As he settled back on the sofa to watch the day's action unfold, Luke Ferris felt lucky. He often felt lucky. “Lucky Luke,” some of the serial losers down at Ladbrokes called him. “Mug punters” he called them, collecting his winnings as pair upon pair of brightly shining black eyes burnt into his back. Glowing embers of envy.
When Tanley lost the first race at Lingfield by a nose the auguries were not good. Then Absolute Shambles finished out with the washing over the jumps at Musselburgh, doing nothing to persuade Luke that his fortunes were about to take a turn for the better. There again - he reasoned – what did he expect backing a horse with a name like that?
As he waited for the next race, Luke's mind wandered back to a time when the constellation of pustules erupting through his sebum-rich skin had gradually given way to a somewhat smoother surface as his interest in racing had moved up a notch or two. Before long, though still at school, he had become a “face” in all the local betting shops as well as many of the nearby race tracks. Through hard work bordering on obsession, he became well versed in all aspects of equestrian form, the effect of the draw, speed figures, the dosage index and a host of other variables that constitute the professional gambler's arsenal. For, looking back on it, that is what he had become: Luke Ferris, professional gambler. It had a certain ring to it, he thought.
Clear Sailing won the mile handicap back at Lingfield. Its name had been a bit of a giveaway thought Luke, but he had decided against backing it because the price (eleven to ten) was too short for his liking.
For the first time that afternoon, an image briefly asserted itself in Luke's mind. Frankie Barrett, whose big yellow face and bulging eyes gave him the appearance of a bloated bullfrog. Whose mouth was delineated by lines so deep that they put Luke in mind of the hand-carved faces of the wooden chess pieces (fashioned in the style of Anglo-Saxon warriors) that stood, ready for action, on the chessboard on his Davenport. A bullfrog carved from fat, yellow soap. A bulbous bullfrog in a black fedora.
From the beginning, Laura had disapproved. “He makes my skin crawl” she had said. She had made it plain that if Luke insisted on fraternising with Barrett, then he could do it without her. “Whenever he comes near me I keep thinking I am going to throw up.” Luke thought this an exaggeration. “I know he's a bit creepy, but you know he's gay don't you? So if anyone needs to watch out around Frankie, it's me”, Luke had joked. Besides, he had added, Barrett's financial muscle had been a real help to him on more than one occasion in the past. “If you need money Luke, you can ask Dad. You know that, don't you?” Luke respected Tommy Swan. Liked him, in fact. Why shouldn't he? He was a good man. Well thought of, honest, hard working. But he was Laura's father and if she thought he – Luke Ferris - was going cap in hand to her father to borrow money to pay off his gambling debts then she had better think again. He compressed these thoughts into a flamboyant arching of his eyebrows. Laura shook her head. “For someone with such a sharp mind Luke, there are times when your stupidity genuinely shocks me.”
Heavy losses on Top Dressing and Sea Venture at Musselburgh, followed by near misses with Key Cutter and Sullumo at Huntingdon meant Luke was now seriously in deficit on the day. A bad start to the day means a bad finish. That was one of Luke's rules of engagement, this one devised chiefly to remind him not to commit the cardinal sin of chasing his losses. Most punters had their own personal betting rules and Luke was no exception. Never back odds-on fillies in maidens. Never back in bumpers. Never back each way in hunter chases. Never back horses “on the bounce”. The list went on.
Then, just as things started looking reaper-grim, the winners started to flow. First, Billberry at Lingfield. Three to one was not a life changing price but it was a start. Then I'm On Cloud Nine scraped home by three quarters of a length at six to one in the handicap steeplechase at Huntingdon. A great ride by Dougie Costello. Of course they are all great rides when they win carrying your money. Talking through your pocket they call it. A few more like that thought Luke and I might stop sweating so much. Miss Abbey stormed away with the novice hurdle at Musselburgh at twenty to one and even though Luke had only had a small each way interest in that mare, he was really beginning to peg back his losses.
How did I get myself into this mess in the first place? The question looped round and round Luke's brain pan. He had done business with Frankie Barrett before and it had always worked out all right. Fair enough, Barrett's interest rates were exorbitant but that was the price you had to pay to get your hands on a large sum of money quickly. No security needed. No questions asked. No regulations to abide by. So long as you paid back the loan promptly, the interest was a relatively small hit to take. Luke had been warned about Barrett. That he was not a man to be messed with. Just ask Mike the Nose, they had said.
Mike the Nose. A mug punter who spent his days drinking cans of White Lightning on a bench in the market square before raking around on the floor at Ladbrokes on the off chance of finding a mistakenly discarded winning betting slip. A long shot if ever there was one. His nose was now an aluminium monstrosity lashed to his face with elasticated straps that fitted over his ears. The word was that Ribbons – one of Barrett's enforcers – had sliced it off after Mike defaulted on his loan repayments. “If I had been in any deeper, that evil little bastard would have had me ears off as well, then where would I have been?” Mike would routinely reply when asked about his lustrous prosthesis.
Ribbons and The Turk. It seemed they were at Barrett's side wherever he went. The Taciturn Turk, Luke called him. Silent but deadly. A slow moving, powerful beast. The Beast of the Bosphorus was another of Luke's nicknames for this hulk of a man, bringing to mind, as he lumbered and listed, a bear who has been taught by human beings to walk on its hind legs. When he had first met the terrible trio, a few years back in the Engineer's Arms, Luke had instantly weighed up the Turk, noted with alarm that his forearms were bigger than Luke's thighs and made a mental note not to tangle with him. Ever. Ribbons was relatively puny, but the complex latticework of scars cross-hatching his face bore testimony to his boast that he was a veteran of over a hundred knife fights. “And I ain't never lost a one, see” he would spit in reply to anyone bold enough to ask questions as to how he acquired his name, “although me mush has been striped up a bit, like” and he would thrust his horrible visage into his interrogator's face and growl “Grrr – just like a Bengal tiger!” Handle with caution was Luke's silent memo to self.
Risk management. That was Luke's game. Risk management and numbers. Manage the risk prudently, factor in the probability of winning, calculate the risk to reward ratio and if the numbers stacked up, it was a bet. If not, leave it to the mugs and move on. And always, always have a contingency plan. He was too good - far too good - to dig himself into a hole. So how was it that he now found himself in one? A rather deep, dark hole with steep, slippery sides, but no shaft of light pointing the way out.
It was all a little hazy. The Engineer's snug on Saturday night. Luke had been on a losing streak for the previous couple of weeks, but that was nothing new. Handling losing runs was part and parcel of being a pro. Anyone can win, he would tell his friends, but it's how you handle your losses that separates the wheat from the chaff. He had every confidence in himself that he would turn things around and soon be back in the black. Ahead of the game. Where he liked to be. He was already into Barrett for a few hundred but the interest payment was not due to kick in for a few days, so he was enjoying a period of grace. But he got sloppy. Sloppy and lazy. First, having downed several pints of Kronenbourg, he placed a few speculative bets on the televised Chelsea game and then, in an attempt to claw back his inevitable losses, he compounded his error by getting involved in a game of Texas Hold 'Em with Barrett and a few of his cronies. The upshot was that he was now due to pay back just shy of three thousand plus interest, which was mounting at the alarming rate of almost three hundred a day. Add in today's losses and things were not looking too bright for Luke. Never gamble when under the influence of alcohol. Never bet on football. Never play poker. Three more rules broken in one rush of blood.
Sea Saffron came in at eight to one but Luke's change of fortune proved temporary. A steady run of subsequent losers cancelled out his winners, so that with only two races left – and one was the bumper so he wouldn't be touching that with a barge-pole – he was staring at total losses approaching five grand including interest. Ribbons had relieved Mike the Nose of his breathing apparatus for rather less than that.
Luke could hardly claim absence of fair notice. He trusted Laura's instincts as a rule and she had made her feelings about Barrett abundantly clear. Several friends and acquaintances had told him to have nothing to do with Frankie. Luke was not inclined to pay undue attention to rumours (Barrett tortures people! Barrett kneecaps people! Barrett waterboards people! Barrett makes people disappear!) but the incontrovertible evidence in the shape of Mike the Nose was there for all to see.
Now, as he turned these matters over in his mind, Luke recalled that Barrett himself had said something to Luke last Saturday in The Engineer's Arms. Luke had been so eager to get away from Barrett that he had not paid particular attention to his words. The gallon of lager swilling around in his belly hadn't helped either. As he remembered it, Barrett had offered him a lift home in his “Beamer” (as he called it), said something about “wanting to protect his investment” and made some snide remark about reminding him not to bother to back any of Luke's tips in future. Luke had been puzzled by that because he never gave tips. Never ever. Then after the poker game had finished, Barrett again offered him a lift, made some cryptic comment concerning Luke's welfare and suggested that Luke should give him a shout when he was ready to leave and he would arrange for The Turk to drive them both home. Luke had politely declined his offer, saying that he had already ordered a cab. A lie.
Whether it was the cumulative effect of the drink he had already consumed that night or the bad vibes he was beginning to get from Barrett he couldn't be sure, but he had decided to get out while he still could. As he lurched towards the exit, Barrett (presumably noticing the fictitious cab had failed to materialise) called to him across the bar, but as it was still noisy in The Engineer's, Luke couldn't hear exactly what he had said. He guessed it would be more nonsense about offering him a ride (which, in his state of lager-induced paranoia, Luke had begun to interpret as a homosexual euphemism for something rather more sinister than a mere lift home) so he had feigned deafness, cupping his hands to his ears whilst shaking his head, shouted back something about transport problems before pinballing his way through the revolving doors and out into the freezing night air.
I could be putting some business your way soon Tommy Swan, thought Luke as he waited for the start of the next race. His last race of the day. A final roll of the dice.Laura's father was the sole proprietor of Swan and Sons, funeral directors. Laura didn't have any brothers, so there were no sons as such, but Tommy had always thought that the addition of his spectral offspring to the company name had a better ring to it. Luke tended to agree. Part of him wished he had gone to Tommy in the first place. Pride. The ligature tightening round his throat when he imagined himself asking Tommy for money, causing his tongue to swell so that the words wouldn't come out. Pride. The imposter that told him to push his chest out when he walked into Ladbrokes to collect his winnings. Pride. The traitor that now held his balls in a grip so tight he felt like crying.
The last race before the bumper. Sasha's Son. Luke's last bet of the day. He had backed it to win at twenty to one and a flood of support saw it go off at a starting price of six to one. A good sign for sure. Market confidence. Bullish. If this little beauty came in thought Luke, well – it wouldn't quite clear the slate with Barrett but it would certainly obliterate the accrued interest and knock a man-sized hole in the principal sum into the bargain.
Sasha's Son ran a great race, still on the bridle, cantering into the lead by five or six lengths with just two fences to go. He popped over the penultimate fence with ease, but pecked on landing so that his nose almost touched the sodden turf, causing his front legs to slide and splay, before eventually giving way beneath him. The horse's accumulated momentum caused him to turn a spectacular cartwheel, at the same instant catapulting his young pilot - Giles Hawkins - from the saddle, causing him to roll across the turf in a tight ball, like a hedgehog on the defensive.
In the space of a few shattering seconds, Luke's emotions had shifted from the height of near elation, before plummeting to the nadir of heart-arresting horror, eventually coming to rest with a sickening sense of resignation. He glanced at the screen to see Giles Hawkins limping away to towards the jockeys' ambulance, whilst Sasha's Son led the stewards a merry dance as they attempted to prevent him running another circuit of the course. Luke smiled to himself. At least they had come out of this mess relatively unscathed. Winning money was one thing, but for Luke, the welfare of horse and jockey always took precedence. He hated it when punters cheered a fallen horse.
As he switched the television off, he realised his hands were shaking. His shirt was sticking to his back. It wouldn't be long before he had visitors. Unwelcome visitors. Luke took a pad and some envelopes from the desk drawer but as he searched for a pen a thought crossed his mind. He flicked a switch on the wall behind the television, changing the CCTV security cameras from “external” to “internal”. If those bastards are going to hurt me, the least I can do is try to take them down with me, he thought. Always have a contingency plan. Always.
He spent a full ten minutes thinking and writing, struggling to find the right words. The buzzing intercom interrupted his train of thought. He glanced through the window, noticed three figures in the shadows of the entrance to the block of flats and quickly sealed the envelope onto which he had scribbled Laura's name. As he pushed the envelope into the drawer, the paper knife caught his eye and for a second he considered arming himself but, remembering not only the cameras but the weight of opposition he was about to face, he dismissed the idea, shaking his head at his own naivete. He reached across to the intercom and buzzed up his visitors.
“My darling Apostle” Barrett unctuously addressed Luke, doffing his fedora with his left hand as he he held out his right to Luke, the three men making their way into the living room. The Turk carried a briefcase in each massive paw. Luke recalled watching a documentary film called “Grizzly Man” a few months previously in which a man named Timothy Treadwell lived in the Canadian woods with wild bears. Treadwell named his favourite bear Mister Chocolate. They coexisted in perfect harmony until one day Mister Chocolate got a little hungry and ate Timothy for supper. The Turk and Mister Chocolate. Mister Chocolate and The Turk. Even Missus Chocolate would struggle to tell them apart.
“Is it hot in here?” asked Barrett, wiping the sweat from Luke's hand on his camel cashmere coat, his fat, yellow face rippling as he laughed. Ribbons cackled in turn, stopping abruptly when Barrett speared a malevolent glance in his direction.
“Let me come straight to the point,” began Barrett, “I am a traditionalist, Luke. This may surprise you, but it's true. Take the Water Board for instance,”
The waterboard? My God, thought Luke, perhaps those rumours were true? His mind flashed back to a time he was reading an article about Guantanamo Bay when further research led him to an item on Wikipedia about methods of torture used during the Spanish Inquisition. Apparently, the ancestor of the waterboard, the toca, also called interrogatorio mejorado del agua, consisted of introducing a cloth into the mouth of the victim, and forcing him to ingest water spilled from a jar so that he had the impression of drowning. It was known to cause severe damage to internal organs and ultimately to kill. But why would Barrett bother torturing Luke? He didn't have anything to hide. Perhaps it was simply to sate the pyschopathic appetites of Ribbons? No, his torture of choice would involve the use of blades, surely? In that case. . . hang on a minute thought Luke, what's in that case?
“But I can't swim!” Luke shouted, as a vision of a baby floating down-current in a basket imprinted itself in his subconscious.
“I beg your pardon? No, I was merely remarking that one might reasonably expect in this day and age that such an organisation would accept payment in cash.”
“Organisation? What organisation?”
“Pay attention darling. The Water Board of course.”
Having removed his hat, Barrett put his hand to his head, apparently making some sartorial adjustments, and for the first time Luke spotted his hair, if that was the appropriate word to use. Coils of matted, coarse grey fibre emanating from the nape of Barrett's neck extended in an upward arc to his glistening pate, where they were held in place with an intricate network of what looked suspiciously like bulldog clips. The entire, fragile edifice resembled a Cumberland sausage that had been fried in coconut matting before being artfully positioned on Barrett's jaundiced scalp. Luke burst out laughing.
“I don't find it funny” said Barrett.
“It ain't funny, see” echoed Ribbons, reaching inside his jacket. Luke waited for the flash of the blade, but Ribbons merely brought out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “I'm allergicked” he explained.
“If you could refrain from spraying mucus on this darling boy's carpet for just a few moments, Ribbons, perhaps we can get down to the purpose of our little visit? Turk, the case if you will?”
Mister Chocolate remained impassive. Perhaps he hadn't heard? Perhaps he didn't understand?
“The case please Turk” Barrett repeated, a trace of irritation creeping into his voice. Ribbons elbowed The Turk in the ribs which seemed to have the effect of snapping him out of his reverie. He looked down at Ribbons who chipped in with “The bag you berk!” This apparently angered Mister Chocolate, who effortlessly lifted one of the briefcases above his head with one hand before smashing it down to the floor with a roar, causing its chiefly metallic contents to fly in all directions over the carpet. An assortment of knives, hammers, pliers, scalpels, wrenches and what looked suspiciously like thumb screws glittered in the light of Luke's standard lamp. As The Turk and Ribbons scrabbled on the floor, hastily retrieving these instruments and stuffing them back in the case, Luke became aware of a high-pitched squealing coming from what resembled an outsize, padlocked, fencer's mask that had remained in the briefcase when Mister Chocolate smashed it to the floor. He was almost sure it contained a live a rat.
“You Mesopotamian moron!” shouted Barrett. He raised the back of his hand as if to strike The Turk but thought better of it as Mister Chocolate glared hungrily back at him, simultaneously spitting on Luke's carpet. Bears do far worse things in the woods, thought Luke. Besides, it was nearly supper time.
“Please accept my apologies for the transgressions of my associates. I will send someone round to clean the Axminster once we have executed outstanding business.” Luke did not like Barrett's emphasis.
“There's no need. Seriously, Frankie – Mister Barrett – it's not a problem.”
“I insist. After all, I have my reputation to maintain. Talking of which – the bag – the other bag if you please Turk. And this time, use the locks like any normal human being, there's a good chap.”
With his huge bear paws, Mister Chocolate struggled with the delicate dials of the combination lock. Ribbons joined the maul and together they tried in vain to open the second briefcase.
“God bless them” said Barrett, paternally. “They try their best, they really do. Did you know that you can stop grown a man dead in his tracks simply by severing his hamstrings? A pearl of wisdom from our friend Ribbons here. Legend has it the Ancient Greeks did it to prevent their slaves running off to Sparta. You wouldn't think it to look at him but old Ribbons is really quite erudite on the QT. He takes Grey's Anatomy to bed with him every night.”
“Really?” said Luke. He looked at Ribbons, who gurned grotesquely as he wrestled ineptly with the lock. Luke reflected that Grey's would doubtless be the only anatomy Ribbons would ever manage to get into bed.
“Allow me” said Barrett when it became clear that, without his intervention, Mister Chocolate was about to use his own unique ursine technique to circumvent the combination lock. A few seconds later the case was open. Luke stared at its contents.
“A question for you my darling Apostle. How might one transmute one bag of sand into fifty?”
“I don't understand, Mister Barrett.”
“If there is one thing I detest in a man Luke, it's false modesty. Come, come, young Doctor Ferris. Don't be coy. You weren't so shy the other night when I asked you for a tip, were you?”
“A tip?”
“A tip, a recommendation, a prediction. Call it what you will, but you didn't let me down and I appreciate that Luke. Granted, it took my secretary all morning to unearth Pegasus in the Racing Post but it was well worth the effort. Fifty to one! My, my! How do you do it, my learned physician?”
“But Mister Barrett” Luke began. Barrett held up his hand.
“I would never expect a gentleman to divulge his trade secrets. There are fifty thousand pounds in that case Luke. Fifty thousand. And what happens? I try to use a small proportion to pay my water bills - as any model citizen should - and all that weasel-faced, bureaucratic jobsworth can say is: 'Sorry Sir, we can't accept cash' and depart on a tedious diatribe about Money Laundering Regulations. But forgive me, I digress. The salient point, Luke, is that you did me a good turn and Frankie Barrett recognises that. Ten per commission is fair wouldn't you say?”
Luke was unable to speak.
“A tithe of fifty bags of sand is five bags, yes? Then there is the small matter of your pending advance, plus interest, which – by my calculation - comes to five thousand and ninety eight pounds and forty pence. If my rudimentary grasp of arithmetic is correct, you owe me just shy of a ton but I am feeling magnanimous today, so let's call it all square, shall we? Don't look so glum my angelic choirboy, I bet you had a nice little touch on it yourself, didn't you?”
Luke was still unable to speak.
“Well, this is all very pleasant but I do have an empire of pain to run so, if you're happy with that, we'll say our goodbyes and bid you adieu, monsieur. You are happy aren't you darling? I will send someone round to clean your carpet. Just give me a call to arrange a mutually convenient appointment. I have a feeling we will be doing business again with the good doctor, eh boys?”
Luke nodded blankly, as Ribbons and The Turk grunted in accord, any biblical references completely lost on them.
“Very well. Come hither Laurel and Hardy” and before Luke had absorbed quite what had happened, The Turk had hefted the two bags to his shoulders, Ribbons had blown his nose, Barrett had readjusted his bulldog clips, put on his fedora and they were gone.
Dazed, Luke switched on the television and hit the button on the remote to bring up Teletext. There it was. The bumper at Musselburgh. Transport Troubles. Won by a nose at fifty to one.
“A nose” he said out loud - and immediately thought of Mike.
Rules of engagement. Never back in bumpers. And never, never, ever give tips.
Luke felt utterly drained. He opened his wallet, retrieving his betting slips, separating the wheat from the chaff. The losers he tore into tiny pieces and threw into the waste paper bin. Fragments of pink confetti. Relics of a doomed marriage. As he replaced the carefully folded winning slips, the radiant face of Laura Swan smiled at him from the discarded passport photograph he had secretly retrieved that first time they had gone to Rome together.
As he slumped back on the sofa to watch a replay of the day's remarkable events, his eyes filling with tears, Luke Ferris felt lucky. “Lucky Luke,” he thought, smiling to himself.
(c) Blaine Ward 2010