thegamblersnovel

This is the last short story I’ll post for a while. It’s another that’s going in The Greatest Show In Town and other shorts. Hope you enjoy it.

The place resembled an airport waiting-room. Grey vinyl floor tiles surrounded an island of blue carpet, upon which were several rows of plastic seating. On these seats were groups of mannequin-still men of varying ages and stages of decrepitude, their eyes locked upon the LCD screens on the wall opposite – though the only departures and arrivals concerning them were those from the 15.00 at Redcar.

Stephen watched the men as they followed the action. Initially, they remained still, too tense for movement, but slowly, as the lead horses separated from the pack, their fists clenched and unclenched. Then, as the race moved into the final third, several men rose up from their seats and screamed profanities at horses and jockeys too far removed to hear them. The volume increased until it reached a crescendo a few feet from the finish.

And then it was over. We had a winner.

The shouting stopped abruptly. What replaced it were mostly grumbles, interspersed with the odd happy laugh. Some were happy, most weren’t. A couple of men sat in silence, shaking their heads, frowning, their eyes glazing over. The rest of the men drifted away from the seats, back to their race cards and form notes.

They repeated this rigmarole every race, right down to the expressions on their faces – hopeful, but with a dash of cynical pride.

Stephen knew this because he was one of them. And he was feeling the call.

He stuck a hand in his pocket and rummaged around until he found what he was looking for. He rubbed two twenty-pound notes between his thumb and forefinger, savouring the way they felt – smooth and rough at the same time, cool to the touch. If he’d gone with his initial instinct and played the race, the only thing he would have been rubbing his fingers against was pocket lint. And he’d have to explain to his wife yet again why he’d come home empty-handed.

Stephen wasn’t sure the relationship would survive another excuse. The excuses, much like the relationship, were all used up. They were getting by on rote, too afraid of the unknown to separate and start new lives. They’d been together for ten years – they were both each other’s first long-term relationship – and, despite his gambling, they had been mostly good ones. But the good years were over now, replaced by the mediocre ones, which would in time be usurped by the bad. He knew how this went; he’d seen it happen in his parents’ marriage, to his friends, to their friends.

He took the twenties out of his pocket and looked at them. They were dog-eared and used up. Somebody had scrawled something on one of the notes in blue ink. The writing was illegible, and Stephen didn’t have the patience to decipher it.

This money was for groceries. Janet had put her trust in him to do the right thing.

He didn’t want to let her down and was pleased he hadn’t lost their cash on the 15.00.

That didn’t stop him from looking at the teller.

She was a sour-faced middle-aged woman, who looked like she’d applied her make-up with a spray gun. Like most tellers, she paid no attention to the quiet desperation and misery that surrounded her, and instead used the glass counter as a shield from the punters. She took money and gave it back with the same mechanical words, repeated with the same mechanical efficiency. Her eyes looked through the punters, not at them, and her smile couldn’t have been more false if she’d painted it on herself.

Stephen diverted his gaze from the woman to one of the screens. He studied the runners and odds for the next race, the 15.30, driven by instinct, by habit. There was a runner he liked in the next race. It had made him money in the past and was good on soft ground. The rider was good too. He wasn’t the best around but, with a solid horse beneath him, could run an excellent race, and win.

He looked down at the money again.

This time the cash in his hand didn’t remind him of Janet and groceries. In fact, she never crossed his mind at all. He thought about an each-way bet and what to spend the winnings on. His heart-rate amped up a notch, a shot of adrenaline rushed through him.

He handed his money to the teller. She gave him a blank-eyed smile, which cracked the crust of her foundation, and handed him the betting slip.

A lone, weak voice within told him it was a bad idea. He ignored the voice – it didn’t know what it was talking about – because he knew what he was doing. And if he’d had more cash in his pocket he would’ve put that down too. Besides, it was his money to do with as he pleased.

His fist closed around the slip and held it tight. He sat down and waited, counting off the seconds and minutes by playing games on his mobile phone and casting nervous glances at the time. Five minutes before the race was due to start a text message arrived. Janet wanted to know if he was in the store yet, and if so could he add some red wine to the shopping list.

The message reminded him why he’d had the money in the first place, that it wasn’t his to waste. A chill worked its way up and down his spine and large goose bumps dotted his skin. Every time he thought about what he’d just done, his innards twisted like a barrel full of eels, sending bile up from his stomach, into his throat. Any confidence he’d had was now gone. He gnawed at his fingernails and spat the pieces on the carpet. He was overcome by the feeling that he’d been through all this before, that it was a regular thing, but he tried to ignore it; focusing instead on the seconds as they passed.

Time couldn’t have moved any slower if it tried.

The horses were ready, waiting the off. The jockeys remained tense.

Time stood still.

The muscles in Stephen’s back went tight, ached, and then into spasm.

He opened his fist. The slip was now a damp ball, almost mush, and its print was smudged across his palm. Carefully, he flattened the document down and put it in his pocket; didn’t want to damage it beyond recognition and lose the winnings.

Then it began.

Initially, he was still, too tense for movement, but slowly, as the lead horses separated from the pack, his fists clenched and unclenched. Stephen’s knees tensed, his legs went tight, and he slowly got out of his seat. Then, as the race moved into the final third, he waved his fist at the screen and screamed profanities at horses and jockeys that were too far away to hear him.

And even if they’d heard him it wouldn’t have mattered much.

His horse was fifth across the line; beaten by a nose.

Both the win bet and the place bet were gone. Forty quid down the shitter.

Stephen took the slip out of his pocket, scrunched it into a ball and kicked it across the room. His guts were constricted into a tight lump that felt like hot lead. Swallowing hard, he tried to keep his lunch where it belonged. He shook his head as he sat down, unable to understand what had gone wrong. His hand shook as he rummaged around for his phone. It was still shaking as he typed his barely legible reply. He didn’t press send.

Excuses raced through his mind, each discarded as quickly as it appeared. He’d been here before, fumbling around for some valid reason for losing the money. It was yet another part of the routine, only this time he knew the excuses wouldn’t wash.

And then in a flash he had it – the perfect excuse; the ideal way to describe what had happened to him, because that was exactly what had happened. He was the victim here, and if he could convince his wife of that then he was scot-free.

Somewhere within, that lone voice told him again what a bad idea this was.

Yet again, he ignored it.

Stephen stepped out into the street and dialled Janet’s number. He took a deep breath and, when she answered the phone, said:

“Sweetie, I don’t want you to make a big fuss about this, but I’ve just been mugged.”

Janet said nothing.

His heart began beating rapidly. He felt sick.

Then, almost as quickly, a familiar sensation washed over him. He felt comfortable.

This was all just part of the routine.