Dead Money (15 page)

"The story is that you're reckless," said Stevie. "You can handle that, can't you?"

Beale thought he could.

Once they'd made a point of establishing a high-stakes game, about halfway through the night, Beale was supposed to suggest that they ditch this poofy pot limit bollocks and play like men. By that time, the idea was that Ahmad would be sitting on a pile of their money, and the prospect of no-limit would prove to be too tempting.

Except, and this was the big thing, that was when Beale started losing. He looked across at Stevie, but got nothing back. Stevie was doing well for himself. So was Dougie. So was Phil. In fact, the only bloke sat round the table who was getting thoroughly bled was Les Beale. It was then that Beale started to suspect something wasn't right.

By that time it was too late, though. He was already balls-deep in a bad beat. So he used what he thought were people's tells and played like a mark – he over-raised, bluffed when it was impossible to win on one, stacked up and pushed in with the needle. On the rare occasion he won a hand, he went on tilt and got a smack for it.

It all mounted up. Soon Beale was on markers from Ahmad. The scally noted it all down in a little black book.

He should've ditched the game the second he suspected it wasn't angled in his favour. And he definitely should've walked when the book came out, because that was a siren that blared dead money. It was the dangerous difference between doing your dough and getting in schtuck. But Beale couldn't walk away. They'd arranged the game in his house for a reason. So it didn't end for a while longer yet, and when it did Beale was cleaned out and had markers to the tune of fourteen grand.

And so, there he was. Now the blinkers were off, the hindsight was crystal-clear. He didn't have fourteen grand. Henderson was looking to boot him, and there hadn't been any sales for a good while. So he owed money he couldn't pay to a stranger who knew where he lived.

"Should've seen that scally that was with him," he told me. "Scrawny little Paki bastard. Stiff breeze, know what I mean, but his eyes were fuckin' black."

Stevie stayed on after the rest of them left. Beale kept him in drink and didn't let on that he knew, played it off as another in a long line of bad nights. Once he was positive he had Stevie to himself, he cornered him and demanded to know what the fuck had just happened. Stevie, cocky little bastard, thought he could blag his way through it. Sometimes it just didn't go right. That was poker. If you could control it, it wouldn't be a gamble, would it?

To which Beale reminded him that tonight wasn't
supposed
to be a gamble.

"Well then, it wasn't, was it?"

And that was when Beale realised that he'd always been the mark. Three seconds after that realisation, he went for Stevie. The result, I already knew.

"I don't know what happened to me, Alan. I don't remember. I must've just lost the plot. Which is, y'know, fuckin'
understandable
, isn't it?"

I didn't say anything. If he was after validation, he wasn't going to get it from me. I wanted to knock his teeth out. In some alternate universe, Stevie had been beaten up but was still walking. In this one, he was in the canal. Thanks to me.

No, thanks to Beale. He was the one who'd dragged me into this. He was the one who deserved to go down for it. I was innocent.

I
was
innocent.

My stomach growled painfully. That gnawing ache was back.

Beale stared out at the road, shaking his head. His face was ruddy and muddy and bloody, and there was the stench of canal and death in the car, despite the open windows. I wanted him out of the car, and everything he brought me along with it. If I'd had my way, I would've left him with Stevie.

But no, I drove him home, and when he was home I helped with the cleaning. Because I was a decent bloke. And because he would screw it up. And if he screwed it up it was both our arses. So I scrubbed away, cursing Beale's ex for buying wall-to-wall cream carpets.

There was a foolproof way to get blood out of a carpet. You were supposed to use vinegar or white wine, or white wine vinegar, or red wine and turps. I didn't know exactly. Beale didn't have wine in the house anyway, so we had to make do with warm water and bleach. It didn't really work.

Outside, light cracked the sky. Sunday morning, so at least I didn't have to go to work. Thank God for the small mercies. I sat back and looked down at my clothes. Stinking of sweat, crusted with blood, frayed and soaked with diluted Domestos. In short, ruined again. The booze had worn off and my head had started to pulse with the onset of a creeping hangover. I felt my teeth with my tongue. One of my fillings was loose.

"I'm sorry, Alan."

I opened the slits that used to be my eyes and looked down at my fingers. They were red and cracked. I breathed out, the fumes in here making me woozy.

"I mean it. Thanks for tonight. I don't know what I would've done without you. You're a good mate."

When I laughed, it hurt my nose. I struggled to concrete feet and walked the cocktail cabinet over most of the stain. I stood back and looked at it from a distance. Not immediately noticeable, and that was good enough.

"I'm going. Should be alright for now."

"Okay." Beale held out one hand to shake.

I looked down at it, tried not to laugh again because it hurt too much. So this was a handshake deal, was it? His hand trembled as if it was a strain to hold it out, showing fingernails dirty and bitten to the quick, the knuckles still raw from their contact with Stevie and me.

He always knew I'd be there for him. I was such a good mate, I was the bloke he could count on, the only bloke he could trust when he'd beaten a bloke to death.

Or
nearly
to death. So I was the bloke he could trust to finish the job.

I didn't touch him. The thought of it made me want to spew.

"I owe you one, Alan."

He made a move to slap my shoulder, but I was already out of range and heading for the door.

"No, Les," I said, my voice hoarse. "You don't owe me a fucking thing."

16

As soon as I got in, I stripped in the bathroom and stood under the shower until my skin roared. I towelled off gingerly and avoided my reflection. Then I nipped through to the kitchen and binbagged my clothes, dropped them back next to the rest of the rubbish.

When I came back out into the hall, Buttons was sat in my way, staring at me.

I stared right back. Normally he'd yap at me, might even curl a lip if he was feeling nails and growl-yip until Cath woke up. Not now, though. Now he sat as if he was about to take a shit, his back legs moving against the laminate, ready to bolt the second I came too close. He knew. It was irrational to think it, but I swear to God he knew everything.

Good. You're next, Buttons. Mark my words.

I got into bed beside Cath and she moved a little further over. I moved into the space she left. It was warm. It smelled nice. And so I wasn't awake for long.

When I woke, it was to afternoon sunshine, a coffee and my wife's smile. I struggled upright and took the mug from her. I wanted water, but this would do. "Time is it?"

"Just after two."

"You let me sleep in."

"You didn't get home till late, I thought you'd want to." She stood and went to the door. "Can I ask?"

"Beale. I had to help him out with something."

She gestured at her eyes. "He help you out with the shiners?"

I tried to smile. I'd forgotten about them. "Coming up, are they?"

"Couple of beauties."

I felt my nose. It was still tender. "Yeah, well, there was a disagreement. It won't happen again."

"Okay."

"I mean it this time."

She cocked her head, trying to work out if I was serious. "You want anything to eat?"

"No, I need to get on."

"It's Sunday, Alan."

"I know. I need to clean the car."

She frowned.

"The dog? Don't tell me you didn't smell it the other night."

She smiled. "I didn't want to say anything."

"Special night out, I know." I put the coffee to one side. "Listen, about that. I'm sorry you had to go through my pockets."

"I don't want to get into it."

"No, you had reason to. I was thinking about it, and I can understand why you'd be suspicious. So what I'm saying is, I get it and I'm sorry I upset you. I know we've not exactly been seeing eye to eye lately and, if I'm honest, I think that's been mostly down to me. I've not been around, and when I have, I've not exactly acted like I wanted to be here." I looked up; she was listening to every word. "So I'm going to try harder, I promise. You deserve better."

There was silence in the room as I waited for her to say something. She looked as if she didn't quite know what to say, and I wondered for a moment if it was too late for reconciliation, if I was truly up the creek on this one.

See, she knew I got in late. That was bad enough. I had to tell her I was with Beale, otherwise she'd get even more suspicious than she already was. And she had to believe I was with Beale, otherwise I wouldn't have her on side. But if Beale got caught, and she knew I was with him, then that was me in the shit. And I very much needed her on my side in case this all went pear-shaped.

"Alright." She put a hand on the door. "You sure you don't want anything?"

"No, thanks." I didn't dare risk it. The vodka still had squatter's rights in my gut, and the thought of food made it angry. Besides, I still had the car to clean, and that would take an empty stomach, or else it would make one.

When I got round to scrubbing the back seats, I was grateful that we'd wrapped Stevie in bin bags, because it'd kept the blood stains to a minimum. The smell was something else, though. I didn't know if it was all Stevie, or whether the dog had managed to penetrate deeper than I thought. Either way, it wouldn't shift. I must've used nearly a full thing of Febreze on the back seats alone. The boot would have to be home to air fresheners and aired on a daily basis if I was ever going to lose that stench.

I finished up and stepped back. There was a growling pain in the pit of my stomach, like a rolling cramp. Probably just acid. I'd have to take some Rennies when I got back in. I rubbed my side and looked around the car park. Nobody else out to see me, which was good. There'd already been too many mistakes made. When I went over the events of last night, they were all I could see. I should've stayed at home. I shouldn't have gone into the house. I definitely shouldn't have tried to leave when I did. My DNA was all over the house now and, thanks to my bloody nose, probably all over Stevie's body.

The pain got worse. I leaned against the back door and slammed it shut. I was finished. Time to move on, stop taking so many stupid bloody risks. I'd been run ragged too long by Beale and the rest of it. I needed to take a step back and sort out my priorities. Take back some control of my life.

First and foremost was my job. Been letting that slide far too long. Times like these, if you weren't giving a hundred percent, you weren't entitled to full-time employment. I had to grab the job by the balls. I had to show Jimmy Henderson that I wasn't another Beale.

Because Christ knew, the last thing the world needed was another one of him.

17