Topspin (2 page)

“Course I do, love!”

“Come back to bed then, and I will reward you.”

Jack, pleased that he was able to rise to the occasion in spite of his debilitation, felt it would be rude to decline. He settled himself comfortably on his back, hands propped behind his head, content for Irena to take the lead. She was almost purring as she ran her hand down the length of his prick.

“You are very virile, Jack, that is good. I like that in a man.”

Jack let her go to work on him but even the touch of her lips, expertly exhorting him to even greater heights, couldn’t rid him of the remnants of his dream. Kevin’s indifferent tones rang in his ears as he explained that Patel had been getting lippy, trying to wriggle out of his commitments and needed to be taught a lesson. It was at this point that Jack should be telling him he hadn’t authorized the fire-bombing, but in the slow motion of his dream the words stuck to his tongue and never got past his lips.

“Mmm, that’s so good, baby. Do it some more.”

On autopilot, Jack took one of the girl’s nipples in his mouth as she hovered above him on all fours, but his mind was still stuck on the disaster on the Mile End Road. Had Patel’s family been in the flat above the shop when Kevin took away their livelihood?

The dream had stalled. He couldn’t remember.

“Jack, I’m so hot! I can’t wait. I want you now.”

Jack continued to arouse the girl, hearing not her wheedling voice but Wilf’s and Kevin’s, gloating. Something changed inside him as they bantered. The feeling was so alien to him that it took him a while to identify it as remorse.

He’d been appalled. Appalled and ashamed of what he’d become. Perhaps he had a heart after all. He had a reputation in those days as a hard man, which afforded him some respect. He’d had to crack a few heads to earn that reputation but, unlike this latest generation who all fancied themselves as bloody Rambo, he hadn’t gone about it by beating up old men and setting fire to their premises.

“Jack? Jack, I really can’t wait much longer.”

But in one respect they’d done him a favor. If he’d been dithering about getting out before, now his mind was made up. The shit had well and truly hit the fan and he doubted he’d be able to bribe his way out of this one.

And then there was Cyril’s reaction to consider. Telling him that Kevin had gone against his instructions wouldn’t cut any ice with Cyril. So he’d face his responsibilities, square things with Cyril, and then chuck it all in. Kevin and Wilf couldn’t be allowed to get away with taking such an arbitrary action and their punishment would be swift and very public.

“Jack!”

“Okay, baby.” Returning his mind to the present, Jack was reaching for the drawer where he kept the condoms when an unpalatable thought filtered its way into his brain. “Irena, last night, did we…er…”

“Oh yes, baby, twice. You’re very virile.”

“And, er, did I use a…” He picked up a condom packet and waved it under her nose, dreading her response, which was an agonizingly long time in coming. How could he have been such an idiot as to risk unprotected sex with a dancer from that bloody club?

“Of course. I never do it without.”

Relieved, Jack concentrated upon the business in hand, which had just become rather urgent from his point of view as well.

Emerging from the shower a short time later, Jack was ravenous. A severe case of hangover hunger if ever he’d known one. The girl was still in the bathroom. If experience was anything to go by, she’d be in there for a lot longer yet. Jack pulled the ingredients for a massive fry-up from the fridge and put the kettle on, staring out at the unusually calm waters of the Solent as he waited for it to boil. The heat wave looked set to continue, the sun highlighting a dozen different shades of turquoise on the surface of a sea that was normally uniformly grey. His attention was drawn to a couple of sailing boats set on a collision course for dangerous rocks, their inexperienced crews oblivious to the signs on a buoy warning them to steer clear of the area.

The first of the day’s tourists, decked out in brightly colored clothes, were strolling along the famous promenade. Some, clutching miscellaneous clutter, were clearly destined for the beach. Others, apparently surprised by the warm weather, ambled about without any obvious purpose, watching the marina come to life and working up a thirst as they waited for the pubs to open.

The kettle clicked off, and Jack poured water into his French press, glancing at the calendar on the wall as he did so and groaning aloud.
Fuck it!
Today was the first Wednesday in the month, the day of the country club’s monthly tennis tournament. In his debilitated state he wouldn’t be much use to anyone but couldn’t let his partner down, so he’d have to at least show up. And he was already late.

Regretfully abandoning the fry-up, Jack changed into tennis clothes.

Angela Shah, Jack’s current tennis partner, called to the kids for the third time.

“Come on, you two. Breakfast’s on the table. You’ll be late for school.”

Angela examined her appearance in the kitchen mirror as she waited for the twins to respond. A couple of corkscrew curls had escaped from her ponytail, and she tucked them back into place. She had mirrors everywhere. She claimed the mirrors were a cheap way to cheer up their dreary terraced house. In reality, they ensured that she’d never be caught looking anything other than her best if anyone dropped by unannounced.

Angela was on a mission. She needed to attract a man who would look after all her needs, both personal and fiscal, shoulder some of her responsibilities, and soothe the aching loneliness.

And the man who ticked every one of those boxes was Jack.

“Morning, Mum.” Malik dropped a kiss on her cheek and set about demolishing the mountain of toast she’d made for him. “You look nice. New gear?”

Angela preened. She ought to feel the same degree of affection for both her children—she knew that—but in reality Malik occupied a special place in her heart. Perhaps it had something to do with her being a man’s woman. Or could it just be that Malik’s temperate disposition—an oasis of calm in the midst of this otherwise dysfunctional family—made it virtually impossible for her not to favor him?

Sheba’s personality was as prickly as Angela’s; they were too much alike to get along without clashing. Her daughter seldom showed affection, threw tantrums if she didn’t get her way, and breezed through life doing precisely as she pleased. Malik was the only one who could influence her when she set her heart on some unrealistic path. Sheba was headstrong, thought she had all the answers, and hankered after the sort of excitement which could only get her into trouble.

“Thank you, darling.” Angela pulled down the vivid pink top of her new tennis outfit and admired the way that the skirt flirted with the tops of her slim thighs as she moved. Jack wouldn’t be able to help noticing when she was darting about at the net in front of him. Perhaps that would finally galvanize him into action. Hell, she’d tried just about everything else.

Sheba drifted into the kitchen, stretching the concept of school uniform to the limit with an indecently short skirt and tie artistically arranged at half mast. The top buttons on the shirt beneath it were undone to reveal a glimpse of her lacy Wonderbra. A belt almost the same length as the skirt cinched the whole lot in so tightly that Angela was surprised Sheba could still breathe. It would be a waste of energy trying to point out the potential dangers of her get-up, so Angela didn’t bother trying. Besides, if it came to a confrontation between Sheba and a pervert, she’d put her money on her daughter coming out on the winning side any day of the week.

Sheba stuck a spoon into a pot of yoghurt and hitched a slim leg onto the corner of the kitchen table as she ate.

“You won’t get anywhere with Jack dressed like that,” she said. “That top’s too tight and shows all your bulges. Makes you look like a tart, and Jack prefers a bit of class.”

“I do not have any bulges!”

“Course you do.” Sheba glanced complacently at her concave abdomen. “Everyone does.”

“Anyway, you’re a fine one to talk about style.” Angela ran her eyes over her daughter’s outfit and shuddered. “And you’d better start hoping Jack likes what he sees if we’re ever gonna get out of this hovel. Be nice to him next time you’re at the club. If he sees you in one of your strops it’ll be enough to put him off permanently.”

Sheba rolled her eyes. “Is it any wonder that we’re so screwed up, Mal, with a mother like that? She don’t really care about Jack; she just wants a meal ticket.”

“Don’t start, Sheb.”

“Well, anyway,” Sheba said sulkily, “I don’t mind living here.” Following her mother’s example she used the kitchen mirror to check on her appearance, adding another coat of lip gloss to the two coats already in place. Angela had long ago given up reminding her that makeup was against the school rules, knowing she wouldn’t take a blind bit of notice.

Her kids went to a school that cost a fortune, but the rules seldom seemed to be enforced. The teachers were as laid back as the kids, who seemed to get away with doing precisely as they pleased on the grounds that they were being encouraged to develop their individuality. Angela snorted. Talk about taking the easy option.

“Only a couple more years before I leave school and then I’ll get out anyway. And, for your information, I’m always nice to Jack. He’s cool. And if you really want to get anywhere with him, you should stop trying so hard and pretend to be unavailable.”

Angela pulled a face. “Since when did fourteen-year-olds become such experts on relationship issues?”

Sheba shrugged. “It’s just common sense. No man wants a woman who’s available. Anyway, you don’t need to trick the poor bloke into taking us lot on. If you were to get in touch with Dad, he’s sure—”

“Sheba, we’ve been through this a thousand times.” Angela strove for a patient tone. Just the thought of the bastard who’d fathered her twins was enough to put her in a rage. She reluctantly accepted school fees from him in return for his keeping his distance from her, and more especially from the kids. But in spite of his frequent offers of fiscal support, nothing more. She’d rather stick pins in her eyes or, worse yet, live in this dump of a cottage on the wrong side of the Medina before she’d let him and the shady mob he mixed with back into her life. She might not be the world’s best mother but even she drew the line at exposing the twins to his despicable
modus operandi
. Which was partly why she’d moved to the Isle of Wight and put an expensive stretch of water between the kids and their father. “Just don’t go there, all right?”

“You’re so selfish! You never think about us.”

“Well, I think you look very nice, Mum,” Malik, ever the peacemaker, said.

Angela sighed. “How can you two be so different?”

“Because we’re twins,” Malik explained patiently. “We’re two halves of the same whole. I got the quiet, sensitive genes—”

“And I got the bolshie ones. Come on, Malik, stop stuffing your face and let’s go. I want to see Leah before we get the bus. I need to copy her geography homework.”

“Bye, Mum.” Malik rushed off, a final slice of toast in his hand. “Enjoy the tennis, and knock ’em dead in that outfit.” He stuck his head back round the door and grinned in a manner so reminiscent of his father that, in spite of her feigned indifference in respect to her ex-nearest-and-dearest, Angela’s heart did a strange little flip in her chest.