MARK OF CAIN - FIRST CHAPTER

Chapter One

Never play cards, gamble, or otherwise engage in leisure pursuits with people who might kill you. I know from personal experience, it's a bad move, at least most of the time.

The three losers squashed on to the small couch to my right were familiar faces from card schools, not too familiar, but I had seen them before. I was surprised. I considered all of them to be light-weights, especially for a card table this size. It wasn't easy getting a sit down with the two inherent requirements of twenty-five grand to walk through the door and nuts as big as wrecking balls. No one who sat down here could bluff it, as the three stooges had aptly proven.

My life was already on the slide, and as I was about to discover, it wasn't going to get any better. Dad had warned me when I was a kid that I would always be in the shit, it would only be the depth that varied. For most of my short life I had actually proved him wrong. I was the luckiest bastard this side of a lottery win. How did it go so wrong?

Freddy slid a hand over his hairless head as he stared at the back of the three cards face down in front of him. The game had reached a critical point, for me it had, anyway. The three men watched with blood-shot eyeballs as they saw their stake money finally divide between the two victors. The spoils, it seemed.

"Come on, sunshine," Freddy said, "I need to get home sooner or later."

"Still thinking, Fred. It's a lot of money."

"Losing your nerve? Someone said you had talent, made the cards see-through. You don't look so talented to me." His voice was a cross between horsehair and steel wire, a lovely, soothing combination.

 "Here, Gyro. Fill this up while I put some music on, and the kid finally makes up his mind." Freddy passed a large glass tumbler to a fourth man, sat on the arm of the already overweight sofa. As Freddy stood up he revealed another of his gambits.

Whenever Freddy Salter played three-card brag on his own premises, he removed his trousers at some point during the night. I always thought this was a load of crap, urban myth and legend designed to spook would be card sharks, but true to form halfway through the night, he stood up and removed his pants revealing crusty boxer shorts and what could only be a semi hard-on. Gyro neatly folded them and placed them in one of the many anterooms above the shop.

Freddy walked over to an old Fidelity record player that sat on top of a large desk in the corner. It was one of those temporary players that could be clipped shut and put under the bed. It would play 78's as well as the various other RPM's. Compact disc, though, hadn't made it to the world of Salter just yet.

Some old relic started crooning, and, Freddy joined in as Gyro passed the half filled tumbler back to him. Diet cola, that was his tipple. Here he was the toughest OAP to pull on a surgical stocking, and he only drank low-cal fizzy pop.

I was gasping for a fag, but Freddy wouldn't allow it. This was good for my let's-give-up-smoking programme.

"Stink the place up," he barked, as French George pulled out a cheroot.

Gyro sat back onto the arm of the sofa, it moaned as he turned back to the game.

Gyro was Freddy's chauffeur and gofer, not to mention all-around monster. He was not a man to be pissed around, but then again I wasn't planning on pissing anyone around, especially Freddy. The time had come, the real time to dance.

"I'm turning over, Freddy."

"Good boy, good boy." Freddy seemed quite pleased with himself.

I was gutted.  I knew this gave him the upper hand. If I wanted to continue, I would have to double his calls. He was still playing blind and hadn't seen his hand yet. Come to that, neither had I until now. As I was about to touch the back of the first card, Freddy suddenly broke my concentration.

"Now, you do know what this means, don't you, son?"

Does he think I'm some sort of amateur? "Yeah, Freddy, I know."

"Be sure now, be very sure. As soon as you touch the back of one of those cards, you're seen. Got it? Seen."

I nodded, holding his gaze for a second, then I picked up my first card, bringing it close to my chest. I didn't look, couldn't look as my nerves buzzed in my veins. The game had completely reverted to tactics. Now it was only nerve and skill. They may be rusty tools I hadn't used in a while, but they were there somewhere.

My first card was the eight of hearts. Slowly, I pushed the edge of the next card into view. It was the two of spades. My heartbeat was building in speed, I prayed it wasn't obvious to any of the others. Then my last card presented itself, introducing - the eight of spades. A pair of eights, lady luck was visiting me tonight.

My facial expression didn't change, still unshaven, still spotty.

Freddy mouthed the words to another droning ballad. I didn't realise until then how much I detested some songs.

"What's it to be, Sonny Jim," he asked.

I removed the cards slowly from my chest and placed them back against the baize, face down, a sure sign that I wanted to continue. I only had about fifty grand left in my pot, and Freddy looked like he had about the same. This could be a problem, the fifty large, that was it, end of story. I didn't have another penny. It had taken me nine months to get my stake money together and a year before that to research this stupid card game.

I pressed forward the last entrails of a years work, melding it with the huge pile of notes in the centre of the table.

French George chirped up, "Non, non, non, Alex what is this madness?"

Freddy and I both looked at George and then at each other. It was highly unprofessional for an onlooker to comment, or even speak, while a game was in play. Freddy looked at the back of his cards, took a breath, then nodded his chin at Gyro.

Gyro hoisted his muscular frame from the arm of the couch and stood in front of George. I could see his back flex as his black tee-shirt gripped the contours of his muscles. He reached down and grabbed George's ear. George yelped like a slapped puppy.

"Please I was only trying to . . ."

Gyro twisted the offending flap, and George squealed himself to his feet. Gyro dragged him to the side door that led to a fire escape, pushed the bar then George through the exit. George fell into the pissing down rain. He tried to plead with the tall muscular machine before him, then, even as the door was closing in his face, he fired off a string of expletives in French. Common ones: merde, sacre bleu, things like that.

The crazy thing about George was that he had never actually been to France. The closest he'd ever been was Sandbach, and that was when he was on an agency contract. The story went that he had watched a foreign film as a kid. A French guy, probably Alain Delon, ended up in bed with a bucket full of babes. After that film he walked out of the cinema a changed man, French George.

Smart, non. Amusing, oui.

"Fuckin' Wiganers." Freddy added, as he returned his attention to the cards.

Gyro stood in front of the other spectators on the couch and pressed his index finger to his lips, then he revolved and fell back filling the space abandoned by our pseudo-Gallic friend.

I noticed the letters on the front of Gyro's tee shirt spelled F.U.C.K and not the usual high street derivative. As I worked my way up to accidentally meeting with his eyes, I quickly averted my gaze. His irises were black and lifeless, the sort of eyes that came complete with a set of detached retinas.

My next words could be taken two ways. Either, I would look like a kid on his first day at a new school, or be seen as some disrespectful arsehole accused of pulling his pants down in front of the headmaster's wife.

"Call . . . I'll see you," I announced. My tone was solid.

Freddy smiled. I assumed at this point I was viewed as a member of the disrespectful arsehole section. It's against the rules to see a blind man. But since my funds were exhausted, and if Freddy stayed blind, then I couldn't continue. He would automatically win.

In the circumstances, that would be very un-sportsmanlike for him to win by using money as a lever in one's own yard, very not-cricket. But with the hand I was playing, I had to stay in the game. I couldn't stop now, not on the vinegar stroke.

"Alex, Alex, don't take me for a chump."

Freddy had a snaggle-tooth. I hadn't noticed it until now, but a yellow protrusion shone through his smile as he sipped his fizzy pop.

"You know the rules, you can't see a blind man. I need to have a peek before you call me." He paused. "Don't look at me as if you don't know the rules."

"Under the circumstances," my voice was dry, "I'd find it hard to continue, which makes me think we should both turn over. It would draw the evening to a proper, fair conclusion."

He scratched at the grey chest hairs that poked from the top of his shirt, and then he had a grope down below before returning his hand to his chin.

"No." Another pause. "I think it's only fair that we continue. That's what I call fair."

Freddy had a sign in his shop window that stated quite plainly ‘No Stiletto Heels'. It was printed on brown card that must have been white when it was originally mounted. He didn't have any other signs in the window with regard to do's and don'ts, just that one. I found it strange. Not many women gamble, never mind stiletto wearing women, and especially not around these parts. But it was there, and for some weird reason I could feel Freddy's stiletto pressing on my scrotum. He had it pinned to my chair as he ground it like he was stubbing out a cigarette.

 "Come on, Mr. Salter, give me a chance?"

"Mr. Salter, now, eh." He snorted a short laugh then winked at Gyro, who merely returned the smile of a Great White. The theme tune from Jaws started playing in my head.

"No. what I mean is," I was still thinking at this point, "that you should at least pick up, then it would even the pitch a bit. I might be able to stump up for the next call. But if you stay blind, it'll be hard for me to continue. That's what I meant." I thought this was a nice recovery. I didn't want to lose and spend all night in A & E after Gyro busted my head for disrespect.

"I warned you fairly and squarely, as soon as you touched those cards, that was it. Now you want to change the fuckin' rules."

I only wanted him to look at his cards. Just a brief peep, and then I could see what he could see. People never realise that thoughts are things. They spray off everyone's minds in frequencies and vibrations, all I had to do was tune in. Sit down keep quiet and allow the flow to happen. My mind just seemed to attract the particles, the waves, reassemble them, understand them, bring the blurred visions into sharpened focus. Just pick up the cards, Freddy, and the world will be good again with a fat lady singing.

He looked at the cards, those flat little rectangles, as the record finished off on some high note and the stylus stroked the centre of dead air. Fut, fut, fut.

"I've got an idea," Freddy said.

That was just what I'd waited for, an idea, an original thought.

"Yeah, why not," he said. "Why not, I win and you lose."

* * *

We sat there for a while, each side of the table pushing, like all the money we had pushed into the middle over the last eight hours, only this time it was threats and solutions, a regular brainstorming session. That was until Freddy blurted an idea that made us both silent. Then neither of us pushed, we just sat and stared, tired heavyweights going into the fifteenth round.

"What? You will lend me fifty grand to see your cards and that's it?" I asked, still in shock.

"Not quite. I will lend you fifty grand, and, provided you win, then we will be straight, square, you can pay me back what you owe and take the rest. But, if you lose, then I will expect my money back by this time next week. Don't think I don't know who helped you put that sit down cash in. If, for whatever reason you decide not to pay, then your queer pal will get a little visit from Uncle Gyro."

Gyro gurgled with delight.

The nausea I usually felt when my mind assembled a vision now came from other sources - terror, fear and adrenaline. I knew I had to accept Freddy's proposal, and I also knew the cards were stacked in my favour. I should have asked the question, what is wrong with this picture, but it was too late. I was hooked.

The only option was to walk away from the table and leave all the winnings to Fred. Niven wouldn't be too impressed, but he would still want me to do the right thing. I'd pay him back some day.

Freddy throwing me this rope meant that I could continue, and everyone would expect me to, but my mind wouldn't absorb the options, and the mound of money looked like it needed a home. So, my basic instinct, basic need, kicked in. My basic instinct being greed.

"It's a lot of money, Fred."

"You're right, son, it is, and take no notice of these wankers," he signalled to the couch with his chin. "It's your decision, your death or glory."

The words death or glory rattled around in my head like a tiny fork in an empty drawer.

I kept coming back to the same feeling, a combination of distrust and disbelief, so close to a win of over two hundred thousand pounds. My mind went off into a schizoid rapture, making me feel giddy and a tiny bit dizzy.

A short strip light hovered, between us, above the table. Its gleam was harsh until it began to dim. The lamp crept dimmer and dimmer until the room was almost completely dark and all visibility had slipped away. Then as quickly as it had darkened the lamp flickered back to life. Strange, a sick yellow jaundice cast its glaze across the room. Sat around the table were three men in black suits. The suits were tatty and ripped, parts of the seams were frayed. Their hands were nailed to the green baize with small pools of blood beneath their fingers, it looked black under the yellow light. Hands with fingers arched like pinned mantises, trying to break free.

Their bald heads were horrible, jerking balls on thick stems. Odd mangled lumps of flesh riven to shreds with stitch marks coating the surface like a planet.

It looked as if the skin from another part of their body had been stretched across their heads. Their mouths covered and sealed, screaming, asphyxiated, biting. Lower mandibles protruded as the delicate skin tore. The player opposite me was louder than the other men. I assumed they were men. A strange bony tongue pierced the flesh covering his mouth and pointed towards me like a finger.

I could see one of his eyes as the skin rode up his skeletal features revealing an insect-like black glistening orb.

"Fuck me, not again?"

I snapped back to the tiny room, catching my breath.

"You okay, kid, you don't look too sparkling." Freddy said. His face wore a quizzical expression.

"Bit of a headache, that's all," I rubbed my temples hard as the vision faded. It wasn't the first time that reality had split, but the headaches that came after were very real and very painful.

"Gyro, get an ‘eadache pill for the lad."

Gyro silently protested as he made his way muttering into the grimy kitchen area, the FUCK tee shirt stretched tight around his thick neck. As he sorted through a cupboard, I noticed it had more grease film on the surface than paint. The door hung slanted from its hinges as sticking plasters and crepe bandages fell out on to the floor. He grunted his displeasure as he ambled back with two small white tablets slapping them next to my cards.

"There you go, boy. Feeling poorly?" he asked.

"Shut up, you fucking clown." Freddy to the rescue, "It's a big move, Alex, and it's all yours. I want to continue. I've offered you the opportunity to call and then we can all go home."

I picked up my filthy glass and popped the two tablets into my mouth, wondering where Gyro's hands had been; the toilet paper was too thin around here.

As I considered my options and drank his whiskey, I was overwhelmed with feelings to get in touch with reality. To get rid of the whiskey drenched feeling, the dulled sensibility of an all night card game. Reality would be good, to become Zen-like - as present as possible. My mind almost made all the cards transparent, and although I couldn't see Freddy's cards, his hand must be poor. He hadn't seen his cards, and it would be fatal, a strategic mistake if he picked up now.

The biggest danger might come if he took a peep. He could decide to play on. If it was a good hand, then I would really be in trouble with no more money and no other backers than my own opponent, not what I would call a desirable situation.

On the other hand, if we both turned over now and drew the night to a close, I could pay Freddy back, pay off my mortgage, and give Niven his stake money back, with interest of course. This would still leave me with change to piss off away from all this bullshit and this bullshit town. There was only one option. I was convinced. Play on.

"Okay, Freddy, I'll borrow the money." I sounded confident, but I must have looked as grey as week old liver.

"Now, then, don't forget what I said, this time next week, fifty grand."

"I know, I'm prepared to take that risk."

"Its alright taking risks, it's another thing paying back money you don't have, but then again you could always owe me, pay me back another way." On this point Freddy licked his lips, the other men in the room sniggered. His moistened lips made me look away.

Freddy walked across the room in his stocking feet, he pulled an old cigar box from a wall unit near the shabby vinyl record player. Ancient, long-playing records were stacked against it still intact in their sleeves. A tattered old box that once housed King Edwards was now the home for around sixty grand in used notes. Freddy pulled them out and placed them steadily onto the untidy pile of cash until he reached forty thousand. My eyes felt weary, as they watched the money transfer from box to table.

Freddy looked around the room. The dawn light had presented clear views of the other men sitting slumped on the old plastic sofa. Freddy's eyes looked cold and flat, fishlike as he stared at Pockets and Balloon. They still sat like school children on both sides of Gyro.

I couldn't tell whether they were Freddy's flunkies, business partners, or bum chums, but they were certainly different than the usual mix. They all held some sort of fear of him. They choked against him even with the odds in their favour.

"These are my witnesses. Me and you are now part of a bargain. Understand?"

"Course."

"Don't, of course, me. This isn't a five hundred pound car, you know. This is an opportunity to walk out of here with . . . ." Freddy looked at the cash as he mentally reckoned the sum "Nigh on close to two hundred and fifty grand. That's obviously what I want, too. So, without a minute's rest, let's see those cards of yours."

I froze, then placed my finger and thumb against the back of the first card. Freddy spat out a hand and grabbed my wrist. "This is what you want, right?"

I waited until Freddy released his flaccid grip.

"Freddy, I've seen mine. Why don't we see yours first. That's what we've all been waiting for."

"All right, smart arse, let's see mine."

Freddy plucked the cards from the table and pulled them into his chest. He lifted the cards near to his face as if he were short sighted and slowly slid them apart.

Reality slapped my face, hard.

Suddenly I wanted this to stop. Stop the world, I'm getting off.

The covenant was wrong, something was wrong. That sickly feeling subsided, and any certainty I had experienced now felt hollow. I gulped, my Adams apple bobbed up inside my throat, my nostrils flared as cool air poured into my lungs. The grey morning sky seemed white as if the contrast knob on my eyes had been turned to full. All the minute luminescence spilled in until it hit the back of my head. The room all but bleached out.

Freddy showed a snaggle-toothed grin as he placed a ten of hearts face up, then a ten of clubs, and finally a four of hearts.

"Is that all you got?" Pockets asked.

Defeat sang in my head as I fell back into my chair, eyes throbbing, and stomach tumbling.

"Yeah, that's all I got. Now, let's see his fuckin' cards." Freddy pointed a thin pale finger across the table.

All attention turned towards me, silence flowed through my ears as if I were underwater.

I had this bursting urge to cry and vomit all over the table, green baize and carrots. The first eight I turned over went off in my head like a shotgun, then another eight. Freddy's eyes grew until finally the two laid itself to rest.

Lady luck wasn't visiting me at all. She had booked a trip on a National Express to Dudley. One thing was for sure though, her partner, that fat bitch was definitely singing.

"Well, well, my son, I hope your piggy bank's full."

My body told the truth as my bony arse collapsed into the chair. I was hoping it might swallow me, and I would wake up still in bed with a nice cup of tea sitting on my bedside night table. It was only a dream Toto.

My abdomen pulsated, flopping like a fish trying to breath on the deck of a trawler. I grabbed the dirty tumbler, and with a shaking hand I sipped a small amount of the malt. The slight burning sensation scratched my throat. It was a wonderful respite from this mess.

Freddy pranced, trouser-less, across the centre of the room. Saggy boxer shorts showed his bits jogging up and down, clearly he now had a major boner, as he punched the air. He then broke into a Frank Sinatra number, an old one, I didn't recognise.

I looked at him and felt blank, empty, spent, and lonely. It was noisy. Freddy and the other men were all in congratulatory mood. Their clinking glasses sounded muffled, a form of audio tunnel vision I suppose, a resonance not unlike the shells I listened to on Formby Beach.

Disillusioned, depressed, and standing all at the same time, I tried to rein myself in, get my shit together. I had never felt so rumpled and shaggy. Unshaven and untidy in jeans and tee shirt, I pulled my jacket from the back of the chair, it was only a thin coat, but felt like it was made of lead. I couldn't understand where I had gone wrong, my mind hazy as I pulled my arms into each crumpled leaden sleeve.

Then, as if by request, my thoughts were answered. The walk-through kitchenette had a series of vertical multi-coloured plastic strips across the door to keep flying insects out, and there he was, marginally obscured by the strips, but still a sight that gave the game away, Simon Salter, Freddy's son.

As I wondered why that lard-arsed, spoilt wanker was sat in the back, I looked at the faces of the celebrating gang, and it dawned on me. I hadn't seen Simon all night, and then suddenly in the hour of my disaster he appeared, magically from somewhere, but where? He never walked in through the front door and we were in a first floor flat. Very unusual to have a series of entrances, unless he came from - above.

I picked up one of Freddy's cards and rubbed it between my fingers. No one seemed to notice nor care, they were too busy counting the money and laughing. The card was a standard playing card, slightly greasy, but between my fingers it was another figment of the past, another artefact. I stroked and caressed it, calmed my mind to tune. Then I licked the surface of the card, images blasted straight in to my brain, broadband download style.

Push aside.

Push aside.

These were echoes, images of earlier parts of the night until the final hand played, and then I saw a different game being played. I had been fucked.

Yellow teeth laughed and toasted Freddy's victory when I saw the truth clearly. This lot couldn't tie their shoelaces without his permission, let alone win a hand of cards. I had been set up, and with a fifty grand hole in my pocket, the clock was ticking.

Freddy grabbed me and attempted to dance. I just stiffened and looked dead-pan straight into his eyes. I usually vomit after an experience, but I somehow wrestled against the urge as much as I wrestled against Freddy.

"Come on, Sonny Jim, don't be a sore loser."

"Fuck off."

This remark put a bit of a damper on the party atmosphere, and as quickly, as the atmosphere frosted a nasty aura oozed from his gang.

What could I say, Hey, Freddy, you cheating bastard, I'm not for paying up, and what's more I want my winnings back? I knew better than that. I wouldn't make it to the door before they would be on me like a pack of chimps in a banana warehouse.

"What did you just say?" Freddy had stopped singing, though the Fidelity continued emitting feedback from its archaic speaker.

"Fuck all. Nothing," I answered quietly.

"That's all right then." He pushed his arm out to one of the stooges who filled the glass in his hand. "Yeah, that's alright. Don't forget, this time next week," on that note he pushed a fifty into my jeans pocket and pointed towards the door. "Now, you fuck off."