor beside him and his face and shirt a bloody mess. He was pale, his eyes closed. For one horrible moment, I thought he was dead, but then saw the slow movement in his chest. One of the trainees, a slender bird of a girl, trembled as she quietly wept. Jeff comforted her from afar. Everyone had obviously been told to keep their distance from each other, just the way I'd planned it. Other dealers looked just as frightened, but some had been through this before and had tuned out for the duration. Either way, there were no heroes in this pit. They were just as scared and cowed as I should have been.

I caught the stare of the robber stood on the steps that led up to the bar. He looked me right in the eyes. His hands twitched around the shotgun and his arms were covered by a long-sleeved T-shirt. I was sure it was Jez.

He waved the shotgun at me. I looked at the floor.

I felt Tintin shuffle up beside me. His voice was a high-pitched, panicky whisper. "They've got Sandra."

"She'll be fine."

"We should—"

"You hit the alarm?"

"No."

"Did she?"

"I don't know."

"Then hang fire and let's hope she didn't."

"You what?"

"Alarm's not going to stop them robbing the place, it's just going to put more pressure on them to do it quicker. And the last thing we want is these lads feeling pressured. No point in giving them reasons to make mistakes, is there? Not when they're carrying shotguns."

"The police—"

"The police will be able to do their jobs a lot better if we're all alive to give statements." I looked at Jacqui. Her jaw pulsed. Her eyes were wide. I watched her out the corner of my eye, but kept talking to Tintin. "Listen, if they've got Sandra then she should be helping them to get out. No point in being a hero about this. It's not your money."

Jacqui made a noise, somewhere between a sniff and a moan.

"Hold on." I moved a little closer to her. "Think about the staff."

Jez dropped a step. "Shut your fuckin' gob, you."

I shut up, but I could tell Jacqui was watching the gaming floor in a way that made me think she was about to do something daft. I put a hand on her arm.

She looked at me.

I shook my head slowly. Don't do it. Whatever you're thinking about, don't do it. Because these are people you do not want to mess with. They are serious about their jobs and they will do it with or without your cooperation. Believe me, I know.

She looked at my hand. Her eyes were glass. Her voice sounded brittle. She looked almost apologetic. "Been here before, Graham."

"What?"

The staff door flew open, and Sandra was the first to tumble through, her curly hair wild and plastered to her face. The broad robber behind her pushed Sandra with one hand and sent her staggering towards the pit. She didn't make it, instead dropping to the carpet about six feet away, her face down and her back shuddering as she sobbed.

The broad robber was joined by his mate, and the two of them bundled out with two large sacks. They gestured to Jez, and then I saw the fourth man up by the restaurant. He was large and, from what little I saw of his skin, black. He carried a sledgehammer, which he then used to smash the glass reception doors. Everyone on the floor flinched at the sound. Glass pebbles danced across the carpet. The robber kicked his way through the door and took the sledge to the front doors, which gave way immediately as an alarm squealed its outrage. The cash carriers followed him out to the waiting car.

There was a sudden breeze at my left ear. I looked back at Jacqui, but she was already up and moving.

I twisted on the floor and got awkwardly to my feet, sprinted after her. She had something small and black in her hand, her fingers white around it. Other staff got up to get out of my way as I ploughed through them. I wanted to shout at her to stop whatever it was she thought she was doing, but it was too late. She had one hand on Jez's shoulder, the other up at head height. The escaping robbers turned to look. Jez twisted towards Jacqui and caught a spray of something that clearly smelled like agony. He shrieked and gripped the shotgun tighter. It roared and Jacqui screamed. I was at him in seconds. He swung round.

No, no, no, no, no.

I shoved Jacqui out of the way, bumped shoulders with Jez and swatted at the hot barrels with both hands until I got a good grip on the stock and held on tight. He wrenched away from me, shouting and swearing, his eyes pink and swimming. I threw him off-balance, and we both tumbled down the steps that led to the pit. Jez swore again and the shotgun deafened me as it snatched the edge of a roulette table and scattered it across the gaming floor. I couldn't hang on. I rolled. I felt the sudden release of pressure as the gun left my grip. He scrambled to his feet and held the empty shotgun on the rest of the staff who were too scared to move anyway. He looked back at me, rubbing one arm against his eyes, pushing up his sleeve and revealing DADDY. The pain seemed to come in waves for him. He looked as if he wanted to curl up. He took a couple of steps back. He was shouting at me but I couldn't hear anything over the ringing in my ears. I saw the spit come out of his mouth as he yelled. He looked across at Jacqui. There was blood on her tights. He made a move for her and I threw out a hand to grab at his trouser leg. The waves broke then. I heard it all – the other robbers were yelling at him to get a move on. Jez twisted out of my grip, shifted his weight, and kicked me hard in the face.

The casino blinked, and the floor disappeared.

I heard things. Shouts. The alarm. My own wheezing breath. The world became a greyish-orange through the filter of my eyelids and I felt the stiff, cold breeze that wafted through the broken doors.

I waited for the shotgun blast that would end me, but it didn't come. Instead I heard the smash of glass and the roar of an engine and the squeal of tyres.

I opened my mouth.

"Oh."

And then I passed out.

15

It was the beginning of a new world, a new life.

There was darkness, and then there was light, a blue light shining somewhere softly in the distance and growing larger like a slowly approaching planet. The thought jumped into my head that perhaps I'd like to try to move a little, but I could feel that my legs weren't behaving. I blinked with my eyes closed, and then blinked them open. I saw Jacqui as she was escorted from the club. She was limping. There was blood on her leg. I tried to get up. I left a bloody handprint on the floor and then I felt sick and then I was sick, violently so, making raw, animal noises that would have been amusing had they not been accompanied by so much vomit.

"Jesus, someone help Graham, will you?"

I felt hands on me, lifting me. The touch sent a ripple of revulsion through my body. I smelled my own vomit, then I tasted it and I wanted to be sick again. I tried to wave my Samaritans away. "No. Sick."

"Just keep breathing, alright? Let's get you over here, sit you down."

"Don't feel well. Leave me alone."

I wanted my mum. I wanted Jacqui. I wanted a cold flannel and a dark room. I was dirty, ashamed, stinking and wrong. Someone plonked me down on one of the stools that stood around the roulette tables. It wobbled a bit, but there was a hand on my back to keep me from falling. I breathed out through my mouth. I kept tasting sick and wanted to spit, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. A man had to have standards.

"Just lean forward." A woman's voice. She sounded too young to know what she was doing. "That's it. Just keep breathing."

"I don't like it. Tastes bad."

"We'll get you some water, Graham, alright?"

"Where's ...?" I wanted to say "my mum", but I held it in. "Where's Jacqui?"

"She's in the ambulance."

"Is she hurt?" I looked around. The someone who'd helped me up was Tintin. I frowned at him, felt worse, was positive I'd heard a woman's voice. "What happened?"

"She got shot."

"Shot?"

"You don't remember?"

"No."

"It was just a graze. She'll be fine." He looked at my hairline. "You took quite a knock yourself."

"Anyone call the police?"

He nodded and his head appeared to split into two heads until I blinked them back together. My stomach turned.

Tintin frowned at me, either concerned or short-sighted. "I'll get you some water."

"I'm going to be sick."

"I'll get one of the paramedics over. They'll sort you out."

I didn't want Tintin to go, but I also didn't want to say anything to that effect just in case he took it the wrong way. I watched him hop up the stairs and turned my face to the stiff breeze that blew in from outside. It smelled of rain, and somewhere out there I could hear it, too. Someone in yellow came towards me and I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman until it disappeared for a second and then reappeared as a stocky woman with a bulbous mole like half a Malteser on her top lip. She was right in front of me, something in her hand.

"I'm not well, Doctor."

She shone a light in my left eye, then my right. "You're concussed."

"Is that bad? I don't feel right."

"Sick?"

I nodded, my mouth open – she'd read my mind. But she was too close. She smelled of medicine. I moved away from her and almost went off the stool again.

She grabbed me and hauled me upright. "We should probably take you to hospital."

"I don't want to go to the hospital."

She had both hands on me now, easing me up. "It's okay. Nothing to worry about."

"No, I don't want to go to the hospital. I need to stay here. I need to talk to the police. Are the police here? Did someone call them? Someone should've called the police."

I was walking now, the paramedic to my right and slightly behind me so I couldn't see her properly without turning. I tried to find my mobile phone so I could call the police. I brought out the burn phone and it took me three blinks to recognise it. When I did, I almost threw it across the room.

"I need to talk to ..." I couldn't concentrate. "There's someone I need to talk to."

One step, another step, almost floating.

"You shouldn't be talking to anyone right now. What's your name, love?"

"Graham." I watched my feet as I walked. They looked as if they belonged to someone else. I wouldn't have been caught dead with sick on my shoes. Which reminded me. "Am I dying?"

"No."

"But could I, though?"

"Maybe, if you don't see a doctor."

"Okay." She was lying, but it was a good kind of lie. It made me smile. I found myself in reception. The light was too bright. "I should probably go to the hospital, then."

And I did. A young doctor with skin like an orange put stitches in my scalp where Jez had brained me, then kept asking me all sorts of questions. "Do you know where you are, Graham?"

"Hospital."

"Which one?"

"I don't know. They didn't tell me."

Which was the wrong answer, if his constipated expression was anything to go by. "Do you remember what happened?"

"I got hit in the head."

"Do you remember who did it?"

"I don't remember his face."

"I see."

"No, he was wearing a ski mask. He threatened me and then—"

"Can you repeat the months of the year to me in reverse order, please?"

I blinked. "What's that?"

"December ..."

"I know it, I was just—" I cleared my throat. "December, November, October, September, August, July, June, March, February, January," I opened my hands. "Good?"

He held up a finger in front of me. "I want you to touch my finger, then touch the tip of your nose for me."

I touched his finger. I touched the side of my nose. The constipated expression became tighter. "Is that bad?"

He moved away from me. "Have you been sick at all?"

"I was sick, yes. I don't know how many times. I didn't feel well."

"Okay."

"What's going on?"

"Think we better keep you in, have some tests."

"I can't do tests." I shook my head. "That's not fair. I'm not well."

He nodded at me. "A CT scan. X-rays? Just to make sure you haven't hurt yourself too badly, okay?"

"I didn't hurt myself, someone else did it to me."

"Okay, good."

And I found myself ushered to my feet and out of the cubicle, hustled past cold white lights down squeaky floors. I didn't remember much after that. It was cold again, and then it was warmer, and when I opened my eyes I found myself in a darkened room that smelled clean like a fridge. My throat hurt, but I couldn't focus. I blinked a few times and fought a rising panic that said I'd gone blind somehow. When I saw something move in the corner of my eye, the panic stopped. I couldn't get scared now, not while there was someone watching.

"How are you feeling?" Jacqui's voice, quiet but still the loudest thing in the room.

I turned my head. She smiled at me. She was sitting by the bed. She was still wearing the clothes she'd been wearing at work, so I guessed it was the same night. My head hurt, but I wasn't going to tell her that. "I think they think I've got a concussion."

"They'll be keeping you in, then."

"Overnight, yes. I think so. They scanned my head in this machine thing."

Her smile grew wider. She blinked. It looked slower than it probably was. I wondered if I was wearing clothes under the blanket. I hoped I was wearing underpants at least.

"Thanks for stepping in, Graham."

I made a move to wave my left hand, then waved my right instead. I didn't need her seeing the skin. "Hey, no problem. Don't worry about it."

She laughed. "I don't know what happened."

"How are you?"

"I'm alright." She nodded at her leg. "I got hit."

I didn't look. Not because I didn't want to look at her leg, but because I didn't trust myself to handle the sight of blood. "Shot?"

She nodded. "A mere flesh wound."

I nodded, too. My head felt heavy. "That's good. I'm glad you're okay. I was worried."

"Were you?"

I half-closed my eyes. I was getting sleepy, but I didn't want to go to sleep just yet. Someone told me once that if you get hit on the head and you go to sleep afterwards, you die. But then, someone else told me that you shouldn't swallow chewing gum or else it sticks up your insides and you can't go to the toilet anymore. I didn't know if either were true, but I wasn't stupid enough to tempt fate. I opened my eyes, tried to focus on the ceiling. I felt drunk, or how I imagined drunk to feel, since I hadn't actually been that way in about fifteen years. All I remembered about being drunk was being unable to walk or think or speak, and then leaning over a toilet bowl with an open mouth, while I felt as if I was being swallowed up by a world of shadows and stench.

"It's okay." Her voice was soothing. "You can go to sleep if you want. I'll get out of your hair—"

"I didn't think you'd do it." My voice was thick as I addressed the ceiling.

"Do it?"

"I'm sorry." I breathed in through my nose. My sinuses felt swollen. "I didn't think you'd fight back." I smiled. "I suppose you're a better woman than I thought you were. That's nice."

There was quiet in the room. For a second, I thought she'd gone, and then I wondered if she'd ever been there in the first place. The doctor had been right and my head wasn't. There was definitely something knocked loose in there that I couldn't quite put my finger on because it was in my head and in order to do that I'd have to drill a hole or else bust an eardrum or maybe go in through the nose ...

"What was that, Graham?" Jacqui's voice again.

"You're still there." I turned and saw her. She wasn't smiling anymore.

"Yeah, I'm still here. What did you say?"

"When?"

"Before."

"I don't remember."

"About not thinking that I would fight back."

I didn't remember. I told her that. Exactly. "I don't remember. It's my head. The doctor said I was concussed. So did the lady paramedic. So I suppose that's a second opinion. Do you know that if you go to sleep when you're concussed, you die? You don't wake up."

She was shaking her head. "I don't know, Graham ..."

"Do you think that's true? I heard it, but I'm not sure. You hear so many things about stuff like that, it's difficult to know what to believe sometimes."

"I think if the doctor put you in a bed, you should probably try to get some sleep." She moved from the chair, got to her feet. I saw her leg then. Just above the knee, the white bandages almost glowed in the dark. I stared at them. My stomach felt watery. She approached the bed. "Thank you, Graham. For what you did. You didn't have to do it, but I'm glad you did."

I smiled. "You're very welcome."

She patted my hand. "Try to get some rest, alright?"

"Yes."

"Make sure you do everything the doctor tells you."

I closed my eyes. Still smiling. Feeling warm. "Yes, Mum."

She laughed. It was a soft sound. Not like a woman's laughter at all, which I'd always known to be shrieked and grating. This was a lady's laughter. A woman who'd been raised correctly, not dragged up like most of them I had to work with. Someone with a sound education, decorum and manners. A bit of class.

I heard the quiet click of her heels as she walked to the door and imagined her closing it behind her, careful not to disturb me. In my mind, I saw her smile. I saw her white teeth, a tiny light in each eye, and I even saw her blow me a kiss goodbye before the final chink of outside light slimmed into nothing.

She was a good woman. A strong woman. An attractive woman. And I'd saved her life.

Not bad, Graham. Not bad at all.

16

The next morning, my head was clear, but splitting. A chubby nurse brought me a couple of horse pill painkillers which I tried to wash down my throat with a plastic cup of water. She also brought me some breakfast, which amounted to little more than soggy, pre-cooked toast, a child's bowl of Lidl-brand cornflakes and a cup of juice that might've been introduced to an orange once, but didn't really remember much about it.

Later, a doctor swanned into the room, clearly in a hurry and unable to stay long. He moved my breakfast tray out of the way and, when he thought I wasn't looking, stole a bit of toast. He was young, smelled of aftershave and ink, and proceeded to examine me with all the care and attention expected from a man who routinely handled other people's body parts. By the end of it, I felt violated and raw.

"When can I go home?"

He scribbled something down on a piece of paper, didn't look at me as he spoke. "Probably best if we keep you in one more night, just to be on the safe side. You still look a little scrambled. Don't want you wandering off and dying somewhere."

"So tomorrow, then?"

He looked at me, apparently surprised that anyone would want to leave. "Yes, tomorrow. If you have anyone you'd like to pick you up—"

"I don't."

"-- feel free to tell the nurse." He smiled and took another crust of toast on the way out. He stopped at the door as two men appeared. He nodded to both of them, then squeezed past the larger of the two.

The smaller, a gym rat in a good suit, brown from the beds and sporting a careful head of hair, stepped forward with a grin. "Morning, Mr Ellis. And how are we feeling today?"

One of those Scouse accents that went through me like a drill. I couldn't help myself; I bristled at the sound. "Do I know you?"

The Scouser showed me his identification. "Detective Inspector Colin Kennedy." He gestured to the beige, bearded mound behind him. "Detective Sergeant Brian Hammond. Mind if we ask you a few questions about last night?"

"I don't know. I don't feel—"

"It's okay. Nothing too difficult. Oh, hey ..." He snapped his fingers at Hammond, who reached into his coat pocket and brought out a bottle of Sprite. Kennedy took it from him and handed it to me. "They didn't have any Lucozade, but I reckon Sprite's better for when you're feeling a bit sick, anyway."

I took the bottle, put it to one side. "Thank you."

"Sometimes you just need a little prompting, you know?" Kennedy tapped his chest and pulled a face like he was about to belch. "To bring up the wind. Makes you feel better. Tell you, you look better, doesn't he, Brian?"

The sergeant nodded.

"Have we met already?"

"Last night."

"I don't remember."

He waved it off. "That's okay. You were in quite a state."

"Really?" I shifted in bed, sat a little more upright. "I don't remember anything about it. Hope I didn't say anything too stupid."

"Say anything?"

"I was concussed."

"Yes." Kennedy nodded. "That's what the doctor told us. So you're feeling better then?"

"Yes."

"No lingering headaches, nausea, nothing like that?"

"Not at all."

"That's great to hear. You feel sick, feel free to pop that Sprite."

"You wanted to ask me some questions?"

"Eager." Kennedy smiled. "I like that. It's a nice change."

The sergeant raised his eyebrows. "Unusual."

"Very unusual. People don't like talking to us normally."

"Well, I'm sure most of the people you talk to have something to hide, don't they?"

"That's right enough." Kennedy tapped his notebook. "Alright, well, how about you just tells us in your own words what happened last night."

"Okay."

"As you remember it."

I nodded and told them exactly that. I told them that I arrived for the night shift, early as usual, and I went through the highlights of the shift right up to the count. Then I told Kennedy that I'd been having trouble with the count door all week.

"How do you mean?"

"It wasn't locking properly. Which was the case again last night, unfortunately."

"Something wrong with the mechanism?"

I smiled, shook my head. "Something wrong with me, most likely. Nobody else seemed to have a problem with it." I gave him a laugh that I hoped sounded suitably self-depreciating.

He matched my smile, but I didn't think it was genuine. "Maybe it's one of those things."

"I can't blow bubblegum bubbles, either."

"Neither can I. That's been holding me back all these years." He looked at his notes. "So you're in the count room, you've just had trouble with the door. What then?"

"Then we did the count. As per usual."

"Nothing different about it that you can remember?"

"Not at all."

"You're sure?"

I frowned. "No, there are procedures we follow. There's a process. If there was any deviation from that, we'd notice immediately."

"Okay, so nobody was acting weird or anything?"

"Weird? Yes. But that's just the way our staff are."

"I meant different."

"Suspicious, I know. And no, nobody was acting suspicious. Not until the robbers came in."

"How did they come in? Do you remember?"

I opened my mouth. Hemmed and hawed. "I'm not sure."

"Well, did they use an implement on the door, did they kick it open—"

"No, they just came right in."

Kennedy nodded, wrote something down. "So it wasn't a forced entry?"

"I don't remember."

"Okay." More writing.

The sound of pen against paper made me itchy. "He could've kicked it open. I remember getting a fright, so it must have been sudden."

"Right, but would you say that your fright came from the intrusion or the gun?"

"The gun? I don't know. I don't think I can separate the two."

"That's fine." More notes.

"I'm sorry, I thought I had this."

"Sometimes these things just need a little time to ferment." He smiled. It was one of his winning ones, most likely, guaranteed to put the other person at ease. It almost worked. "So the guy comes in. Then what happened?"

I wet my lips and carried on. I told him that we were hurried out of the count room and forced out into the pit, where we were then held under armed guard.

"How many of them were there?"

"Out in the pit?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure. I mean, I saw one mostly. Then there were two in the cash desk, and another one who turned up later when they needed to get out. He had a sledgehammer."

"Anyone else?"

I shrugged. "I assume there were a couple of drivers."

"A couple?"

"A getaway driver. There was a car outside."

Kennedy watched me, waiting for me to explain the presence of a second driver, but I didn't because, technically, there was no way I could know about the second driver unless I'd tried to run out the back way. "So there were four inside that you know of."

"Yes. And we were sat there for a while. I told Jacqui and Tintin—"

"Tintin?"

"Sorry, Douglas. He's our head cashier. You've probably already spoken to him." I smiled. "I just see him and I think of Tintin."

He nodded. He could see the resemblance. "So what did you tell them?"

"I said that we should keep quiet and look after ourselves. The company policy is to protect staff first. We didn't want any heroes getting themselves hurt."

"I see." Kennedy made a note.

"And then Jacqui went and got herself hurt. She had a spray or something in her hand – a pepper spray?"

Kennedy nodded.

"And she went for one of the robbers as they were leaving."

"They were leaving by this time?"

"Yes. Sorry. The two who'd done the cash desk came out, and then the one with the sledge hammer put through the glass, and then as soon as the one who'd been watching us – the one with the gun – as soon as he turned to leave, that was when Jacqui went for him. And me, idiot that I am, I tried to stop her. And that's where it gets a bit hazy, I'm afraid."

Kennedy leafed back a few pages in his notes. "The gun went off, didn't it?"

"That's right. It went off in the struggle, I think. Jacqui was hurt."

"You saw her get hurt?"

I shook my head. "She came in to see me last night."

"And did the gun go off again after that?"

"I don't know. I suppose so. It must have."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I'm still alive. And if it hadn't, he would've shot me, I know it."

"How do you know?"

I stared at him. I wasn't smiling anymore. I was someone who'd been through a traumatic experience the likes of which Kennedy would never understand. "You just know."

"Okay." Kennedy shrugged, appeared to accept it. "Any distinguishing marks?"

I thought of Jez's DADDY tattoo. I stuck out my bottom lip and pretended to think. "All wearing ski masks and Man City tops as far as I could tell. Is that right?"

"That's the consensus."

"Is it a clue? I mean, do you think it's an M.O.?"

"An M.O.?" Another capped smile from Kennedy while Hammond chuckled in the corner of the room. The sergeant sounded like a slow-draining sink.

I maintained my dumb innocence. "Like, have there been other robberies with the same get-up?"

Kennedy smiled, shook his head. "A football strip's just a cheap and disposable uniform, Mr Ellis. Probably don't even support City."

"Ah, okay." I glared at the sergeant, who was still laughing to himself. "It was just a thought."

"No, that's good." Kennedy frowned at Hammond, whose face became straight once again. "You keep thinking. Anything you think might help, doesn't matter how trivial you think it might be, let us know. You never know what's important at this stage. How are you doing otherwise?"

"Not bad. I'm leaving tomorrow morning."

"That's good. No lasting damage, then?"

"Just a knock on the head."

"Good to hear it." Kennedy put his notebook away and glanced across at Hammond, who made a move for the door. "We'll let you get on and convalesce then, eh?" He plucked a business card from a holder and handed it to me. "I know we always say this, but really, anything you remember, just give us a ring. Like I said, doesn't matter how trivial."

I looked at his card. It was minimal, tasteful. "You having trouble?"

"Excuse me?"

"Finding them. The people who did it. You sound as if they didn't leave you much to go on."

His smile looked fixed and sore. "Well, they were professionals, let's put it that way. They didn't leave us much, but sometimes it doesn't take much, know what I mean?" He nodded at the card. "Like I said, anything you remember. We'll find 'em anyway, but it's the little details that secure the conviction."

I nodded. I bet it was.

17

Against my better judgement, and because I didn't have enough money on me for a cab, I called Clive that afternoon and asked him to pick me up the next morning.

Clive was my only real friend. We'd both started around the same time, grown up on the tables with each other, but while Clive had jumped to the ships the first chance he got, I'd stayed where I was and ground away at promotion. Clive was always the less career-conscious of us. In fact, I always secretly considered Clive to be my shadow self. I knuckled down and did the hard work of learning my craft; he gallivanted off around the world. I eschewed the party life for one of quiet geekery and careful saving; he drank and whored and gambled his money away seconds after the cheque cleared. People thought me humourless, a bit of a stick-in-the-mud; there weren't many people who didn't like Clive, and those that didn't were normally management so they didn't count. When I thought about it, having Clive as my confidant was about the saddest thing in the world, and there was a part of me that was positive he took the mickey out of me behind my back. As a result, I didn't think about it very much, and I never told him anything too personal.

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."

"I wouldn't do that."

"You did do that."

"Seriously, Graham." He drew closer, his aftershave dancing around my tear ducts as he put a hand on my arm.

The skin flared at his touch. I flinched. "Get off me."

"I just think you should—"

I turned, dropped my voice. "I mean it."

Dave removed his hand, stepped back. "Okay. Have it your way, Graham."

"Thank you." I smiled at him. I felt good. I felt released. "You can't keep a good man down, Dave. You should know that by now."

19

The atmosphere at the Riverside was muted for the rest of the week, and as the robbery rumours spread through the rest of the staff, I felt myself under constant scrutiny.

I was an anomaly. I wasn't supposed to be in. Everyone else on shift that night had taken at least a couple of days off, citing stress or exhaustion. I didn't blame some of them – they were trainees, they'd never been through so much as a kick-off on a table before. That much condensed aggression probably had them questioning their career choice. The others were, as Clive used to say, "having a warm one". I was the only one who kept clocking in, the only one who showed no signs of trauma beyond the stitches in my head. I kept to myself as always – it would be a shame to contradict the consensus opinion of me, after all – did my job and didn't engage on anything other than a professional basis. But now that the story about me standing up for Jacqui had been through the club staff, they regarded me in a different light. Where I'd once been reserved and stuffy, now I was strong and silent, Jason Statham in a Burtons suit. In the absence of any proof to the contrary, I was the hero of the club, which made for a much better working environment. The only member of staff who didn't show admiration was Dave Randall, and I didn't care what he thought about anything.

Meanwhile, I waited for Pollard's call. As far as I knew, his team had gotten away with the money and everything was tickety-boo. I followed the gossip in the club and the news outside, but there appeared to be few if any leads, and if the police had nailed Pollard for the robbery, then they were keeping quiet about it. I found myself checking the burn phone two or three times a shift just in case, and watching the crowd of punters for any sign of Jez or someone who looked like they might have been one of Pollard's lads. It was distracting, and it wasn't long before Dave noticed.

"You functioning correctly there, Graham?" He grinned at me over the side of the pit desk. He'd taken to being extra friendly with me. It made me reach for the calamine.

I looked up from the burn phone. "Excuse me?"

He nodded at the phone. "New, is it?"

"Old. Other one's playing up. This one has buttons."

"I don't hold with the touchscreens. They look good, but they're a bugger if something goes wrong." Dave pulled out his iPhone and stuck out his bottom lip. "Curse of the early adopter, eh?"

"Can I help you with something, Dave?"

"No. I'm just checking to see how you are."

"I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes. When's Jacqui coming back?"

"I don't know." He shrugged, poked at his phone. "Whenever she's ready, I suppose."

"Have you spoken to her?"

"Yeah, I talked to her a couple of days ago."

"How's she doing?"

He frowned at his phone. "Fine, I think."

"How's the leg?"

"I don't know." Another shrug, this time with a certain degree of irritation. He was checking his email. "I don't think it's the leg that's keeping her off."

"Well, it was a traumatic experience."

Dave stopped playing with his phone and looked at me. "You know she's been there before, right?"

I nodded. "She said something about Odessa."

"You know what it's like over there?"

"I've heard stories."

"It's all run by the Ukrainian mob. The whole shebang. Every club in the Ukraine, they all pay their dues to the mob. Course, it makes them a target, too. Crazy stuff."

"Like I said, I've heard stories."

"You like her?"

There was a smile on Dave's face that I wasn't particularly keen to see twice, so looked at the pit sheet. "She's a good manager. Nice person too, from what I could tell."

"Alright, don't overdo it." He opened his eyes wide in mock horror. "Sounds like you fancy her."

"Don't be so puerile." I didn't need to see myself to know that I was blushing. I could feel the heat in my cheeks. And when I heard Dave Randall chuckle deep in his throat and push away from the pit desk, I felt the churning in my gut.

I looked up and saw him heading for the rope. The man was a pig about women at the best of times, but it had never burned me up before. Dave liked to have an inventory of discomfort for each employee, and he'd just added Jacqui to mine.

I turned from the desk, checked the sheets, and did a round of clickers. We were up on a Wednesday night with three hours to go, but there was no pride in it. Now that Dave was acting as temporary GM, I was expected to pull in winners as a matter of course. I missed Jacqui's surprise and admiration, no matter how mild it might have been.

What the hell, I might as well admit it, I missed Jacqui herself. I might have been uncomfortable around her, but she was a far more pleasant presence than Dave Randall. If she'd been seriously traumatised by the robbery, then there was a chance that she wouldn't be back at all. It wasn't something I liked to think about, but it was a possibility that made me all the more adamant to leave. Without her, and with the prospect of Dave coming on full-time, there was nothing left for me in Manchester.

Of course, leaving in two weeks' time meant I'd have to get my twenty percent from Pollard sharpish. There was no way I was leaving without it, because the longer it got, the less likely I was to see it. Pollard wasn't a stupid man. If anything, he seemed like someone who planned ahead and used his brain and if he hadn't been in contact, well, there was probably a reason. I just hoped the reason didn't involve him doing me out of what was rightfully mine.

Money did strange things to people. It made them greedy, ignorant and aggressive. I'd seen it on the tables night after night, punters putting down bets like they were body parts with dealers who didn't seem to understand that the money they were paying out wasn't theirs. Pollard was a bigger man than that. He'd participated in robberies before. He didn't make a habit of letting irrational greed cloud his mind, or else he'd have been grassed up or killed already. So it stood to reason that he hadn't called because he was waiting for the dust to settle and the investigation to stall. He was waiting for something else to grab the Met's attention. Then and only then could he go about splitting the take.

An admirable, sensible decision, but one that didn't jibe with my plans or my paranoia. So I used the burn phone. I left messages for Pollard, three of them over the course of two days. And while I waited for a call back, I went to work as usual. I ran the pits every night, I ignored Dave Randall's further attempts to make me blush, and I made a point of booking that week of the fifteenth off. I also went to see my doctor and we went through the medical form. It took less than twenty minutes. When he asked how my skin was, I told him everything was perfect. I didn't want him to refuse to sign the form because of something as irrelevant as my ill health.

On the face of it, I was as composed as usual. At home, I went on the computer and scoured my regular forums for fish to fry. When someone posted something devoid of intellect, I took time to compose and fact-check my devastating response, which would then sit there on my screen like a full stop, killing the discussion stone dead. I was acting out, I knew it. I was picking fights. I was looking for someone to hurt, even if it was just a glancing blow to their pride. And I was doing all this because I couldn't sit still and wait for Pollard to keep my money.

He knew I was planning to leave. That was a problem. Maybe all he thought he had to do was wait me out.

Because after all, what was I going to do, sue him? Get violent? He'd snap me like a Kit Kat.

I finished off one final post about the last episode of Lost and how it wasn't confusing and how of course they weren't dead the whole time – they weren't really even in purgatory until season six, for crying out loud. It was obvious, and only an idiot would argue otherwise. I hit send with a flourish, then grabbed the burn phone from the table, called the contact number and waited until it clicked inevitably to voicemail.

"Mr Pollard, it's Graham Ellis." I cleared my throat and tried to lower my voice. "This is the last time I'm going to call this number, and the last time I'm going to use this phone. If I don't hear from you by closing time tomorrow night – that's five in the morning – then I'll assume our previous agreement has been superseded by one of your own invention. If that's the case, then first call I'll make on Friday morning will be to Detective Inspector Kennedy. Speak to you soon."

I killed the call, slapped the phone onto the table and breathed out, a low, insistent ache spreading across my chest and a bug-leg itch starting in the palm of my right hand.

20

The Costa wasn't exactly full, but there were still enough people making enough noise to grate on my nerves.

A man in the corner made obnoxious barking sounds that could have been words into his mobile. In front of him were the largest cup of coffee they did and the crumbled remains of a chocolate muffin. The man's eyes were unnaturally wide, his short-fingered hands in perpetual motion and he was shouting about someone named Dan, who was apparently a friend, but whose nickname was the C-word, apparently now being used as a term of endearment. I looked around, saw the usual single mothers and their children and wondered if anyone was going to say anything. They didn't. In fact, most of the people in here seemed to be deliberately ignoring him. If he didn't exist for the mothers, then perhaps he didn't exist for the children, who were too busy making a mess of their own to pay the swine any attention. I would have said something, but I didn't want to draw attention. I didn't want people remembering me, just in case they remembered the man I was supposed to be meeting here, too.

Jez had called the night before, left a message to meet here. I hadn't heard anything since, but I took it on trust that Pollard would be coming. I sat by the window, watching the road. If his Mercedes pulled up, I'd move us to the back of the place, but I knew if I started out there I'd go nuts wondering if he was just outside.

So I waited.

And then I waited a bit more. The morning staggered by.

When I was on my fourth hot chocolate, my mobile rang. It was Pollard.

I looked at my watch. He was late. "Where are you?"

"None of your fuckin' business."

"Excuse me? I thought we agreed—"

"We never agreed nothing."

"I talked to Jez."

"And he told you to go to the Costa, I know. But he never said nothing about me meeting you there, did he?"

"Why on earth wouldn't you turn up?"

"Because I don't want to get fuckin' lifted, do I?"

"Lifted?" I looked around. Nobody looked like police, not even the braying idiot in the corner. "Do you know something I don't?"

"I know plenty you don't, son. Fuckin' truckloads."

"What I mean is –-" I lowered my voice. "Are there police watching the place?"

"How the fuck do I know? I'm not there, am I?"

"You said—"

"But more to the point, how do you know there aren't?"

It clicked. I sighed. "I don't."

"Which is why it's better if we stay at a distance, know what I mean?"

"Okay, I understand that."

"Then what the fuck are we talking about, son?"

"My twenty percent."

"Listen, Graham, you did a good job. The lads tell us it went off almost perfect, apart from that one woman—"

"I know. I couldn't help that."

"You said she was safe."

"I thought she was." I turned back to the window. It was grey outside, raining again. "I had no way of knowing she'd do that."

"Ach, don't worry about it. Just when you think you've got some people pegged, they show you how fuckin' stupid they can be. It all came off, that's the important thing."

"How much?"

"A hundred and forty-five and change. Two nights as promised. Yours is—"

"Twenty-nine thousand." I put my free hand on the hot chocolate. It was warm. "So when do I get paid?"

"Soon."

"When's soon?"

"You want a date?"

"I want an indication, yes."

"When I'm happy that it's all blown over."

"Which is when?"

"Fuckin' hell, you're persistent, aren't you?"

"If'I'm risking my job and my liberty, yes. It's important to me."

"Alright, we'll give it a week and see what's happened."

"What does that mean?"

"Fuck am I speaking, Swahili? It means we'll give it a week and see how things are. We'll review."

"How's that any more definite?"

"It isn't." He laughed, and it sounded as if he was laughing right at me. "Put yourself in my position, Graham, right? You're the only loose end here. You're the one closest to the fuckin' police an' all. So what happens when I pay you your cut? Let's just say I've got the means and inclination to send a courier round right now with your twenty-nine grand and he can be there in twenty minutes. And I say yes, I'll pay you, and I send the bloke round. You get the money and what happens then?"

"We're even."

"We're even? You think so?"

"I don't understand."

"You're paid off."

"Yes. What's the matter with that?"

"Means you can do whatever the fuck you want, doesn't it? You can take your money, talk to the fuckin' plod and then do one out the country. Leave my lads on the hook for something you planned."

"I wouldn't do that."

Another laugh. "What, I'm supposed to take that on fuckin' trust, am I?"

"We've been through this—"

"I know. And I'm not convinced." His voice had become deeper, scattered with gravel. "Else you would've been paid by now. But let's take your word for it, okay? Let's just say that I am convinced that you're too fuckin' shit-scared to grass us up, because you know I'll run you into the fuckin' ground if you so much as think about it. Let's assume that's the case."

I swallowed. It made a noise. "Okay."

"What you going to do with the money?"

I opened my mouth. Nothing came to mind. I cleared my throat. "Keep it."

"Right. You're not going to spend any of it?"

"No, of course not."

"Why not?"

"It would draw attention."

"Good lad. So when are you likely to spend it, then?"

"When I'm sure it's safe."

"And when d'you think that's likely to be?"

"When ..." I paused, realised what he was getting at. "When the investigation looks like it's run its course."

"Precisely. And you're a fuckin' expert on that kind of thing, are you?"

I looked at my hot chocolate. Put a hand on it. It wasn't even that warm anymore, but my face was. "No."

"You done many armed robberies before, have you? Got a lot of experience in how these investigations work?"

I shook my head, even though he couldn't see it. "No."

"What's that?"

Louder: "I said no."

"So d'you think maybes my experience in this matter is a touch more relevant than yours?"

"Yes."

"So what makes you think you're going to be able to judge correctly when it's safe to spend the money, eh?"

I cleared my throat again. I wished I'd bought some water to go with the hot chocolate. "I suppose I can't."

"And what makes you so fuckin' sure of your willpower that you won't go and spend all your money on fuckin' dollies and computer games?"

My neck felt warm now. "Excuse me?"

"You heard, son. You think I don't know what you're like? You're a fuckin' kid. You can't be trusted with money. So your Uncle Barry's going to hang on to your cash for a bit longer until you're a big enough lad to handle it yourself, alright? Think of it like a trust fund. You'll get it when you're responsible."

I found myself breathing hard. Didn't have any saliva in my mouth. I wanted to do something. I wanted to clear my table, pitch a fit, scream and shout. But I didn't. I kept it in. I was restraint personified. "That doesn't sound like a very good idea."

"Why's that?"

"Because you're being obnoxious. And it's not a good idea to be that way with people who could make trouble for you."

"Aye, and it's not a good idea to threaten people who wouldn't think twice about fuckin' killing you, neither, Graham. Listen, I can do whatever I want. You're lucky I'm still considering giving you your cut. I could keep the lot and tell you to get fucked. What're you going to do, eh? You going to the police?"

"Maybe."

"And what d'you think you're going to tell 'em? We bullied you into planning our fuckin' heist?"

"I don't know. I'll have to think—"

"Because they don't do plea bargains, son. That's the fuckin' telly, that. You're an accessory at least. You're involved. You're our inside man. You don't think you're going to do fuckin' stir for that, you're out of your fuckin' mind. You're just as responsible for that robbery as anyone else. Only difference is, everyone in that place can pick you out of a line-up because you were the only one not wearing a mask. I mean, yeah, you might not have shot anyone or drove the getaway car or owt like that, but you're definitely guilty. And all the fuckin' Met want is an easy collar. If they can't get me, you'll do nicely."

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that."

"Shut the fuck up, son. Hard doesn't suit you."

"Right." I nodded to myself. "Sorry, I—"

"First off, you're not getting your cut until I tell you that you can have it. Second, you can go right ahead and tell the police owt you want, but it won't do you any good because I'm covered. I'm sweet. And I know they won't come after me without a fuckload of proof to back 'em up because I've got briefs that'll strip 'em to bones. The only people they'll pinch up front are the lads on the job, and they won't say word fuckin' one. Which leaves me free to deal with a grass, doesn't it? And third – and this is a big one, so pin 'em back, son – don't you ever think about threatening me again, you little prick, else you'll feel the furry side, alright?"

I didn't say anything. I stared out of the window. My throat hurt. I cleared it and made a noise that sounded too high-pitched to have come from a grown man.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now keep it shut and ride this out."

"Okay, but I—"

He killed the call. I listened to the dead line for a few seconds, then looked at my mobile. Outside, a woman dashed past, using her umbrella as a battering ram. A gust of wind scattered rain across the front window like stones, startling the young woman in front of it. She jumped, clasped one hand to her chest and laughed it off with the rest of the young mothers. Their conversation faded into a murmur as I stared out of the window. I watched people pass by without really seeing them. I saw the rain, I heard the wind. These days it felt like there was nothing else.

And as the man said, the only way to combat the rain was to make your own sunshine. Which was precisely what I planned to do.

21

I couldn't force the Manchester Met to forget about the investigation. I couldn't even point them in the right direction, not really. I knew that as soon as I voiced an opinion about who I thought was responsible for the robbery, it would be taken down and perhaps used in evidence against me later on. They weren't stupid, these men. They might have looked it, might have acted like it, but they weren't. They were used to people thinking they were smarter than them. They were used to being treated as simple-minded bobbies, all knees bent and what's going on 'ere then, and so they could play that to their advantage. I knew that Kennedy, for all his cheeky Scouse chappie demeanour, was suspicious of everyone in that club, most of all me and Jacqui. We were, after all, the ones in charge. We were partly responsible for the way things had played out. And the more I got to thinking about it, the more I thought that Kennedy probably had me in his sights all along. I don't know why. Something just told me that was the case. The way he zoomed in on me at the hospital, perhaps. Maybe I caught a flicker when I talked about the second driver, I don't know.

Even if he wasn't on to me, I still had to be clever about this.

The HR office was open during the day, even on the weekends and even though Big Heather the HR manager didn't work weekends. Big Heather wasn't fat – far from it – but she was big, well over six feet tall and broad in the shoulders. The rumour was that back in the day she used to slap on a leotard and show grown men her armpit until they choked out or slapped the canvas. Apparently there was an old video floating about of her in her wrestling glory days, but I doubted it. I just thought it was a cruel joke at her expense and a nickname that said more about those who had come up with it than it did about Heather. She had a lovely disposition, would make someone a fantastic giant wife one day, but she was lax about security. To be fair, I don't think anyone in the club expected that security lapse to be abused – after all, everyone knew pretty much everything about everyone else in here, from wages down to cup size – and I was the last person they'd suspect of doing it.

I'd received a call from Jeremy Blake at Regional the day before. He was coming up to Salford, and did I have a free half-hour to discuss the robbery and any needs I might have? Blake being Regional, he didn't care that I was working night shifts now, and arranged it for four o'clock the following afternoon. So I had an excuse to be in early and, once I'd managed to skirt Dave Randall, it wasn't difficult to nip into the HR office, close the door behind me, boot up Heather's PC and then search the HR files for dirt on Stephen Laird.

Stephen Laird had been with me for a while. I didn't know him, never met him, but he was always in the back of my head, urging me to go on and take that risk, leave the country and enjoy a life where the rain didn't fall quite as much or quite as hard. So on a very basic level, I was interested in the guy.

On a less basic level, I thought that I'd found an inside man in the making, and when I pulled his file, that thought was confirmed.

The information on Stephen Laird was scant and objective, but sixteen years in the business allowed me to read between the lines and make some pretty detailed assumptions. He was like me in the sense that he came into the business when he was old enough to deal and made up for a lack of academic qualifications with hard work. He stayed a dealer for a good long time, and only managed senior inspector before he left, which meant that he was one of those guys with no ambition and pockets like Swiss cheese – as soon as they got their pay, they drank or gambled it away, much like Clive. In fact, much like most of the staff. Every club I'd ever worked in, a majority of inspectors and dealers were borderline alcoholics when they weren't engaging in less legal activities, and there were very few of them who didn't gamble in some way, whether it was after hours poker games, sports betting or the dogs or horses. Something about the vice had drawn them to the job, and something about the job compounded the attraction to the vice. They thought because they knew the games, that they were somehow better than the average punter, when the only difference was that they didn't have to pay for the shirt on their back. Outside of work, they were just as thick-headed, petty and impoverished as the countless others who wore our carpet to threads.

So Stephen was a professional inspector, and while he'd had the odd job with the odd other company – I spotted a year with the Whitworth Street Grosvenor casino – he'd always ended up back with Sovereign, and it was odd, then, that he'd just decided to up and leave without telling anyone. Disgruntled staff always made their feelings known well in advance of any disappearances. Perhaps Stephen here was just another voice lost in the noise, or maybe there was something else behind his departure.

I printed out his record, carefully folded the paper. Then, before I forgot, I looked up Jacqui Prince and wrote down her address and phone number. I didn't want to ask for it from the likes of Nash or Dave – that would be an open invitation to spread all kinds of gossip. I just wanted to see how she was, and maybe if she fancied getting a coffee some time. That was all. She could hardly say no, could she? I'd saved her life. And, besides, it would be interesting to hear what she'd told Kennedy, assuming he'd interviewed her in the first place. If she'd noticed anything she shouldn't have then I needed to know about it. I folded the paper, slid both sheets into my jacket pocket, then shut down Big Heather's computer and left the office.

I was three steps up the corridor when I saw Dave Randall and Jeremy Blake come in from the floor. I stopped in my tracks and beamed at Blake. He was a ball of dung in a suit, balding and tanned, and when he leaned forward to shake my hand, I noticed the series of ostentatious rings that made his fingers look like prize-winning chipolatas. "Graham, how are you?"

"Fine, Mr Blake."

He made a show of checking his Tag Heuer. "You got a minute now?"

"Absolutely. Lead the way."

He did. I looked at Dave Randall as I passed. He stared at me. I'd probably interrupted his schmoozing and he hated me for it. I lowered my gaze to the carpet. He could hate me all he wanted. He probably had his reasons. My chat with Blake would no doubt give him a few more. Because I no longer had much to lose when it came to Dave Randall, and I intended to prove it.

22

"So, Graham, how are you holding up?" Blake sat behind Jacqui's desk, the chair pushed back and his hands laced across his round belly like a little Buddha.

"I'm fine." I shrugged. "I mean, you know, you just get on with it, don't you?"

"You're coping, then."

"When you've been in the business as long as I have you learn to roll with the punches."

He tucked his chin into his chest. It was an expression designed to relay concern, but it looked more like indigestion. "Still, it was quite a night, wasn't it?"

"Yes, you could say that."

"Stressful."

I nodded, said nothing. That word was an invitation to something I didn't want to discuss, something that had been planted by Dave Randall. I kept my hands in my lap, palms down.

"And you know, these things, they don't always manifest themselves right away. Look at Jacqui Prince."

"Well, Jacqui was injured."

"Not seriously, though." Blake raised his head and attempted a half-smile. "At least that's what she told us. But she needs some time to process what happened and we're more than happy to let her take as long as she needs." The smile turned up to a full beam, showing teeth. "You know, we're more than happy to let anyone take as long as they need, Graham."

"I know."

He leaned forward in the chair, tugged it towards the desk. "So if you feel under pressure at any time, or you just feel like you want someone to talk to, we have counsellors who can help."

"That's very useful. Thank you."

"For your own well-being."

"I'll bear it in mind."

"You know, after your recent experience at the Palace—"

"No."

Blake looked confused. "I'm sorry, I don't—"

"I don't need counselling. Not at the moment. Thank you, anyway."

"That's okay." He waved a hand at me, that half-smile back. "You don't have to make a decision now. Just think it over."

"I don't need to think it over. Really. Look, I know you have to come down here and offer counselling after something like the other night. I understand that. But I think you've been misinformed about the state of my mental health, and I'd like to set the record straight if I may."

Blake moved his head, stretched his neck. He cleared his throat and opened one stubby hand at me. "Very well. Go ahead."

"You know how long I've worked for Sovereign, Mr Blake?"

"I don't have the exact—"

"Just over sixteen years. I started with the company before I was legally old enough to work the tables."

"Is that right?"

I nodded. "I started as a valet, and then I worked my way up to dealer, then inspector, then senior inspector, and then pit boss. And in those sixteen years, I think I must've taken like three or four days' sick leave in total. It's true. Until recently. And you've probably looked at my file, and you saw the incident at the Palace and those days I took off, and you probably thought that I wasn't very stable. No doubt Dave confirmed that for you. But I didn't want to take those days off, Mr Blake. I was told to. Not because I was ill or because I was under any kind of stress, but because my manager wanted someone to blame for the incident."

Blake watched me. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, looked uncomfortable. He'd been prepped, alright. Dave had sold him my instability with everything he had. Phrases popped like fireworks in my head. Repression. Depression. Stress. Counselling. Didn't matter that it was rubbish, Dave's story presented Regional with a helpful, easy-to-understand narrative that might, just might, put me out of commission for good while he was filling in for Jacqui Prince.

Blake rubbed his damp lip and gestured at me to continue.

"I wasn't to blame, Mr Blake, and neither was stress. It was an unfortunate series of events that could have been mitigated had my manager been available and monitoring the pit."

"I see."

"I don't know where he was at the time. I have my suspicions, but I wouldn't want to voice them without evidence to back them up. I think we both know how damaging rumours about a man's personal life can be."

He nodded. He also knew how those rumours very often turned out to be true. Except, of course, when they were about me.

"Anyway, that's all I really wanted to say. I don't want to take this any further, and the only reason I mention it now was because I didn't want you or the rest of Regional thinking that I'm playing the martyr here. I really am okay." I smiled. "I can do the job, Mr Blake. And I will continue to do it as long as I'm able."

Blake matched my smile and threw in a few extra teeth for good measure. He nodded slowly. It didn't look genuine, but it was better than nothing. "Well, I want to thank you for your candour, Graham."

"You're welcome."

"And I'm glad to see that you're in better shape than I'd been led to believe." He leaned forward and offered his hand. "Let me know if there's anything I can do for you in the meantime, okay?"

I stood and shook his hand once, firmly, the way a man was supposed to shake. "I will. Thank you, Mr Blake."

I left the office feeling electric and more than a little vindicated. Blake probably wouldn't do anything about the situation – if I was stable, then there really was no situation – but it was good to get it off my chest and onto the record. I'd been living under Dave Randall's cosh too long. We'd never been friends per se, but our professional relationship had always remained cordial. Of course, what I hadn't realised was that he'd been waiting for his opportunity to get rid of me, something that hadn't properly occurred to me until now. He had an angle, a narrative he could use to drive me out, and he intended to use it to the bitter end. I hadn't even thought about why he would do such a thing. He knew I was an asset to the company, so it was purely personal. And someone like Dave didn't take an active dislike to someone unless they posed a threat to him. I didn't think it was because I was an excellent pit boss – as Pollard had said, Dave could easily keep me in that role with a few well-placed rumours, and it wasn't as if I was that keen on rising to management level, anyway.

No, this was something else, and the more I thought about it, the clearer it became. He wanted to destroy me.

Dave appeared in the corridor as I made my way back to the pit. He smiled at me. "Everything go alright?"

I nodded. "Tickety-boo, Dave. You going in there now, are you?"

"Yeah, I need to talk to Jeremy about a few things before he heads off. Where are you off to?"

"Kevin Nash is in the pit, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Thought he might want a hand."

"Really?"

"I might as well make myself useful."

"Hey, be my guest. Best pit boss we have, right?"

I laughed and went to the staff door, where I turned to see Dave heading into Jacqui's office. I heard the dull timbre of Blake's voice and saw Dave close the door behind him. I pushed out onto the floor to find a slow pit and Kevin Nash perched on his inspector's chair.

He smiled at me with half his face as I approached. "I wasn't expecting you for another three hours, Graham."

"Had to talk to the brass. How you doing, Kevin?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"I'm good. See you're still in the chair." I took the pit sheet from the desk. "Not a lot of movement today."

He turned a little in his chair. "It's been dead since we opened."

"Let's hope it picks up. Nothing worse than a silent night. Here, listen, you haven't talked to Jacqui again, have you?"

"Yeah, I did the other night."

"How is she?"

Something quivered in his face. "Taking it easy."

"She said anything about the robbery?"

"No. Why?"

I shook my head. "Nothing really. I've just been thinking about it. I mean, I haven't heard anything from the police, have you?"

"Why would I?"

"I mean, rumours floating about here. I don't really pick 'em up when I'm on the nights. Too busy. Besides, I don't think people want to talk about it when I'm around. I don't know why. Maybe they think I'm going to have a flashback or something, lose my mind." I leaned against the pit desk, gestured to the empty tables. "But when it gets like this, people talk."

"Yes, they do."

"So, you heard anything?"

"No."

He was lying. He'd heard plenty. He just didn't want to share any of it. "Because I was thinking, like I said. I mean, one of the reasons I came back to work so quickly afterwards was so that I wouldn't spend all my time thinking about it, but you know how quiet it can be round here ... Anyway, I got to thinking about that keypad."

Nash frowned at me. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you'll know – when was the last time the code was changed?"

"I don't know."

"Do we keep a log anywhere, d'you think?"

He shrugged. "I've never thought about it. And I don't get why you're—"

"They came in through the back, didn't they?" I looked at him, waiting for him to fill in the blanks. When he didn't, I had to keep talking. "Which meant they had the code. didn't they?"

"Oh, right, I see."

I laughed a little and it almost sounded genuine. "I mean, I don't want to start anything here, Kevin, but if the robbers got the code to that door, then I'm thinking ..." Another laugh and I waved it away. "Doesn't matter."

"What?"

"Really, it's just daft."

"Graham."

"Alright, promise you won't laugh." I looked around the pit, then moved closer to Kevin. It wasn't pleasant, but I had to do it. I lowered my voice. "I'm thinking maybe it was an inside job."

He looked at me. I backed off and held my hands up.

"I'm just saying. I mean, I haven't told the police any of this. This is my own theory, and it's probably nonsense. I don't know the place, I don't know the protocols or anything, so it could be that Jacqui changed the code just before I got here, but I've got a sneaking suspicion that it hasn't been changed since the place opened."

"You think it was Jacqui?"

"No. God, no. Not Jacqui."

"Because she wouldn't do something like that."

"Of course not. I mean, it wouldn't be someone who still worked here anyway, would it?"

Kevin was shaking his head, his mouth hanging open. I'd hooked him. "I really don't know, Graham."

"Well, I don't think it's likely, anyway. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't have the nerve to hang around after something like that."

"No."

"So I'm thinking it's someone who left the club recently. Someone with money problems, maybe." I smiled again and opened my hands. "But I don't know, Kevin. It's all up in the air. Like I said, it's just a theory, so I don't really know—"

"Stevie."

I feigned ignorance. "Who's Stevie?"

"He was an inspector." Nash frowned, working it out in his head, probably arranging dates and possibilities in his mind.

"Do I know him?"

"He left before you came here, I think."

"What happened to him?"

"Nobody knows. He just didn't come in to work anymore. Disappeared."

"Interesting."

"Yeah, his flatmates said they thought he went off on the ships."

"They don't know?"

"He left them in the lurch, too."

I nodded, staring into the middle distance and pretending to think about it. "Wow. I thought I was talking rubbish." I blinked. "I mean, I still might be. It's not like I have any proof."

No, all I had was a rumour that would be all around the club by the end of the shift. And once the rumour spread beyond those walls, it would snowball into gospel and probably find its way into the ear of one Detective Inspector Kennedy. It would, that was, if he was still interviewing staff. Worse came to worst ...

"You should probably tell the police, Graham."

"No, I can't do that. What if it's not true?"

"It's up to them to investigate everything, isn't it?"

"I'm sure they're snowed, though. And I've not really thought this through, have I? Only reason I mentioned it to you was to get it out of my head. I mean, it's daft, right?"

The staff door opened and Blake stepped out with Dave Randall in tow. Neither man looked particularly happy, but Dave was at least pretending to smile, even though I'd seen that mask a million times before. Blake nodded at me as he passed and then headed out to the reception. Dave followed him to the doors.

"Graham, you should tell them."

"Really? You think so?"

I watched Blake leave, saw the momentary slump in Dave's shoulders before he turned back to the floor.

"I know so. What if you're right?"

Nash was leaning forward in his seat, trying to catch my eye. He looked genuinely upset at the thought of me not grassing up Stevie Laird.

I nodded at him. "Okay, let me think about it. In the meantime, could you do me a favour and ask around a little? I don't want to be the only one who thinks it's plausible, do I?"

Dave returned to the floor. He stopped by the pit rope and caught my eye. He beckoned me over.

I didn't move from the pit desk. I held up a hand. "Give me a minute, Dave?" Then, to Nash: "What do you think?"

"I'll see what I can do."

"Good man." I jerked my head at Dave, who had hopped the rope and was stalking towards me. "Yes, Dave?"

"Can I have a word with you, Graham?"

I looked at Nash. "You alright with the pit, Kevin?"

He smiled at me, gave me a conspiratorial wink. "I think so."

"Then I'm all yours, Dave. Lead the way."

23

As Dave closed the door to Jacqui's office behind him, his posture appeared to deflate. Gone was the smooth-talking Dapper Dave Randall the punters all knew and loved and the fish staff looked up to. This was the old Dave, one I hadn't seen in the flesh for a good long while, one that stood there by the closed door and stared at me for a good minute or so before he started talking. "So, it's obvious to me that we have some kind of problem, Graham."

"Problem? No, I don't think so."

"That's not what Jeremy just told me."

I sat on the edge of Jacqui's desk and waited for him to elaborate. Dave moved from the door, appeared to melt into his old self. The sight of it nauseated me.

"I understand that you're not happy here, Graham. You've made that patently obvious, not just to me but to Jacqui too. And you know, maybe it's my fault—"

"It's definitely your fault."

"I've tried to help you, Graham."

"Oh, is that what you call it?"

"How long have we known each other now?"

"A long time."

"Ten years, something like that?"

"Longer than that."

"So we're veterans, you and I. We're like old soldiers. There's a certain kind of understanding that comes with a relationship like ours, regardless of whether or not we actually like each other. And I think we can both safely admit that we don't."

"Okay."

"There's no reason to get into individual gripes here. They're not really important anyway. Because I know that, as a manager, I have a degree of responsibility when it comes to dealing with people like you, Graham."

"People like me?"

"Good people. Competent people. Difficult people."

"I see. Then yes, you do have a degree of responsibility."

"I think I've been fair with you."

I shrugged. "Agree to disagree."

"Okay." He folded his arms. "Then why don't you tell me where you disagree, and maybe we can proceed from there."

"You dumped me here. You got thick and you got scared and you got greedy and you decided to sell me down the river to save your own skin. Regional asked you whose fault the Les Beale thing was and you told them it was me."

He nodded once. "That's right. You were in charge of the pit, Graham."

"Because you weren't anywhere near the floor."

"I don't need to be on the floor. Everything that takes place in that pit is your responsibility. I have a number of responsibilities. I have the cash desk, I have the restaurant, the bar, the reception area, I have to deal with member issues, I have to—"

"You should've seen what was happening and nipped it in the bud."

"Why?"

I stopped, my mouth open. "Sorry, what? Why? Because you're the manager. Because I was dealing with a whale on one of the roulettes and trainee staff who could barely hold the ball, let alone spin it."

Dave smiled and narrowed his eyes. "What's that they say about a bad workman blaming his tools?"

"I'm serious. You were the manager, you should have managed. And then you farm me off here, tell Regional I'm unstable."

"Alright, calm down, Graham."

"How would you like it, Dave? Being transferred without your consent, ending up here? It's all white games out here, Dave. They're penny-antes, bungalow games. I might as well be calling bingo numbers."

"I thought you needed a break."

"No, you didn't. You thought you could bin someone who wouldn't let you get away with your usual nonsense. Someone who would call you on your mistakes."

"What mistakes?"

"I'm better than you, Dave. You know I am. And now Regional knows it, too."

Dave regarded me a moment longer, as if he was trying to understand what I'd just said. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped, retreated, turned his face away from me just as he approached. "I think I've been pretty good with you, actually. I mean, I know you've been through a lot the past month or so, especially the last couple of weeks, and I understand the way stress works."

"And this is where you tell me that it doesn't manifest straight away."

"I also understand that you're not the kind of person to acknowledge it when it occurs, so I'm going to tell you this straight – you're a liability, Graham. You've been a liability for a while now. Even before the incident with Les Beale, your pit totals of a night were sub-par. I didn't want to say anything, I didn't want you to think that I was monitoring you like that, because I knew it wouldn't help your nerves. So I kept quiet. But after the Beale incident, it wasn't something I could ignore anymore. So yes, I had you transferred here, but I didn't lie to you about it. I told you that Jacqui needed someone with experience and I honestly thought that it would do you good to slow down a bit." He looked me right in the eye. "You're not well, Graham. You're stressed. You're distracted, you're making mistakes and you're overly emotional when you're called on them. And from what Jacqui told me, you were fine for a while, you know, when you were on the day shifts, and I think you had a couple of good nights after that, but there was a decline again, wasn't there?"

I blinked at him. Couldn't say anything. My throat was closed; I couldn't catch my breath. I'd started sweating again. I felt that old familiar itch in my right hand. I closed it into a fist and scratched the palm.

"The run up to the robbery. You were distracted, weren't you?"

He knew. He had to. If he didn't know then he suspected, which was just as bad. I cleared my throat. And this was how he was going to bring me down. After all these years, I'd given him ammunition. He had to use it. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"There's nobody else here, Graham. Nobody listening in. It's okay. I know you don't want to admit a – I don't know, a weakness. I know you think I'm going to hurt you in some way, but I'm not, okay?"

"I'm not one of your ditzy fish dealers, so you can stop trying to seduce me."

"Listen, Graham, I just want to help—

He put a hand on my shoulder. It was a dead weight, felt like he was shoving me. Before I knew it, I'd lashed out, caught him in the mouth with my fist. The weight disappeared from my shoulder and he took a few steps back, two fingers pressed to his lip. I hadn't hurt him, but I'd smacked a shock into him. My knuckles hurt. He looked at his fingers. No blood.

He looked at me. I stared right back at him.

Neither of us moved for a moment. Neither of us spoke.

Finally, Dave nodded and turned to the door. I lunged and grabbed him before he could open it. I threw one arm around his neck and hauled him backwards. A few thumping, staggered steps and then I used my weight advantage. I threw him off-balance, threw myself off-balance, and then the pair of us stumbled into Jacqui's desk, knocking it away from one wall and slamming the corner of it into another. The computer monitor tumbled and dropped into the gap between the desk and the wall and I held firm around Dave's neck.

I didn't know what I was doing. It was all instinct. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to make him bleed. Dave struggled and twisted in my grip and I redoubled my efforts to choke him, even though I knew I was doing nothing of the sort. He threw a loose elbow into my gut, but it did no damage. I heard a scream come ripping out of me, a wretched, grating, high-pitched noise.

He turned again, tried to shake me off. I held on.

His voice came out hoarse. "Get ... get off me, Graham."

I looked down at him, saw the red blossoming in his face, saw the contorted features, the spittle spraying from his open mouth. I staggered back into the wall to brace myself and then punched him in the ear with my free hand. He jerked in my grip and because the blow hurt me less than the one to the mouth, I hit him again, harder. He grunted and tried to pull away.

"The fuck d'you think you—"

I hit him again. And again. Each time a little harder, each time hurting myself a little more, each time caring a little less. The first time in my whole life so far that I was winning a fight and I'd be damned if I lost the advantage just yet. Dave yelled and his own struggles became more violent with each blow. One punch broke the skin and drew blood from his cheek, and the shock of it made me stop and weaken for a second. Dave shoved me away from him, one hand holding me at bay as he staggered across the office, his head down and his free hand clamped to his ear.

I stood by the wall. My hands refused to melt; they remained tight fists that swung slightly as I watched him. We were both panting with the effort, but Dave's was the only one with pain attached. He kept moving, circling and bending double. When he turned, he was showing his bottom teeth and glaring at me. He saw me standing there and shook his head. "I don't get it. I try to help you and you're a fucking maniac ..."

I didn't say anything. I didn't move. My hands remained balled. I was ready for another round whenever he was.

He saw it, too. He shook his head again as he straightened up. Looked at the fingers that had been pressed to his battered ear. The only blood on him was a brief smear under his left eye, which he now rubbed away. He tugged at his jacket, tucked his shirt back into his trousers and ran a palm over his hair. Then he put a hand on the door. "Go home, Graham. Take your holiday early. We'll talk when you get back."

"I'm not coming back."

"Whatever you want."

He left the office, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

I stared at the door, then the carpet, then my own hands as I opened them and stretched my fingers. There were red marks across the back of one set of knuckles. My hands shook and I could feel the wet stickiness of spittle on my chin. When I moved my fingers, they throbbed. I put them to my mouth and sucked on them. Then I wiped my face and tugged the tightened knot out of my tie before I tied it again and smoothed myself down.

I stepped out into the corridor and turned right towards the locker room, checking my watch as I went. Six o'clock. Too early for the night shift to come in or the day shift to get ready to leave. Chances were, if I avoided the break room, I wouldn't bump into anyone. I ducked into the locker room, grabbed my coat and did a quick recce of my locker to make sure I wasn't leaving anything important. Satisfied, I left by the staff entrance.

"You off, Graham?"

I turned to see Fester by the back wall, smoking a cigarette. Both eyes were black and swollen.

"Yeah, I'm finished."

"See you later, then."

"Not if I see you first."

Fester laughed politely. I went to my Corsa and got behind the wheel. Started the engine, let it warm up as I looked across the sparsely-populated car park at the front of the club. Maybe if Pollard hadn't come my way, I would still be there now.

I wondered about what Dave had said, about how I was on a decline. I hadn't noticed myself, but then I'd seen plenty of others lose control in stages and they hadn't appeared to notice either. Life had a way of throwing so many distractions at a man that he didn't know he'd hit bottom until his legs cracked beneath him. Maybe I would've continued on that downward trajectory myself, ended up another clipped ticket in the dance of the lemons. But not anymore. Now I had plans, I had opportunities. I just had to get paid what I was owed.

I called the contact phone number while I drove, and instead of going straight to voicemail, someone picked it up: "What?"

It wasn't Pollard. Sounded like Jez, and he sounded harassed.

"I want to speak to Barry."

"He's not here."

"Can you get him to ring me back?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because he says he'll call you when he's ready."

"No, well, listen. Things have changed."

"Nowt's changed."

"No, it has. I'm not ... I'm going to be leaving the country next Monday. I'm going on the ships."

"Good for you."

"Thank you. But I need the money as soon as possible."

"You know what Mr Pollard said."

"Yes, I do. I do know what he said. But things change, don't they? There's no danger, tell him that. Tell him I'm going to be out of the country. I'm not going to call the police. I'm not going to grass anyone up. I'm going to be in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, aren't I? So it's silly to keep the money. No sense in prolonging this any more than necessary. I can be out of your hair by the end of the week."

There was silence at the other end. I thought Jez had cut me off until I heard something that sounded like traffic in the background.

"Jez?"

"Mr Pollard will call you when he's fuckin' ready."

And then he did cut me off. When I tried calling back, it didn't even go to voicemail. I was frozen out. Made me think he was avoiding me instead of playing it safe, all those old paranoid thoughts marching back through my mind. He was edging me out of my cut, trying to intimidate me. The only way to get him to arrange safe payment was to let him know that the investigation was dead in the water, which it wasn't, because no doubt the police would start in on my carefully sown seeds regarding Stevie Laird. And when that turned up empty, they wouldn't tell me that it was over, would they? They'd tell management, and I wasn't exactly on speaking terms with Dave Randall. I could ask Clive to keep an ear out, but I doubted he'd have much for me by the end of the week beyond the usual news – people boasting of their sexual conquests or else trying to deny it; people disappearing to the ships or one of the Stanley or Grosvenor clubs that promised better pay and working conditions; who was straight or gay this week, and who was pretending to be one when they were the other; just the usual flotsam and jetsam of drifting rumour that would do me no good whatsoever, chatter without substance.

I pulled over to the side of the road and sat in the growing dark.

Pollard wouldn't talk to me over the phone. Jez had severed all communication on that front. So I was outside the loop and would probably remain that way unless Pollard had a sudden attack of conscience and decided to pay me what I was owed, which was becoming increasingly unlikely.

So there was nothing else for it. If he wouldn't come to me, then I would have to go to him.

I turned the car around and pointed it back towards the Riverside, where I parked as far away from the club as possible and took the long way round to the front doors. Someone had been in to fix the glass in the doors, so the reception looked a little more inviting, but there was still no Security on the front and wouldn't be until the night shift came in. Which meant that Janine was alone behind the reception desk. She was a blonde girl with teeth the colour of her skin, which was topped up every couple of weeks with some sort of industrial spray. She was a gossipy sort, prone to shooting her mouth off with the preface, "I'm not trying to be funny, but ..." Lucky for her she was daffy with it, or else she wouldn't be half as popular as she was. She also happened to be a lazy cow, which was lucky for me.

I frowned at her as I approached the desk. "Janine, have you been on since we opened?"

She nodded. Of course she had. Her fellow receptionist had been on duty the night of the robbery, so she wouldn't be back for a while. "It's been chocka, Graham."

"Well, why don't you grab a quick break, eh?"

"You sure?"

"Yeah, Kevin's on the pit. Dave doesn't care. Go on, get yourself a coffee or something."

She beamed at me. "Cheers, Graham."

And off she went, a sway in her step that was supposed to make her backside look shapely, but which made her look as if she'd soiled herself. I waited until she was gone, then hopped round the desk and shook the mouse at her computer. It brought up the Sovereign database, which was my gateway to the members.

A few clicks later, and I had Pollard's address.

I grabbed a pad and a pen and noted down his details, then switched out the database to the member Janine had been looking at. I got out from behind the desk and quick-walked out of the reception. No doubt Dave would kick off with Janine for leaving the reception unmanned, but that really wasn't my problem anymore.

It was every man for himself.

24

Nice and early the next morning, I drove out to Pollard's place in Alderley Edge. His was a detached house, a newish build on an estate of similar properties, all of them sprawling and sporting long drives that terminated in wrought iron gates. It was new money all around here, with the kind of taste you bought out of a catalogue.

As I neared the house, I saw the gates standing open and a number of cars parked on the front drive. I pulled in outside the gates and got out of the Corsa. I was wearing my suit, just in case. I didn't know how he would take to having me turn up in my civvies, so I thought it was best to be as formal as possible. When I saw he was having a party, I was glad that I'd made the effort.

My shoes crunched gravel as I walked up the drive. I looked around at the side of the house and saw a bouncy castle. Inside, three kids of various ages were throwing themselves around like they were invincible.

I took a deep breath. Not the best time for a discussion about armed robbery, but it was now or never. Maybe Pollard was more likely to keep his temper if there were other people around. It was a weak hope, but a hope nonetheless.

I headed round to the side of the house. A large crowd had developed in the massive back garden. People stood with drinks in their hands, watching the kids in the bouncy castle, watching others on the small fairground that had been set up in the far corner of the garden. Everyone I saw looked old and cheap in that hard-drinking, working class way as they shifted uncomfortably inside their designer clothes. A large table strained under a mountain of brightly wrapped presents. Another groaned with cake, a large fairy princess triple-tier pink confection surrounded by cupcakes. My stomach growled at the sight of them, but there were too many people around to sneak one away. The area around the back of the house was decked, and at one end of the decking stood Pollard, his back to me, in front of a large barbeque. I smiled and coughed. My throat was dry. I picked up a cup of juice and downed it. I didn't want to sound mealy when I reached the grill.

"Mr Pollard."

He turned sharply at the sound of my voice. His mouth was open, some curse word rattling around in the back of his throat, gaining a little volume when he saw the empty cup in my hand.

Admittedly, that didn't look great. I put it down.

"How did you get in here?"

"Just round the side there."

"The fuck" – the word was muttered, a momentary drop in volume – "are they doing?"

"Who?"

"Supposed to be a couple of lads ... Doesn't matter, come on." He grabbed my arm and marched me towards the kitchen, smiling and nodding at his guests as we went. I looked behind me and saw a large man with hair climbing out the back of his T-shirt take over at the grill. There was a sizzle and a shout as he flipped something.

Once we were inside the house, Pollard yelled for Jez. Jez passed the door, a little girl on his shoulders. She was screaming and giggling, and she wore pink fairy wings. She was beating Jez on the back of the head with a fairy wand. He stopped at the sound of Pollard's voice. When he saw me, Jez frowned and his eyes grew wide. He hauled the girl off his back and set her down on the decking. She ran off. He gestured to someone out of sight, pointed into the house and then came in, making a noise that sounded as if someone was letting the air out of him.

"Yeah, Michael fuckin' Dudikoff, isn't he?" Pollard let me go, gestured to his left. "Take him through to the den, will you?"

"You crashing, are you?"

I held up both hands. "No, wait, listen to me—"

It was Jez's turn to grab me now, and his fingers clamped tightly around my arm as he dragged me towards the door. Pollard turned to leave and I felt like shouting his name, but I knew I'd be in even bigger trouble if I did that. He caught my look and fought back with a warning glare and a finger. "I'll see you in a minute, alright? Let Jez take you through."

Jez kept ushering me away. I noticed a shared glance that did nothing for my blood pressure and made my stomach knot. Jez shoved me towards a double door. I went on ahead, my legs trembling.

"Open it."

I did as I was told. And when I opened the doors, I saw the last thing in the world I wanted to see.

Plastic. All over the den floor.

"Wait, no." I turned, panicking.

Jez smacked me in the face. White lights flared, something exploded behind my sinuses and I was halfway to the plastic before I knew I was falling. I dropped, landed on my keys, the jab of pain against my thigh momentarily upstaging the pain from my nose. I felt something warm and sticky dribbling out over my top lip, but couldn't see through the tears in my eyes. I tried to get up. I didn't know why I needed to get up, but I tried to anyway. Someone kicked me in the chest. I lost my breath and sprayed blood across the plastic. Another kick to the back, and it felt as if something electric snapped in my spine. I scraped some breath and yelled it out. More kicks followed, piling pain onto pain across the small of my back, my lungs screaming for oxygen so I could scream myself. I threw out a hand, tried to pull myself out of the way, but they'd surrounded me. I didn't know how many, but there were enough to keep me cornered and crying. After a while, the pain became too much, my body and legs knotted with burning bruises, my head ringing with the agony in my nose. I dragged my knees up to my stomach, hunched my shoulders and held on, curled into a ball on the floor. They continued for a dozen more kicks, but they were listless blows. Soon I was left alone. I rocked slightly, breathed harshly through my mouth into a puddle of my nose blood.

I opened one eye. Jez stared back, and another man who was built like a He-Man action figure shifted behind him.

Jez sneered at me. "Fuckin' baby."

I closed my eye again. There was blood in my mouth.

The door opened and closed. I could hear the sound of shoes on plastic as Jez and his mate took off to either side. I could feel Pollard standing there looking at me. I could hear him breathing. He crossed the room.

When I opened my eyes, I saw him sitting in a large, comfortable chair a few feet away. He crossed his legs, his jeans riding up to show one hairy ankle.

I watched him. I swallowed. Blood coated the back of my tongue. I wanted to throw up.

He watched back. His face was blank, but I knew that I wasn't allowed to speak until I was spoken to. And when he finally spoke, his voice was low and his tone was disappointed. "My little girl's birthday today. She's seven. She's got all her mates round, she's got loads of presents, loads of cake, ice cream, jelly, the lot. Special day for her. I'm not going to have anyone ruin it."

I spluttered the words before they became intelligible. "I'm sorry ..."

"She's busy. She'll be busy all day. Doesn't give a fuck what her dad's doing. So I can take my time. I can keep you here all week if I want to. I can keep you here as long as I want and I can do whatever I want, because my little girl doesn't give a shit, my wife can be trusted and the boys here ... well, they're happy to do whatever I tell them to do, aren't you, boys?"

Jez and He-Man agreed. They enjoyed their jobs. The prospect of doing it for days on end was just living the dream.

"So you're lucky. Because if I'd been in a hurry, there's a good chance you wouldn't be fuckin' breathing now. Would've just taken you somewhere nice and quiet and dropped you." Pollard shifted a little in his chair. He held out his hand and clicked his fingers. Jez offered him a cigarette. Pollard curled his lip. "Fuckin' Marlboro Lights? What you trying to do?"

"Sorry."

"Might as well not bother." He ripped the filter from the end of the cigarette and tossed it onto the plastic next to my head. "Give us your light, you fuckin' student."

Jez handed Pollard his lighter. Pollard lit his cigarette and blew smoke, then waved Jez away so he became the centre of attention once more. "My missus doesn't like me smoking in the house, especially with the little one. But the way I see it, the place is going to get painted tomorrow, so it's going to stink of fuckin' matte for the foreseeable anyway. Truth be told, I'm trying to give up. It's not good for you, and I've got the kid and everything, so you've got to think about secondary smoke and all that. That's the thing, Graham. When you have kids of your own, you'll understand this. You've got to think about other people. It's not all about you and what you want. Clearly this is something that needs to be explained to you, Graham. Clearly you're a man who doesn't believe in delayed gratification, am I right?"

I didn't say anything. Too scared to have an answer.

"Or are you here for a reason? Because I'll tell you, Graham, you've got us thinking that something's gone wrong. Has something gone wrong?"

I shook my head.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"You heard from that plod, that whatshisname—"

Jez chipped in. "Kennedy."

"Kennedy. You spoke to him in the hospital, didn't you?"

I nodded this time.

"So he's the man on the job. He told you anything?"

"No."

"So what are you doing here? If it's not finished, what the fuck d'you think you're doing?"

"I gave them a name."

"Whose name?"

"Stephen Laird."

"Who?"

"He's an inspector. He left in a hurry." I shifted on the plastic. My back ached. I stopped before the pain got too much, waved a hand at Pollard. "Apparently he just did one from the club. Left his job, left his flat, the whole lot, didn't tell anyone about it."

"Where'd he go?"

"Nobody knows. Probably the ships."

"And how does this help me?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

It didn't help him. It helped me.

"It's ... I've diverted the investigation away from us."

"But it's still ongoing."

"I don't know."

"And it's probably going to take longer now, isn't it? You know, while they follow this bollocks lead of yours to its natural conclusion."

"I don't ..." I shook my head. My neck hurt. "Maybe."

"I thought we had a deal, Graham. I thought we agreed that we wouldn't see each other until this was all done and fuckin' dusted."

"I tried to call."

"And?" He smiled, but there was no humour in it. "For a bright lad, you have a hell of a time taking the fuckin' hint, don't you?"

Jez laughed. I glanced across at him. His hands were fists.

I looked at the plastic. There was a pool of bloody spit near my hand. I wiped my top lip and tried to sit back. Pain flared in my side. I tried not to show it, but failed miserably. Pollard watched me the way a kid with a magnifying glass watches ants on a sunny day.

"You just want your cut, don't you? That's why you're here. You thought you could come round and muscle us. Thought you'd play the family card, expose the holes in my security like a fuckin' proper hard arse." He tapped ash onto the plastic. "Ballsy, like. Or just disrespectful."

"I just wanted to tell you—"

"You thought I was going to stiff you, didn't you?"

I looked at him. I started shaking. I couldn't hide it. Couldn't deny it. "Yes."

His smile became a grin. His propped foot dropped to the floor. He leaned forward. He smelled like smoke and the smell made me want to puke, but I couldn't because I was hurting too much and I knew that vomiting would hurt even more and I didn't want to add to it.

"A man what doesn't trust another man isn't trustworthy himself. Least, that's the experience I've always had. Bloke thinks he can't trust you, it's normally because he's setting it up to rip you off and hopes you don't do it to him before he gets a chance to do it you."

I started to shake my head, but he grabbed my chin with one hand and held it tight and still. I whimpered. I wanted to go home. I wanted my bed. My legs hurt. My back hurt. My bladder felt painfully full.

"You, Graham, you're one of them lads who think they're cleverer than everyone else."

"No."

"Yeah, you do. Even when you're fuckin' caught. You don't know any different."

He was going to kill me. I knew it. He was going to kill me and steal my money. I should have stayed away. I should have called the police. I should have done the right thing. I breathed out. It came out jagged and sore and sounding like I was trying to hold back the sobs, which I was. "No."

"Yes, son." He let go of me. Leaned back and wiped his hands on his jeans as he sat back in the chair. "But I'm a man of my word, Graham. You might be an untrustworthy little rat, but I'm a man with a certain reputation, and that reputation wasn't built on the back of fucking people over for the sake of twenty-odd grand. So you'll get your money when you're due you're money. I told you before and you didn't listen, which is why the lads here gave you a fuckin' hiding. I'm not going to tell you again."

Pollard looked up at Jez, who grabbed me under one arm and hauled me to my feet. As he did, the combined pain of every single kick and punch lanced through me as one. I gasped, doubled up, and lost control. A dark patch appeared on the front of my suit trousers and, as I stood there trembling and weak, continued to spread until my thighs burned.

He-Man started laughing. It was a high-pitched, hysterical sound. "Watch yourself, Jez. You got a pisser."

"Ah, you scruffy cunt." I heard Jez back off, holding me at arm's length like a naughty puppy. I looked at the floor, a puddle of urine forming on the plastic at my feet. I shook in Jez's grip. I wanted to cry, but couldn't find the strength or the tears.

"Let him go, Jez."

Jez let me go. I dropped to one knee, put my hand in the puddle. I struggled back upright, wiped my wet hand on my trouser leg and stared down at Pollard. He moved his mouth, then stuck the cigarette between his lips and nodded to Jez and the other one. I felt hands on my elbows. I splashed through the puddle as they hustled me to the door and out the back. Each step sent fresh pain through my legs and back. I stumbled twice, felt myself dragged and kicked the floor until I was hobbling again. When they finally threw me back against the Corsa, the impact made me think I was about to black out. I held on. Heard He-Man's girly laughter as they watched me struggle to stay upright.

"Off you go, Graham. Bye bye."

I pulled open the driver's door and got in the car. I fumbled in one damp pocket for my keys, then started the engine. Jez and He-Man watched me as I pulled away from the drive. I glanced at them in the rear view mirror and wished cancer on them both.

Then I made myself smile. Because as exhausted, disgusting and in pain as I was, I was still leaving with my life, which meant there was hope. And that was enough for the time being.

25

It was a long drive home, especially when my trousers were soaked through and stinking. Every time I pressed the clutch with my foot, my leg seized up, locked with pain. For the first couple of miles, I could barely see for the tears. I didn't want to cry. I wanted to keep it all in, bottle it up, but it was impossible to maintain. So I sobbed and I rubbed a sleeve across my eyes and I kept my speed low so I didn't crash and ruin an already ruined day. I knew how stupid I must have looked. Somehow that knowledge made it all the worse.

When I got to the car park, I killed the engine and sat for a moment. My hands were still shaking. I didn't deserve that. I didn't deserve that kind of humiliation. I didn't deserve to be laughed at. I didn't deserve to smell like this. I didn't deserve to suffer like this.

I breathed out. Something had to be done.

And when I looked up, there he was.

Detective Inspector Kennedy.

I had no idea how he got into the car park, but I knew why he was there. He was waiting for me. I stared at him. Sniffed. Wiped my face. He smiled and looked away, as if to give me some privacy. I looked down at my lap and realised that I wasn't going to be able to pass this off as anything other than what it was.

I wanted to cry again. Swallowed. The inside of my mouth tasted like metal and salt. It would be okay. I needed to man up and face this. Kennedy probably just had a couple of questions, and I'd answer them, and then I'd be on my way, and so would he, and everything would be okay again. I could regroup and come up with a new plan.

I looked down at my lap. It was stained, but as long as I kept his attention on my face, I'd be alright. I opened the car door and grabbed a newspaper from the dash to cover my crotch. "Inspector Kennedy."

He raised a hand in greeting. Another smile. "Sorry for turning up unannounced."

"Not a problem. We didn't have anything arranged, did we?"

"No, I just thought I'd catch you before you went to work. Is that okay?"

"Not at all." I walked towards the block, trying not to limp. "Your sergeant not with you today?"

"No, he's not. Had other business." He followed. "Are you alright? Your nose—"

"Nose bleed. Happens sometimes. Very embarrassing. What was it you wanted?"

"Just a few follow-up questions about the other night, if you don't mind."

"Yeah, fine. Listen, I meant to talk to you about something, actually."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, there's a rumour going around the club that maybe it was an inside job." I opened the door to the lobby. It creaked. I leaned against it to relieve the pressure on my leg.

Kennedy glanced down at my trousers. "Yeah, we heard about that."

I moved on. "Stephen Laird, right? I think they called him Stevie?"

"That's right. Are you sure you're okay, Mr Ellis?"

"I'm fine. Just a bit stiff. So what do you think?"

"Think?"

"About Stephen Laird."

"Oh, I don't think we'll be able to interview him, Mr Ellis."

"Really?" I stopped in the middle of the lobby. I didn't want him following me up to the flat if I could help it. "And why's that? He's left the country, has he?"

"No, he's dead."

I felt cold. "Sorry?"

"We found him a few weeks ago wrapped in bin bags and dumped in a canal."

"I don't understand."

"He didn't have anything to do with it."

"Yes, but if he did, doesn't it make sense that ... whoever it was" – I almost said Pollard – "would get rid of him?"

Kennedy nodded. "That would make sense, yes."

"So it could be that this Stephen Laird gave the robbers the code for the door?"

"Could be, but it's doubtful."

"Why's that?"

"Because you did."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You did. Just like you left the door to the count room open." Kennedy nodded at my shaking hands. "Perhaps we should go up to yours, eh? You don't look like you've had a very good day."

"It's been eventful."

"I can see."

"But I mean, if you're accusing me of something, I ..." I shook my head. "I didn't open the door."

"We saw you open it. It's on camera."

"No, I locked it. It's just – I already told you this – that door's been a bit—"

"Don't." Kennedy gave me the look of a disappointed parent. "I don't want to hear it and you don't really want to waste energy trying to make me believe it, do you? You rattled the door to try and make it look like you'd locked it, but you hadn't. We went over the old tapes and you'd done it before, but that night was the only time you double-checked. Because that night was the only time it meant something, wasn't it, Graham? You over-egged it, kid."

My stomach rumbled. I turned away and hobbled towards the lift. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't. Which is why you've been trying to contact Barry Pollard for the last week. Why you've been trying to skip town, too."

I turned on him, blinking. Leaned against the wall. "Listen, do I need to get a solicitor? Because it sounds like you're building up to something."

Kennedy smiled that easy, affable smile. "You can phone your brief if you want. I'd suggest you get changed first, though. I wouldn't want him thinking we made you piss yourself."

A stab of embarrassment, one hard blow, deep and twisted. The hand holding the newspaper twitched towards the stain, and I immediately felt worse. I wanted to say something biting in return, but nothing came to mind.

"Get yourself changed, Graham. I'll put the kettle on and we can sort this out, okay?"

I nodded. And he followed me into the lift. Neither of us spoke on the way up. I stared at my warped reflection in the metal trim and prayed for a heart attack.

When we got to the flat, I went straight to the bedroom and dropped to the bed. I heard him moving around outside. He was looking at stuff, sizing me up, judging me. I felt like curling into a ball. Instead, I slowly stripped off my trousers. My thighs were clammy with sweat and urine and purple with bruises. I grabbed some comfortable clothes and peeked round the bedroom door. Then I rushed – or tried to rush – to the bathroom, where I locked the door and set about cleaning myself. When I turned off the water, I heard him speaking.

"... coffee?"

I unlocked the door. "I don't have any. I don't drink it."

He came out of the kitchen and looked at me. "Just the hot chocolate?"

"You're welcome to help yourself."

"No, thanks. You want one?"

I was about to say no, then nodded. "Two minutes for the milk in the microwave, then put two teaspoons in and stir well."

I closed the bathroom door and rested my head against it. I heard the microwave going, the clink of spoon against mug. I turned and looked at myself in the mirror over the sink. My legs and torso were a purple patchwork, as if I'd been dipped in birthmark. I no longer felt every bump and bruise – I think my body had shut down the nerves or something – but the look of them was enough to make my knees watery. I was stupid, puffy and pale of face. I looked liked a twelve-year-old version of myself, scared and trouserless, beaten and raw, knowing full well that the worst was about to happen and that there was nothing I could do about it.

So I washed my face, struggled into a T-shirt and joggers, then took it slowly as I left the bathroom.

Kennedy was in the living room, looking at my collection of action figures. The hot chocolate sat on a coaster on the coffee table. I moved to my chair and let out an involuntary groan on the way down. If Kennedy heard it, he didn't let me know.

"How much are these worth, d'you think?"

"I don't know."

"You don't care?"

"No." I shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

"Collecting for the love of it."

I picked up my hot chocolate and sipped it. It was lukewarm. He hadn't put it in the microwave for long enough. "Yes."

"There's a bloke at work collects stuff like this."

"I know him."

"Do you?"

"No."

"No. Right. Thought that would be weird, like. He doesn't have many friends."

I gave him a sick little smile. "That's the way it normally goes."

"You don't have many either, then?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. This colleague of mine, he says he's a geek, but I don't believe him."

"Why not?"

"Not unless the word changed its meaning. When I was at school, the geeks were the clever ones."

I smiled. "Don't have to be clever anymore."

"And they liked stuff. He collects shit like this and he watches all the shows and that, but he never seems to like any of it much. He's always moaning about some irrelevant shite, pardon my French. Tell the truth, I think he watches it all because he likes to feel superior to people who haven't watched as much as him. Like him wasting his life is an achievement or something." He turned to me. "What do you think?"

"I think you don't like him and you're looking for an excuse to upgrade that dislike to hatred."

"Maybe you're right." He stared at me. "I asked around about you, you know. About the friends thing."

"I'm new."

"I know."

"And it's not the sort of job where you make friends easily."

"You're not the sort of person, either."

"You could say that."

"It's been tough recently, has it?"

"Apart from the robbery, you mean? Yes, it's been tough. Transfers always are."

"A whole load of new people to deal with, new people to manage."

"Yes."

"Jacqui Prince seems to think you're an excellent pit boss."

"I am an excellent pit boss."

"Yeah, we talked a lot about you." He moved to the settee, but didn't sit down. He started inspecting my DVD collection. "Apparently you're very much a company man."

"I've been in the business long enough. People think that."

"So why did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Why'd you set the place up?"

I breathed out, looked into my hot chocolate. "What makes you think I had a choice?"

"There's that, certainly. Barry Pollard has a way of asking a question so there's only one answer. What did he threaten you with?"

"Does it matter?"

He turned to look at me now, a concerned expression on his face. No doubt he practised it twice a day. "I don't want to be the bad guy here, Graham. That's not the way I like to do things. There's blokes I work with, they'd have carted you down the station and made you eat the floor by now."

"So I should be grateful, is what you're telling me?" I couldn't resist a smile at that. "I'm so lucky. I'm luckiest man alive."

"You are. And you know you are. And maybe I would've picked you up outside. I was planning to. But then I saw you and I reckoned that maybe you'd had a shitty day of it so far and why make matters worse by locking you up?"

"You're all heart."

"You want to tell me what happened?"

"No."

"You want to make this easy on yourself?"

"Oh, yes." I looked up at him. "How do I do that, Inspector?"

"You tell me what happened."

"You already know. Hearing it from me isn't going to make any difference."

"Someone shook you up. I'm guessing it's Pollard or one of his lot. Maybe that Jez lad. I hear he's a bit handy."

"You hear a lot. Maybe you should tell me a few things."

"Like what?"

"Like what happens now?"

"Well, that all depends on you, doesn't it, Graham?"

I laughed. He sat down on the settee and leaned forward. He looked like a counsellor I had once, all sympathetic and wanting to listen, but I knew that whatever I had to say would be held in confidence about as long as it took to slip the cuffs onto my wrists.

"I don't want you. You're just the wrong bloke in the wrong place at the wrong time. You're a little fish, Graham. I could bring you in now and after a while you'd talk my ear off and then you'd probably go away for a bit, but that wouldn't be the end of it, would it? I don't like arresting civilians. Doesn't feel right. I arrest a no-mark like you, what am I doing? I'm putting someone behind bars who made a mistake, that's all. From the look of you, you already know that, and you've already been punished enough. You'll probably carry what you did with you for the rest of your life and you won't give yourself a break the whole time. So what good would locking you up do?"

"None whatsoever."

He nodded. "None whatsoever. But you know I can't let it go, don't you? Because at the end of the day, I've got to bring in the numbers or else they'll wonder why they promoted me. So what do you suggest I do?"

"I don't know. Sounds like a lose-lose situation."

"Not quite." He put his hands together and lowered his head. It looked as if he was about to launch into the Lord's Prayer. "I like to think I'm a fair man, Graham. I didn't bring Sergeant Hammond with me today because of that. I wanted to hear your side of things. You've been pretty open so far, so I'm going to do you the same courtesy. I want Pollard. That's all I want. Now I can get him with or without your help, but it'll be a lot easier if you cooperate."

I laughed. "I've heard that before."

"And that's what got you here, I can understand that." His smile was supposed to match mine, but it looked patronising from this angle. "You were stuck between a rock and a hard place the first time round, and nothing's changed here except ..." He moved his head from side to side. "Except this time you know what the right thing is."

A part of me hoped he'd wanted the money. If he'd wanted the money, it would have been an easy decision. It would have been prison for me. I couldn't get the money, I never would get the money.

But he didn't want the money. He wanted Pollard. And as much as I didn't want to help him, I wanted to help Pollard even less.

I sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

He told me. It was way worse than I ever could've anticipated.

26

There were things a man had to do in this life. There were things that would make him feel used and tired and all sorts of dirty, but he had to do them in order to survive. It was part of growing up; you had to make tough decisions. You had to be a man and realise that it wasn't all going to work out the way you wanted it to. In fact, most of the time your luck was destined to bounce once off the cement before it trundled into the drain like a lost penny.

When I was a kid, my dad gave me a job. He knew I liked the detective books and TV and all that, so he said he had a mission. It was a very special mission, he said, because it required a great deal of secrecy and, more than any of that, it required we get out of our pits early in the morning, because it turned out that some thieving so-and-so had been nicking the morning papers from outside the shop before my dad managed to get in. The monetary value of the papers was low, but it was embarrassing not to have papers for his customers, and it had happened enough times that it was starting to gnaw at my dad's soul. So he was going to do something about it, and that something involved me. We were going to sort this together.

Truth of the matter was I felt a bit sorry for him. He worked most of the time. I never saw him. I didn't know him. I knew he liked ham and pease pudding. I knew he liked golf and books about politicians. I knew he didn't trust accountants and that he used to come at lunchtime one afternoon a year to watch the Budget and shout at the television. I knew he used to pack out our dining room with toys and games for the Christmas club every year and I wasn't allowed to play with them but I did anyway and just made sure to cover my tracks. I knew he used to come home every Saturday night with a half-pound of Northumberland Fudge – it was chocolate-covered fudge with bits of nuts in it – along with whatever papers or magazines the Ellis family wanted for the week. He thought that was enough to keep him in our good books. He was almost right. But he was still little more than a friendly stranger.

This little mission was his way of spending time together, father and son bonding over their mutual hatred of newspaper thieves. So we got up for four in the morning and got dressed and went down to the car and drove out to the newsagents, where we parked across the street and waited. My dad had a flask of coffee and I had some chocolate milk that he'd brought for me. I didn't really like chocolate milk – I preferred strawberry – but I drank enough of it to be polite.

About thirty minutes after we got settled in, the truck arrived with the papers. We watched it stop, the engine running, and a lanky, hairy man – he reminded me of a gibbon for some reason – jumped down from the passenger side of the cab. He loped round to the back of the van where he hauled out a couple of bundles of papers. The papers bounced against the string holding them together as the gibbon ran up towards my dad's shop, where he dumped the two loads and went walking back to the van, pausing only to light a stubby cigarette.

My dad's voice came out of nowhere and sounded loud in the silence of the car. "Okay, then."

I looked at him, and then back at the street.

We didn't have to wait for long. Half an hour later, a red Cavalier turned into the street with its lights off, even though it was still dark in the mornings. I knew it was a Cavalier because my dad used to have one, back before the Mazda. It was blue and when the windscreen wiper snapped off in a storm, him and my mum almost went off the motorway. They bought me a Spectrum shortly after that, the 128k +2 with the built-in tape recorder. It was amazing what a near-death experience could do to the quality of a boy's birthday presents.

"Here they are."

Dad was smiling. He showed a gold tooth and when he breathed out he smelled like cigars. He nodded at the windscreen. I followed his gaze. The Cavalier had parked outside the entrance to the shopping centre. A large Asian man got out. He was wearing a jumper that looked like it was a Christmas present from ages ago. He dropped a smoking cigarette and headed for the papers.

"I knew it. Thieving Paki bastard."

I looked at my dad again. That word was used a lot when I was a kid, but I'd never heard my dad use it. He always said the lads that used language like that belonged in the flats. It wasn't right most of the time, anyway. Chances were, the Asian guy out there wasn't a Paki, he was Indian. That he was a thieving bastard was another matter entirely, and to be fair my dad had evidence to back that up. But the Paki thing bothered me. "Actually, I don't think that's right, Dad."

He didn't hear me. He was too busy watching the Asian man run back to the Cavalier with the bundles of papers. The Asian man slung the two bundles into the back seat and then got in. The car peeled away from the kerb and my dad started the engine of the Mazda, fell in behind.

He looked across at me. He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "Fun, eh?"

I smiled and told him it was, but I was scared. I didn't know what he was going to do. He knew who'd been nicking his papers. Great. But how far was he going to take this? He'd already used a word I'd never heard him use before, so what else did he have in mind?

We followed the Cavalier for a while. I didn't think that they knew we were behind them. If they did, they didn't care. And in hindsight, I didn't know why they should've cared. What was the worst that could happen? There were clearly two of them against two of us, and I wasn't going to do any fighting, was I?

A bit further and my dad started nodding. "I knew it. I knew it as soon as I fuckin' saw them."

He swore. My dad never swore. I couldn't understand it.

It was a corner shop. The word SINGH above the door. I'd heard him talking to my mum about them before. They weren't members of the Federation, which meant they were outcasts, as good as pirates. I watched my dad watching them. He was still nodding. I didn't know what he was going to do, but I saw him wanting to do something. His hands were tight to the wheel, the knuckles pale. He was blinking a lot. He told me a story once about how one of his Federation mates who lived above his shop heard someone breaking into his place one night. He went down with the axe he kept under his bed and broke the guy's head open. He put the burglar in hospital and the police let him off with a warning. Told him he shouldn't be keeping an axe under his bed – one day he'd split the wrong skull. The guy agreed and swapped out the axe for a length of chain. When my dad told that story, there was always this wistful look on his face, like he wished it'd been him, but my mum wouldn't let him keep weapons in the bedroom.

"Okay, alright." He seemed to be steeling himself. "Okay."

"Dad?"

"Not now." He undid his seatbelt. "Just stay here, alright?"

I nodded. I didn't want him to go. I didn't want whoever it was in there, Mr Singh, I didn't want him hurt because he was stupid enough to steal our papers. I wanted to say something to make my dad stay in the car, but it was already too late. He was up and out before I could even finish the thought. I watched him stride over to the corner shop. The front door stood ajar, even though the shop wasn't open for business.

He went in. I watched the doorway.

I heard someone talking inside the shop. Then the talking turned to shouting, and nobody was shouting louder than the Asian bloke, except I couldn't make out what he was saying. I heard my dad's voice in there somewhere, but he was the one being shouted at, and he had a weird tone in his voice, like he was apologising, and suddenly I felt sick.

Dad burst out of the shop shortly afterwards. He was followed by a large Asian bloke in one of those Asian dresses. He had a white beard, but no moustache and he wore glasses that made his eyes seem massive, even at a distance. My dad hurried back to the car while this bloke screamed at him from the doorway.

My dad got into the car. He was breathing heavily. He looked at me and forced a smile. I wanted to ask what had happened, but he wasn't going to give me the truth so I kept quiet.

"Nothing to worry about." His voice was low, and it sounded as if he was talking to himself more than me. "We can still sort this out, don't you worry."

He started the engine, put the car into gear. Outside the Asian bloke was still shouting at him. He was using words I'd hear again later in life, words like bhenchod and mahchod, curses that were far more personal than the English language could manage. And if my dad didn't know what they meant exactly, he knew the disdain and hatred that peppered their pronunciation.

"You see, Graham, they're not a civilised people. That's the problem. You go in there with something to say, they'll shout you down. It's just the way they are." He moved a finger at me. "You listen to me, remember that. Way they're breeding, you'll probably have to deal with that lot in the future. Don't let their emotion put you off. They'll try and scare you to get what they want. They're just like animals."

And with that, he reversed at speed, just as Mr Singh threatened to step towards us. Dad turned the car round and pointed it back the way we'd come, and set to driving in that direction with a fierce determination on his face, albeit one with intermittent glances in the rear view to see if we were being followed.

"There are ways and means." His voice seemed more natural now. "Ways and means of dealing with everything. You don't catch a butterfly with a sledgehammer, do you?" We stopped at a junction. He checked for traffic and kept talking. "No, you don't. You go with a net. And it's the same with people. You'll know this already. There's no talking to some people. There's no respecting some people, either. I hate to say it – I mean, I like to think I can find the best in most people, and look at that rather than what they're showing me – but there are some people, Graham, that you just can't talk to. And those people are the ones you need to deal with in a different manner."

The lights changed. He held up a hand to let someone cross in front of him, then revved the engine as he barrelled into their wake.

"I mean, you might be wondering why I didn't just go in there and batter him. Are you?"

I opened my mouth, but I shook my head. I didn't know what to say. I had been wondering that, but I didn't want to ask it.

"Like one of those heroes, right? Go in there and show him who's boss. I know people who would've done that, but that's not me, Graham. I'm not going to go to prison for some thieving Paki bastard, and I would've gone to prison if I'd gone in there and been ... violent." He shook his head, moved his mouth. "No, I know people who would've done that and it just doesn't work. Like Terry, you know Terry? I mentioned him. He's the one keeps the axe under his bed."

I nodded.

"Well, he was lucky to get away with what he did. I mean, we laugh about it now, but there was a minute there when we thought Terry was going to prison for what he did to that burglar." He shook his head, his eyes wide, and he laughed. "I know, crazy, isn't it? Amazing. But that's the world we live in. And you have to abide by the laws of the land, Graham, no matter how stupid and unfair they happen to be."

I swallowed. I looked at my milk. I'd been holding it in both hands the entire time. It was warm. Bits of chocolate floated in the bottom.

"You have to do it. It's the way of things." He appeared to be looking for something now. "So it's not the right thing to do, going in there with your fists swinging, no matter how much you might want to do it." He smiled. "Here we are."

He pulled the Mazda over to the side of the road. I didn't know where we were. He turned in his seat. I noticed he wasn't wearing his seatbelt. That wasn't like him. He must've been in a hurry. Which meant he must've been afraid.

"You wait here." He looked out the back window. "You remember what their car looks like. If you see it, hit the horn."

I looked out of the back window too. I was scared. I didn't know why they'd be coming after us, but if my dad thought so, then they probably were.

"I won't be long."

He got out of the car and walked across the street to a phone box. I saw him go in, pull the door shut behind him, fumble for some change and then dial a number.

I looked behind me, waiting for the red Cavalier. There were no other cars on the street. If it turned up, I'd see it coming. I looked at the horn, then back at the window.

When Dad came back to the car, he was much more relaxed. He slammed the door and jarred my gaze away from the back window. "See anything?"

"No."

"Good." He put on his seatbelt and started the engine. "We're all finished."

And he drove us back to his shop, where we waited for the police to arrive. He'd grassed up Mr Singh and his friend, called it in while I was watching for the Cavalier. And while he was standing there spieling it out again for the uniform who took it down with no attempt to hide the boredom from his face, I saw my dad as the kind of man I promised myself I would never become. Because I wished he'd gone into that shop and slapped Mr Singh around. I wished he'd gone in there and left blood on the walls. Anything would be better than what I saw then, a mewling idiot grassing up a petty thief because he didn't have the nerve to take care of it himself.

I wouldn't be like him. I would fight my own battles. The police weren't his friend. The police didn't care. They had bigger fish to fry, and underhanded ways of going about it.

You had to be a man. You had to stand up for yourself.

I got up from my chair, where I'd been sitting since Kennedy left, and I looked around my flat, looking at exactly what he'd been examining not that long before. He'd surveyed this place and seen a child, a man stuck in adolescence, collecting toys and games and DVDs, a man with movie posters on his walls and Star Wars sheets on his bed. I looked around and I saw what he saw, and I realised that Jacqui Prince would never have come back with me, or stayed with me, or any of that, because I saw this place as the creepy little grief hole that it had always been.

I needed to change.

I went over to my shelf of action figures and sent every one of them to the floor. I pulled over the bookcase housing the DVDs – action and horror and sci-fi from my youth, and movies made in the last couple of years that played on and amplified that nostalgia. I kicked the DVR over, where I'd recorded hundreds of hours of Doctor Who and Battlestar and Lost and other shows that demanded I become invested in them or else miss out on interacting online with other people as desperately sad and grasping as me. I turned it all upside down, smashed what I could, screamed and yelled until I was exhausted. Then I sat on the end of the coffee table, staring down at a smashed sonic screwdriver.

What had I done with my life?

The answer came back quick enough:

Absolutely nothing.

27

I met Detective Inspector Kennedy at a Welcome Break between Junctions J25-26 on the M62. It was the kind of place where the car parks were packed with semi-articulated lorries driven by barely articulate men, and where long-haul hookers ended up with their brains hammered in. In short, it was the kind of place I usually kept away from, which made it a perfect rendezvous from Kennedy's point of view.

When I arrived, he was already there. He took me through to a carvery-style cafeteria, where the meat looked as if it had died of natural causes and the vegetables had wilted into one brown mess under the heat lamps. I bought a Club biscuit and a cup of hot chocolate that tasted like someone had dropped dog chocolate into coal ash and stirred some skimmed milk into it. Kennedy had a fried egg sandwich. The smell was enough to buckle my lips and the look of the thing made me keep my eyes on the few other customers in the place, all of whom appeared to share Kennedy's tastes.

We found a table in the corner, well away from the windows. I could keep an eye on the door. Kennedy didn't seem that bothered. "So then, you've had a think about what I told you?"

The plan was to get the money. On that front, Kennedy and I were in complete agreement. They needed the money as evidence and I needed it to make my getaway, but the trouble was that while Kennedy was keen on me picking up my cut, he was equally keen that I shouldn't see penny one. Without the money, they had hearsay. With the money and a captive witness, they had Pollard.

"Yes."

"And?"

"I'll do it. I mean, I'll try to do whatever you want me to. But he's not going to give me the money, is he? He already told me as much."

"That's where you need to get creative, Graham."

"I've been creative."

"You've tried to save your own hide, yes. But now you need to turn that creativity to a better end, know what I mean?"

"No, quite frankly, I don't. I don't see why I have to do any of this."

"Because otherwise, kid, you'll go to prison."

"For what?"

"For your part in a six-figure casino robbery."

"Low six figures."

"But six nonetheless."

"And what would that get me?"

Kennedy bit into the egg sandwich. Yolk leaked out of either side. He chewed a few times then shrugged. "What do you care? Prison's prison, Graham."

"I can do prison."

He laughed, spraying me with egg and saliva. I covered my hot chocolate and grabbed a paper napkin and started cleaning.

"I'm sorry, Graham. I really am. Jesus."

"It's alright." It wasn't.

He pointed at me. "You've still got a sense of humour, I'm glad to see that. You're going to need it, kid. I'll tell you—"

"Don't."

"What's that?"

"Don't call me kid, alright?" I balled the napkin in one fist. "I'm thirty-two."

"Yeah. Well. Whatever." The smile disappeared as he wiped his mouth. "You need to beg the man for your cut."

"I've done that already. I've called him, I even went round his house. You saw yourself how well that worked out."

"Maybe you can go to the toilet before you brace him this time."

I ignored that. "He won't give it up unless he's sure the investigation is over. He's not waiting on me, he's waiting on you. The money's going nowhere until he thinks it's safe."

Another shrug. "That can be arranged."

"When?"

"You got somewhere you need to be, Graham?"

I sipped my hot chocolate as a defensive manoeuvre. Did he know about the ships? "No, not anymore. I just thought you'd want this over with as soon as possible. I know I do."

"Well, I can arrange that. We can close it down."

"How?"

"Your mate Stevie Laird."

"Thought you said he was dead."

"All the better. Means he can't appeal."

I laughed, but there wasn't any humour in it. "That's what I thought."

"Well, then, we'll use him. Same story you tried to use on us. He was the inside man, he got cocky or greedy or just plain daft and whoever robbed the place killed him and dumped his body in the canal. Professional hit kind of thing. Whoever it was, they're long gone by now. We have no leads, so we're shutting it down. Nobody cares enough outside the Met to push us."

"And then what?"

"Then you go and collect what's rightfully yours."

I stared at him and shook my head. "I can't do it."

"Course you can."

"I can't go in there and beg for money I'm not going to be able to spend."

"That's the way it goes, Graham."

"No."

"Then you're going to go to prison, mate. We've been through this."

"And if I do what you're asking, I'm still going to go to prison, aren't I? And what happens then? I pick up the cash, you lot are all over me, I assume you're going to arrest me, yes? So you drag me off to the station, put me in a cell, send me off to prison while you nail Pollard. And then what? Moment he's arrested, I'm a dead man walking."

"He won't get to you."

"Come on, of course he will. You know he will. Don't treat me like an idiot, alright? I know exactly what'll happen. I'll go to prison and one night I'll get a shiv or a chib or whatever it is you're supposed to call them – a knife – in my belly and that's me dead." I leaned forward. "So I've got to ask you, what's in this for me?"

He pushed out his lips and then chewed the remnants of something in his mouth. "I can't make deals, Graham. That's something you need to talk to your brief about."

"I don't have one. Yet. Give me an idea."

He shrugged, gestured at the mug of coffee in front of him without really seeing it. "I can try for you."

"What does that mean, try?"

"It means try."

"That's it? If I go to prison, I'm a dead man."

Kennedy scoffed. "That's just Pollard trying to put the wind up you."

"If you truly believe that, then you clearly don't know the man. I've seen him. He won't go to prison, not if he can kill or buy his way out of it. Do you honestly think he's not going to try his level best to destroy every last bit of evidence against him? And do you not think that he'd know that you got to me?"

"He can't know."

"Even if he doesn't, it's enough for him to suspect. He's not going to take chances, is he?"

"Alright."

"Do you understand that, Kennedy? Or are you that stubborn that you can't entertain the possibility that you just killed me?"

"Hey." One hand up. "Calm down."

I laughed at him. He hated it. Hated that he'd turned into a cliché for a second there. Calm down, calm down ...

He shifted in his seat. "Listen, Graham. Listen to me, alright? Personally speaking – and I'll be as honest as I can with you here – if you help us out and don't try anything stupid, then I'll make sure we treat you the best we can. I'm not going to promise you an amnesty or anything like that because it's not my promise to make. You probably wouldn't believe us if I made it anyway, would you?"

I shook my head.

"But if we get Pollard and we get him for a good long stretch – if you help us do that – then it'll look very good for you. Very good indeed. I mean, circumstances like that, I reckon our priority's going to be putting Pollard behind bars, I don't think we'll do much in the way of chasing you, if you know what I mean. First offence and all that, you might even get lost in the shuffle, end up with, what, a suspended, maybe. Something like that." He looked as if he were thinking about it a bit more. "Or even – listen to this – we could play on the fact that you were made to commit your crime under duress, yeah?"

"I was."

"Well, then. So you couldn't tell anyone about it. You were new at the casino, you didn't know who you could turn to, you had a history of nervous exhaustion—"

"No. Not that. I didn't have that."

"That's what I heard—"

"Then it's wrong." I stared at him. "I'm the best pit boss they've got."

"Still? You think so?"

I hadn't thought about that. All that thinking I'd been doing about this and it hadn't occurred to me that it didn't matter what kind of conviction I ended up getting, my career in the casino business was over. Not only would I be banned from Sovereign clubs, but I wouldn't be able to hold a gaming licence anymore. The rest of the clubs were no good. I couldn't even go on the ships.

It was over.

"And what if I don't cooperate?"

"If you don't?" Kennedy smiled. "If you don't, then we have nothing else to talk about, Graham."

"I would be safe then, though." I looked at Kennedy, stared right at him with eyes that stung and wanted to water. "If I went along with you, didn't say anything—"

"You already have."

"Nothing you can use. Not definitely, or else I'd be in custody right now and you'd be chasing Pollard without me. So you need me to get the money for you. You need proof."

"That's ideal, but it's not necessary."

"But it's ideal, yes. And you want ideal, because ideal keeps him in prison and necessary is easy to argue. You want your conviction. So what I'm saying is the sensible choice to make here is to get up and walk away and have you come after me. To keep my mouth shut, let you work for it for once. If you can't nail Pollard, there's no guarantee you'd be able to nail me. That would be the smart choice."

Kennedy thought it over, and started nodding slowly. "That would be the smart choice. That would be the man's choice. But then you're not much of a man, Graham, are you?"

I stared at him and sipped my hot chocolate, ate the rest of my biscuit. "No, I suppose not."

"So what are we talking about?"

I agreed to do everything he wanted me to do. And when we left he slapped me hard on the back and laughed as he returned to his car. The slap was too hard. It bruised me in one of the few places that wasn't already mottled and swollen. The laughter hurt more, though. It was a bully's laughter. I'd heard it too many times before.

The Manchester Met officially closed the Riverside robbery case on Friday 19th October 2012 and released a statement to the effect that they believed Stephen Laird was involved with the robbery at the Riverside, that they had good reason to believe he'd been involved with the robbers themselves, but with Mr Laird now dead, there was very little they could do but close the case for the time being. It was in the Evening News, all over the regional television, and it wasn't long before the burn phone bleated for my attention.

It was Jez. "Y'alright, mate?"

"What do you want?"

"Got a message from Mr Pollard, don't I, you lucky bastard?"

"And what's that?"

"He's said he's going to give you your cut."

"Really?"

"Yeah. No hard feelings, no grudges, nowt like that. Tell you something, if it was me you'd pulled that shit—"

"When?"

"Sunday." He gave me the address of a snooker club in Ordsall and told me to be there at seven sharp. "Alone."

"That shouldn't be a problem, Jez."

"I didn't think so. And hey, don't worry, mate. I won't let anyone touch you, alright? I know how you fuckin' hate that."

When I told Kennedy on Sunday afternoon, he laughed. He was messing around in a bag he'd brought with him. The contents clicked and clanked as he dug around inside. "A bloody good job too, considering you're going to be wired up the arse."

"You what?"

"What, you think I'm just going to let you walk in there without knowing what you're talking about?" Kennedy laughed again and opened the small metal case he'd brought out of the bag. "Come on, turn around."

I turned around and stared at the wall. Heath Ledger in full Joker make-up stared back. "You have nothing, nothing to threaten me with. Nothing to do with all your strength."

"What's that?"

"Nothing."

"Jesus, they kicked the shit out of you, didn't they?" He must've been looking at the bruises. Some of them had started to turn yellow.

He strapped the wire to me. It was small, lightweight, almost invisible. I barely felt it unless it nudged a bruise, and then it sent a small jolt of pain through my back. I wanted to tell Kennedy to move it up a bit, but then I didn't want to seem like a wimp, so I let it be.

He pulled down my shirt. "Now you know what you're going to do, right?"

I nodded.

"Let me hear you say it for the tape."

"Yes, I know what I'm going to do."

Detective Sergeant Hammond sat in front of a laptop, wearing headphones. He nodded. He had it.

"Good lad."

The idea was to do what I would've done anyway – walk in there with my head held high and take what was owed. It was simple. I didn't have to play any parts, didn't have to remember any lines, didn't even have to think about the police outside. They'd nab me the moment I left, which would then give them reasonable cause to kick down some doors. All I had to do was make sure Pollard said something about the robbery on tape, so they could identify him as the man giving me the money. Kennedy told me that they'd play on the fact that I was an idiot, and they'd been following me since they knew I was the inside man. So basically exactly what was happening, then, except I was supposed to be oblivious to half of CID trailing me like toilet paper stuck to my shoe.

I was the thick one. I was the idiot. I was the subnormal. I was the one who looked at myself in the mirror and cried because that was what fat little babies did when they didn't know what else to do. Like I said, I wasn't playing any parts. I just had to be myself.

Piece of cake.

28

I arrived ten minutes before the agreed time and sat in my Corsa. I could see another car parked up the road, one man in the driver's seat and another in the back. Up the other way, a large white Bedford was parked in the shadows. I wondered which one Kennedy was in. Over in the car, the driver appeared to be speaking to the man in the back. I wondered what they were saying – they didn't think I was important enough to make our communication two way – but I doubted it was flattering.

I cleared my throat and kept my voice low, my lips barely moving: "Just give me a minute, okay?"

I saw my eyes in the rear view mirror. They were pink with tears. I sniffed and wiped at them with the back of my hand. That wasn't me anymore. It couldn't be.

It was easy. A couple of minutes, a sustained clench of both bowels and bladder while I maintained low-level small talk, and then I'd be out of there.

And then?

No time for then. It was seven o'clock now.

I got out of the car and shut the door behind me. I crossed the street and stopped by the front door, hit a buzzer. It grated somewhere inside. I waited for acknowledgement, saw the small camera above my head.

A crackly voice asked me in a belligerent tone who I was.

"Graham Ellis." And then, because the owner of the voice appeared to be waiting for something more: "I'm here to see Mr Pollard."

A pause, then the buzzer grated again and there was the heavy click of the door as it unlocked. I pushed inside and went up a tight staircase that smelled of tobacco and rain and sported a carpet that hadn't been cleaned since Thatcher was in power. At the top of the stairs, there was another door that looked as if it belonged in a prison. Another buzzer sounded as I reached it, and I was allowed through into a small reception area. The snooker club was called The Rainbow Room, which conjured up images of corpulent businessmen sweating over skinny, strung-out strippers as they threw themselves around a skin-smeared metal pole. Thankfully that wasn't the case. In fact, from the smell in the reception and a brief glance at the main snooker hall through a chicken-wired glass pane, it looked like this place hadn't seen a woman in decades.

"What's your name again?" A small, lumpy man who looked like a partially shaved hedgehog sat behind the makeshift reception counter. He was chewing a match.

"Graham Ellis."

He sniffed and looked me over. He flicked the match to the other side of his mouth, then nodded at the wired door, which clicked open. This one had a nose for the police, and I realised why Kennedy had been so desperate to get me in here – he needed someone on the inside just as much as Pollard had.

Into the main hall, lit by bright hanging lights and padded with deep shadows around the walls, so I had no idea how big the room was, or how many men lurked in the dark. I saw four men and Pollard. I smelled sweat and beer and what I guessed could have been testosterone, but which could just as easily have been curry flatulence. Pollard smiled at me and waved me over. As I approached, I heard the place for what felt like the first time – the clack of balls against each other, the thump of them bouncing off the cushions, the low murmur of heavily-accented conversation, the oddly inflected, somewhat canine laughter that rattled from one corner of the room like a warning as my feet scuffed the worn nylon carpet. It was deafening, aggressive. It made me want to run. I wondered if Kennedy and the others could hear anything over it.

"Come on into the back, Graham. Get a bit of privacy." Pollard let his hand hover over my back as he ushered me towards a door. I moved away from him, just in case he decided to bring the hand closer. He chuckled and shook his head.

A part of me panicked when Pollard closed the door behind us, but only for a moment. The sound of the snooker hall cut short, and the sudden peace allowed me to breathe. The back room was small and hot, looked like someone had dumped a load of corporate furniture into a stock room and called it an office. On a large wooden desk against the far wall squatted a Tesco carrier bag. There was money inside it.

"Y'alright?"

I stared at the bag. "Yes."

"On you go."

I went over to the desk. I didn't know what I'd been expecting, but it wasn't a cheap plastic carrier. I flicked it further open with two fingers.

"It's not going to fuckin' bite, you know."

I peered inside. Banded twenties and tens. Easily spent. "How much is there?"

"Twenty."

I turned. "I thought we said—"

"I know what we said. That there's your net after I take away the cunt tax." He nodded at the bag. "If you'd kept your shit together, you'd have the lot."

I felt sweat on my neck. "That's not fair."

"Life's not fair."

"No, wait, come on—"

"Take it or leave it. Your choice."

I swallowed. Looked at the bag again. I picked it up and balled it to my chest. It rustled against the microphone.

"Good lad." Pollard grinned. He held out a hand. "Now I know you don't like shaking or nowt, but ..."

The thought of his rough skin in mine made something stick in my throat, but I had to do it. Guys like him needed justification more than oxygen. Pollard needed me to shake and tell him that it was okay, that all the pain and humiliation was forgotten and we could move on. He almost looked guilty and for a second there, I almost felt sorry for him.

But it was only a second.

I shook his hand. His skin was hard and his grip was harder.

He pumped my hand once and held on. "Sorry this wasn't smoother on you, Graham."

I nodded and gave him a tight smile, which tightened further as his fingers clenched. "That's okay."

He opened his eyes wide to show how sincere he was. "I'm serious. I mean, I'm not going to lie to you – you deserved a fuckin' slap for coming round unannounced an' that – but you took it a lot worse than I thought you would."

"No hard feelings." I tried to remove my hand.

He held on. The flinch made the carrier bag rustle. His gaze flickered to my chest, then back to my face. "You sure?"

He knew. Or maybe he was just suspicious and thought he'd test me. Or maybe he had someone on the inside – and wouldn't that be a turn-up if he had a mole in the Met, eh?

I looked him right in the eye. "Yes, I'm sure. No hard feelings"

"You wouldn't do anything daft, would you, son?"

It was more a statement than a question, but I answered it anyway. "No, sir."

He laughed and released my hand. He slapped me on the shoulder. It hurt immediately and wouldn't stop hurting for a while after. "You're a good lad, Graham. Don't let anyone tell you any different."

"Thank you."

Pollard stepped out of my way and I walked out. When I emerged, all heads turned. My hands tensed around the bag. They weren't going to rob me, but they knew what I was carrying, and my lizard brain screamed for me to run as fast as I could.

"You're alright." Pollard was laughing at me, apparently amused at my discomfort the way men like him always were. "On you go, son."

And so on I went. Across the room, out through the wired door and past the reception, where I stopped and leaned against the wall.

I couldn't catch my breath. My chest hurt. I felt like sitting down. Something had thrown a tremble into my legs. I heard a wet clicking sound and when I looked over my shoulder, I saw the fat man on reception laughing at me. "What's the matter, flower?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

I turned back and saw the dim green glow of the fire exit sign. I put one hand on the bar and leaned as I straightened. It dipped under my weight and clicked.

Wait.

I looked back at the stairs that would take me out into the waiting cuffs of Kennedy and his crew. They'd take the money off me – my money – and they'd duck me into the back of one of their cars and take me down the station while the rest of them raided the place. It didn't matter what Kennedy did then, I'd be caught, broke and dead.

The fat man leaned over the reception counter. "Here, mate, you want to go down the fuckin' stairs if you're leaving. That's a fire exit. That's for emergencies only."

I scratched my right palm until it bled, then wiped my fingernails on my trousers. If I walked out of that front door, it was suicide.

So for all intents and purposes, this was an emergency.

I shouldered the fire exit and rushed out the back. Clanging down wrought iron steps and into a concrete back yard, the bag held close to my chest, rustling against the microphone. I ran to the gate, felt for the deadbolts and wrenched them to one side – top, middle and bottom – my hands cold and scraped by the time I threw the door open and ran out into the lane.

Nobody out here, and my breath misted in front of my face, I reached under the bag and wrenched the wire from my chest, taking a few errant hairs along with it. I pulled it out of my shirt like a bad magic trick and tossed it and the power pack onto the street. As it clattered across the concrete, I heard shouts from round the front, heard footsteps running and decided to add to them by sprinting off down the lane. I was out of shape – it felt as if I was merely waddling at speed – the carrier bag clutched to my chest like a baby. I skipped out onto the road and then across it, glancing both ways for traffic and police, and then ducking into the safe shadows of another back lane. If I could keep to the alleys, I'd be alright.

It didn't matter where I ended up. I had enough money to catch a cab and enough time to get to the station.

I stopped to catch my breath, felt in my jacket pocket. The ticket was still there, nestled against my passport and ship documents. I leaned against the wall and stared up at the sky, waiting for the sound of my breath and heart in my ears to subside. There was a mist of rain in the air, a cool tease that made me thinking I was sweating worse than I was.

I let it settle on me as I listened to the ambient sound come rushing back.

There were shouts. I heard the staccato doo-weep of sirens, but they were far away. I looked into the carrier and took out a bundle of tenners and stuffed it into my empty inside pocket.

It would look like sudden flight. It would look like the kind of thing a child would do – "I don't want to be here, so I'm just going to run and I don't know where as long as it's far away from here" – and not the kind of thing that I'd prepared in advance. Truth of it was, I hadn't known I was going to run until I did. It could so easily have gone the other way, and they just would have found my ticket and travel documents on me when they cuffed me. Then I would have said they were there to make Pollard think I was leaving right away, that if I wasn't arrested in front of him, he'd spend some time looking for me on the ships. But it wasn't needed. He hadn't searched me. He'd trusted me. More fool him.

And more fool them for not searching me before I went in there.

I needed to get moving. Kennedy and his pals would have gone in for Pollard. They probably had enough on tape to warrant a broken door, and they probably wouldn't let a doughy prat like me ruin their day. I was small fry.

So they'd be busy with Pollard for the time being, but I still needed to move quickly. If they thought I was running scared, then they'd expect me back at my flat sooner or later. Then when I didn't turn up, they'd start looking properly. Because even if they had Pollard, they wouldn't have the money and they wouldn't have their grass.

After another twenty minutes of on-off limp-running, I found myself in familiar surroundings when I saw the Lowry. I jogged to the Holiday Inn Express and hailed the first cab I saw.

I ducked into the back. "Manchester Piccadilly please, mate."

"You catching a train?"

I checked my watch. "Nine o'clock, yeah."

"No bother."

I sat back in the seat and breathed out, found myself smiling. It was nice to hear someone so optimistic about my chances for once.

29

The train pulled into London Euston at a hair past midnight. My ticket told me to change trains and continue on to Southampton, but my instinct told me otherwise. I jumped off and strode along the platform, heading for the exit, the carrier bag full of money wrapped and bundled under one arm. It was difficult to move quickly now. All that running had brought out the old limp, and the long train journey had stiffened me up.

It didn't matter. London was one of those places where it didn't matter how dirty and broken and battered you looked; you would always fitted in somewhere. And that was the plan, to break off and disappear into the heaving mass of a capital city for the night. Because if I went to Southampton, I would have to find a hotel, and Southampton wasn't the kind of place you could find a hotel in the wee small hours with nothing more than the clothes you stood in and a carrier containing twenty grand in cash. At least, it wasn't the kind of place where that wouldn't be noteworthy. So I needed somewhere to lie low, somewhere to disappear, somewhere that wouldn't remember me.

I found a hotel that was still open and not so cheap that I thought I'd be robbed, raped or ritually murdered if I checked in, and I paid in cash for one night. The receptionist – which was a nice name for the bag of elderly bones wrapped in denim that sat behind glass near the entrance – slid my key under the partition and extended one nicotine-stained finger towards the stairs.

I went up to my room, made sure the door was double-locked and then sat on the bed. I was exhausted, but I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. My brain wouldn't shut up; it kept running through different variables, extrapolating what could happen to me – I would get away, I would be caught, I would be allowed on the ship, they would chuck me off – riffling through what-ifs like a deck of cards.

Enough.

I needed to calm down. I needed to sleep. I needed some help to do both.

I pushed off from the bed, turned on the light, and then crouched in front of the minibar. There were a couple of small cans of Coke, some nuts, a couple of bars of chocolate. The caffeine wouldn't do me any good, but my gut demanded food, so I took the cashews and emptied the bag into my mouth as I continued my inspection. I wished I'd brought my laptop with me, or I'd bought one from somewhere – that way I could've smothered my mind with Solitaire. But it was no good. The only tools I had at my disposal were the minibar and a television with a channel listing that barely scraped double figures. I had to make do.

So for the first time in over a decade, I poured myself a drink – a small bottle of Bacardi in the bathroom glass – and sipped it as I watched a repeat of Strictly Come Dancing. It was a tough drink, and a gaudy watch. The rum made me grimace with every sip until my throat burned cold and my tongue became numb. When I finished the rum, I moved on to the vodka, then the small bottle of chilled white wine before finishing off with a nip of whisky that put my back to the bedspread and my gaze to the ceiling.

I breathed heavily through my nose and mouth at the same time. The ceiling swam and my sinuses felt full. I snorted back and swallowed. My bruises, the aches and pains of the past few weeks, were momentarily dulled and half-forgotten. I smiled. I'd had time to think about why I'd got away so easily. I wasn't so arrogant that I believed it was all down to my lightning-fast reflexes and cunning escape skills. No, what had happened was that Kennedy – that pig Kennedy – had underestimated me. He'd thought old Graham Ellis here was a coward. Thought I was easily intimidated and that I'd do what I was told like a good little boy and then come trotting back to him for my pat on the end and knife in the back. That there were two kinds of people in this world – the strong and the weak – and it was only nature that the weak should have to cower beneath the strong's boot. He'd been treating me like a school bully because that's what he was. Just another barrel-chested new pubescent, ripped through with hyperactive hormones and repressed homosexuality. Why else would he spend so much time tanning and working out? He was a narcissist. He loved the sight of his own body, which meant he appreciated the sight of other men's bodies. Which meant he was a closet case, and those people, they were all kinds of messed up. The combination of rage and abnormal sexuality made them dangerous. Kennedy was a mess. And he thought he was better than me. Thought he was stronger than me.

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.

Not that anyone ever looked down in here. People kept their eyes on the prize, caught up in the heavy machinery of a casino working at full pelt – the clattering waves of chips as they spun down the chute, the whirl of the white roulette ball before it stumbled into a number and, under it all, that subsonic grinding noise of a hundred bad beat punters hitting dead numbers and awkward cards.

"Start finishing off now ..."

Over on the roulettes, time existed in snatches of inspiration, from the moment the ball hit the wheel to the moment it skittered into a numbered gutter. On the blackjacks, men with cheap suits doubled on nine showing because tonight was their night. At first glance, it was like being in your own personal Bond movie, but the second glance showed the tobacco stains on Bond's fingers, and the dots of piss on his inside leg. You didn't tend to take a third glance.

"No more bets ..."

But there were always errant hands on the layout, fingers splayed and trembling over a hindsight winner.

"That's all, no more now. No more. Thank you."

By midnight, I was up at the bar, a warm pint of Stella in front of me and a low, thumping ache behind the eyes. The beer didn't help my thirst or my finances, but it was better than bumping chips with the animals on the floor. Should've known better than to come out on a Sunday. It might've been the last gasp for the white punters, but it was the start of the Chinese weekend, and they'd come out in force. Place was jammed, would be until last orders, so I reckoned I'd hang back for a while and watch the place heave.

Beale had given up trying to haul his bulk through the crush at the roulettes. Now he was over at the Caribbean Stud, picking the dandruff out of his moustache and trying to ignore the over-excited and long-limbed Chinese lads who had him boxed in. The lads looked like they were having a ball. They talked across Beale and, when he hunched over the table, behind his back. When they won, they slapped the layout and laughed like donkeys, threw loud high fives that clapped the air at Beale's scalp. Meanwhile, he sat there glowering at his cards. He had his bad drinker face on, eyes like a couple of dogs' arseholes. He hadn't seen a card all night.

He said something. The Chinese lad to his left stopped gabbing for a second and held up a hand. Beale went back to his cards.

I turned to AR Four, which had been doing its spuds all night thanks to the man sat sweating at the end of the table. He was two-belts fat and he had a habit of pushing his long grey hair back until it was slick to his head. When the dealer spun up, the fat man's eyes went from ball to layout and he became a child deep in thought, the tip of his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. Deliberating, digesting and cogitating, just like they used to do on Masterchef.

Over the course of the last few hours, he'd hammered the table, hit straights and splits with the kind of unerring regularity that brought a crowd. He barely noticed them, and it wasn't like they had gathered to play – the table had just gone up to a pony minimum and most of those gathered had been getting slowly violated all night. But you could still see them edging closer, trying to suck up that errant luck by proxy. Because for a lot of punters, it was all down to luck, or the gods, or whatever it was they prayed to as they flipped chips in their hand.

From what I saw, luck didn't have anything to do with it. The house had changed dealers twice in the last hour, bumped up the experience on the wheel to a junior inspector, but it didn't matter because every dealer they'd put on that table so far had spun to sections like it was their first day. All this fat bloke had to do was watch the section, and call it before the ball landed. And he did it again, calling a Tiers by eighteen – a pony on each split and number – as the ball danced its way into a number.

Thirteen black. Direct hit. A cheer went up.

I looked across at the pit desk. Graham Ellis was on duty tonight. He had a moon face that was even paler tonight, thanks to his undertaker's suit. He was arguing with one of the dealers, a chubby little blonde who dealt the same way she probably fucked – plenty of enthusiasm, but no real talent – and he'd just managed to get her onto a table with a broken chipper when one of the slots went berserk, whooping out a hefty drop. A prehistoric Chinese lady was frozen to her stool, transfixed by the flashing win-win-win lights. All those mindless hours feeding the machine – the nudge, stay, nudge-nudge, peering at the wheels, wishing your eyes could read round corners – had finally paid off. When the machine started hacking out pound coins, she sprang into motion. She dropped from her stool, grabbed a plastic bucket and started shovelling coins with her claw hands, trying to get as much into the bucket as possible before Ellis reached her. Because even when you won, you were made to feel like you were robbing the place blind.

Ellis stumbled on the steps as he raced to the slots. He looked behind him and gestured to a line of dealers coming back off their break. Pointed at one of the senior inspectors to get on AR Four. By the time he reached the dropped machine, the Chinese lady was halfway to the cash desk with a bucket in each hand. He squatted and fumbled with the hatch keys.

I couldn't resist. I picked up my pint and went over to the rail.

"Y'alright?"

He twisted the key so hard it caught the inside of his hand. The whooping stopped with a chirp. "I'm fine."

"Doing your dough on AR Four."

"Really? Hadn't noticed." He blew on his hand and straightened up.

"Don't worry, Graham. I'll keep an eye out for you."

"You want to be looking out for your mate."

"Oh yeah? What's the matter with him? He's not winning, is he?"

Ellis laughed. "Only thing he's cleaned out is the bar."

"And?"

"And I know how he gets when he's drunk." He looked behind him at the stud table. "Especially when he gets that face on."

I took a drink. "He'll be good as gold, I promise."

"I'll hold you to that." He pointed at me. "Got enough going on tonight without him acting up."

Another cheer from the roulette table. Ellis' mouth turned into a paper cut.

"Looks like you're needed elsewhere. I'll let you get back to it, eh?"

Ellis scurried back to the pit. Scared to death the place was coming down around him, taking his cushy job and clothing allowance with it. Run, Forrest, run.

Mind you, he had a point. A tipsy Beale was difficult enough, but throw in broke and you had a misunderstanding just waiting to happen. It didn't help that he reckoned himself a proper Herbert O'Yardley. It also didn't help that he was stuck at the Caribbean Stud, a game that resembled poker the way a fart resembled a weapon of mass destruction. Throw in the heat of three hundred bodies and the way those Chinese lads were looking to bait Beale, and it was no wonder his piss was coming to the boil.

"You want to keep your hands to yourself?"

I finished off my pint and started back towards the pit. The Chinese lad who'd just knocked Beale shook his head and grinned at his mates. Probably thought there was safety in numbers, but numbers didn't really figure into Beale's thinking once his eyes turned black. Not much did. He'd gone for other punters, dealers, inspectors, even a pit boss over at the Union, and he was skimming thin ice in most of the clubs in Manchester. The only reason he hadn't broken through was the amount of money he dropped on a regular basis. Also, as much as he'd gone for staff, the fixtures and fittings had remained intact, and that was really all the house cared about.

Squeezing through the crowd, I heard laughter at the poker table. Beale's voice was quick to trample all over it.

"The fuck you laughing at?"

The Chinese lad shook his head. "Nowt."

"Nowt?"

"Honestly."

"Think it's fuckin' funny, you nudged us. See if you think it's fuckin' funny when I nudge you back, son."

"Sorry."

"Sorry. We'll see about that."

The dealer flipped out the cards. I got caught behind an old couple playing the evens on AR Two. Dawdling between red and black. Hemmed and hawed their way through two spins before I shoved them out of the way.

Beale's voice, jumping in volume: "English only when the cards are out."

"What's that?"

"You know the rules. Cards are out, you talk English, not fuckin' Chinkinese."

Beale's first strike was always racial. It was a cheap way to get to people and, true to form, the lad's mates weren't laughing now. They didn't know what to do. They should've ignored it. After a while, it just became a kind of static that ran through his conversations.

The danger was acknowledging he'd got to you. Because that was when he pressed it.

Beale leaned in to the dealer. "That's right, isn't it? English only when the cards are out? I didn't fuckin' dream that, did I? I mean, how do I know this lot aren't cheating?"

The dealer didn't say anything. He kept his head down and smiled. The inspector's back was turned, but he wasn't watching the blackjack table on the other side.

"Who you calling a cheat?" said the lad.

Beale smiled with half his face and stared at his cards.

The lad poked Beale in the arm. "I asked you a question."

Beale's smile disappeared. He pushed his ante. Another shitty hand.

"Here," said the lad, "I said—"

Beale's fist flew up and over the lad's finger. He jammed it back with a crack that stopped conversation. The lad's mouth fell open, his eyes wide. Beale swivelled and planted his other hand hard into the middle of the lad's chest, slamming him off his stool. He discarded the lad's broken finger, slipped from his stool and brought the heel of his shoe down twice before anyone had a chance to react. There were muffled groans, the wet thump of heel against cheek, then the place erupted. The dealer lurched back from the table and the inspector reached for the float cover. The other punters snatched up their chips. Stools hit the floor. A brief glance back at Ellis and he was frozen to the spot, struck dumb with horror. The lad's mates swooped towards Beale, but he was already up and ready to windmill whoever stood in his way. I ran ahead, got to Beale just as a circle of carpet opened up around him.

"Les," I shouted, "leave it."

The lad's mate saw me now. One of them made a grab for my arm. I threw a sharp elbow at his head, grabbed Beale's arm and pulled. I was skinny and frightened compared to him, and they all knew it. But I had booze in my system, running wild with adrenalin, and I hauled Beale out of there.

Then a voice rose above it all. Everything stopped. Ellis was shouting something.

The whole place had paused like a cheap video, that barely perceptible tremor running through the crowd. Somewhere in the background, I thought I could hear The Walker Brothers.

Beale was the first one to move. He straightened up out of my grip, pulled off his tie and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He was red, sweaty, and borderline manic. "So what is it, Graham? Am I suspended again?"

The Chinese lad coughed from somewhere behind the poker table. I couldn't see him, but there was enough blood on the carpet to tell me he was in a bad way.

Ellis bristled. "Mr Beale—"

"Ah, get fucked. Place is a shithole anyway. Look, there's stains all over the carpet. It's fuckin' disgusting." He slapped me on the shoulder and we moved towards the exit. Then he stopped at a blackjack table. He looked at the shuffling machine and shook his head. He leaned in to the dealer. "Used to be, that was your job. Used to be, all this was about skill."

"Come on, Les."

Beale lunged for the machine. The dealer stepped back, hands up. I grabbed Beale's collar and yanked him back from the table. Cash chips rained to the floor. Beale held onto the shuffling machine, the cord taut.

"Let go," I said.

"Get off us."

"Just put it back."

"No."

"C'mon, I'll buy you a drink."

He stared at the dealer for a long time, then he let the machine drop. It bounced off the table and then over the side, swinging from its cord like a hanged man.

"Fuck this place."

I agreed. And ushered him outside where we could find somewhere to lie low and drink the rest of the night into oblivion.

2

"You know what it is, Ellis needs to understand something. I'm a man, I'm not going to take that kind of abuse, right?"

"Right."

"I'm a man."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm a man, and he's a fuckin' prick."

"Well said."

"I remember when he was a fish in a dicky, couldn't pay a split without moving his lips. And what now, because he's got a pit sheet and a clothing allowance, he's better than me? Officious little bastard. He's lucky, right, he's lucky I didn't knock him out."

"Exactly."

Beale was decompressing, smothering his adrenalin high with Red Stripe and piss-whisky. My job was simple: agree in as few words as possible and sound like I was listening. He just needed to feel he was right. The Press was the perfect place to do it. There wasn't a single person in here, staff or drunk, who wasn't rationalising their behaviour right now. Time was, this place was open late to serve the newspaper and theatre people and it used to have a bit of style about it. At least, that was the story. All the years I'd been coming, the most stylish thing about the place was the strip of tinsel hanging over the makeshift stage in the corner of the room. As for the clientele, they were mostly casino staff and twenty-four-seven alcoholics, sometimes both.

Dead Eddie was one of them. As Beale droned on, I watched Eddie up at his side of the bar talking to his hand. Once upon a time, Eddie was a cashier down The Arches, and was eyes-deep in an amphetamine habit that had him working doubles six out of seven most weeks. There was no way a bloke could keep up that kind of work, wired or not, and so it was only a matter of time before a winner's cheque went missing and Eddie found himself out on his arse. Far as I knew, he wasn't on the uppers anymore, but he still ran through those conversations with his hand in the role of the GM until he passed out.

"And as for that fuckin' Chink, he had it coming." Beale sniffed, took a drink from his can. "Fuckin' brat. Thinks, what, because his dad owns a couple of all-you-can-eats he's well up there?" His lips buckled with a belch. "Fuckin' Triads, man, the lot of them."

There was a flurry of activity over by the stairs. A new load of drinkers just off from work. Some of them were wearing civvies, others blue shirts under their jackets. From the looks of them, they were casino staff. I took a drink, then another. I didn't want to be in here with Beale if Ellis walked in. To be fair, it wasn't likely but knowing my luck, this would be the one night he decided to have a swift half before heading home.

I watched the dealers head to the bar. The woman behind it didn't crack a smile. She'd been on shift too bloody long to give a shit about banter. Beale was peering at the dealers. I could hear his brain whirr into action, choking at the start, then slowly building up steam as he scanned faces. Then he yelled so loud I flinched.

"Stevie! Oi, Stevie!"

A skinny ginger guy in a blue shirt turned, saw Beale and his face went to stone.

"C'mon, get your arse over here, I want to talk to you about something."

Beale was drawing attention to himself. Even Dead Eddie had stopped flapping his fingers long enough to glance our way. Stevie made mute excuses and shuffled over, can in hand.

Beale grinned, but his eyes were dead. "How you doing, Stevie? Been a while there, son."

"Fuck d'you think you're doing?"

He was a Scot. Maybe Glaswegian. But then, my brain was so fried, he could've been from Pontypridd and I wouldn't have known the difference.

Beale played hurt. "That's nice, isn't it?"

"Trying to get us shot?"

"Fuck off with your whinging, you sweaty bastard, and come and have a drink."

Stevie looked behind him, then dragged a chair over. "I'm not joking, man. See if my gaffer was in here?"

"If your gaffer was in here, he'd be fraternising an' all. Besides, you still at the Riverside or what?"

Stevie nodded and popped his can.

"So who gives a fuck about that job? Fuckin' shithole, that place. You want to get yourself on the ships, mate."

"What did you want to talk to us about?"

Beale smiled at him. "Wednesday."

Stevie looked my way, then back at Beale. I downed the rest of my Grouse and got up. I had to press my fingers to the table to stop the sway. I nodded at Beale. "I'm going to the bar."

"Good lad. Same again," said Beale.

I set off, my legs loose. On my right, the rest of the dealers were clustered around a couple of tables, doing impressions of punters and telling the same old war stories they'd told a million times before. Behind me, Beale and Stevie were almost flat to the table as they discussed whatever it was that was so bloody secret. I headed for the opposite end of the bar to Eddie. The man was an island of insanity, surrounded by plenty of personal space. I shifted up a little further away from him, hooked my foot on the rail and felt around in my wallet for whatever notes I had left. One of the drawbacks of the twenty-four hour licence apart from the ambience was the reaming you got on every round. Bastards were charging a fiver a can and more on the whisky unless its name was the same as the supermarket they'd bought it from.

The barmaid, and calling her that was me being nice, approached on thunder thighs. I ordered the same again and thought about going outside for a smoke. Mind you, that would involve dropping off the drinks, getting past the bouncers, down the two flights, out the door and having a smoke, and then back up again, and if I was honest with myself, I genuinely couldn't be arsed. I could hold on until we left.

I took the drinks back to the table. Beale and Stevie stopped talking as I sat down.

Beale reached across and cracked his can. "What you doing Wednesday night, Alan?"

Stevie pulled a face. "What did I just fuckin' say to you, Les?"

Beale laughed. "Ooh, secrets. Where I go, Alan goes."

"You don't need muscle—"

"He's hardly fuckin' muscle."

"Speak for yourself, you fat bastard."

"It's a question of trust. So if you're not gonna trust us—"

"It's not like that."

"Looks like that."

"You're laying on the drink, aren't you?"

"Aye."

"So," said Beale, a pious look on his face, "I'm hardly going to drink and drive, am I?"

"Fuck off."

"No way I'm leaving my car in Miles Platting, Stevie. Not happening."

"You'll have no bother, I already told you."

"Yeah, you said—"

"They only go for good motors."

"Get a cab."

"C'mon, Alan, you're supposed to be helping."

"Alright, look." Stevie reached for his can. "You want to bring your boyfriend along, that's fine, but he's not in the game."

"Okay," said Beale.

"I mean, nowhere near the fuckin' game. He can watch movies with The Waste."

"Alright." Beale looked at me. "You like movies, don't you?"

"What's The Waste?"

"Okay then." Stevie whirled the last of his Carling and then downed it. He crumpled the can and left it on the table. "I've got to get back. People'll wonder why I'm stuck talking to you two."

"Tell ‘em you're on the game."

Stevie stood, pretended to belly laugh, then turned on his heel. I watched him fall back in with his mates and reached for my whisky. I let it burn for a short while on my tongue before I swallowed it back.

"You're never buying in to dealer tables, are you, Les?"

Beale didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Fact was, he'd been trying to insinuate himself into a croup game for ages, but it'd been tricky. Dealers were skittish. Most of them were just as compulsive as their punters, but they rarely took a chance on fraternisation, because getting caught there meant an immediate boot, and if there was one thing these lads weren't suited to, it was the nine-to-five. On top of that, Beale had a rep as bloke who broke faces when he lost, and nobody liked a bad loser.

He tried to stay cool, but it didn't quite take. "It's a start."

Which was why he needed me there, to make sure he stayed on his best behaviour. Wasn't just that I was a cabbie and a cheerleader, now I had to be a fucking wet nurse into the bargain. But then, after the other night, wasn't that just a perfect measure of our friendship? He got shit everywhere, and I was the one with the lemon-scented wipe.

"Well, I can't help you. I've got something else on."

"Lying bastard."

"True. I promised to take the missus out Wednesday."

"By missus, you mean that student, right? And by take out—"

"I'm not coming."

Beale smiled. "It'll be alright. I won't say anything to your missus. And it'll be late on. You can go and fuck your teenager and then take us over the Riverside for the comp."

"No."

"No?" He leaned forward. "You serious? I get a seat at a croup game and you're going to blow it out because you want to get your end away?"

"I already told you—"

"I know what you fuckin' told us. And I know what the truth is. So why don't you just be the fuckin' white man and do us this favour, eh? I never ask you nowt, man. This is an opportunity."

"For you to get skinned by a bunch of dealers."

"Fuck off, you know us better than that. I get a decent run, I'm fuckin' unstoppable. And think about it, how good is it going to be when I take those bastards for everything they've got, eh?"

I thought about it. And I thought that even if Beale had the choice, taking them for everything they had was a bloody good way not to be invited back. But I didn't say anything, because it wouldn't matter if I did. Beale had made his decision, and that decision had been made on my behalf, too. So I'd call Lucy and I'd rain check Wednesday and we'd have to make up for it some other time.

Which we would. Because as of now, Beale owed me.

###

copyright 2004, 2011 Ray Banks

Amazon UK | Amazon US

Books by Ray Banks

Novels

Dead Money

Wolf Tickets

Matador

Inside Straight

The Cal Innes Quartet

Saturday's Child

Donkey Punch

No More Heroes

Beast of Burden

Novellas

Gun

California

Short Story Collections

Dirty Work: The Collected Cal Innes Stories

Wrong 'Em, Boyo

Don't Miss Out

To be sure you don't miss any forthcoming Ray Banks titles, please take a moment to sign up to Blasted Heath's Ray Banks new releases list, and we'll let you know the moment any new titles are available.