Writing for Fun
May 2021
Escape - Pete Norman
Darren ran the palm of his hand along the silky smooth surface of the polished hardwood rail and softly caressed the leather pocket cover before drawing his fingers across the cloth, leaving a ghostly trace on the microscopic nap of the green baize.
Funny old business, snooker, he thought, it all revolves around ability and current form. Form trumps ability but pure luck reigns supreme: the run of the balls; the unintended fluke; the millimetre difference in the positional shot which can destroy the confidence, the frame and the match.
It is unique in that once one player was at the table his opponent was locked down in his seat until he faltered, without any chance to interfere with his progress. Frames can slip by like wraiths in the night, allowing novices to score substantial breaks and, on occasions, to kill the giant, to subject the seed to ignominious defeat.
Yes, it is a funny old game but Darren’s giant killing days were over – he was now one of the giants himself, albeit one of the more minor ones – he was knocking on the door of the top 16 and now he had to keep a wary eye over his shoulder, because the weak were becoming stronger day by day.
He glanced up at the shelf on the far wall on which stood, in pride of place, an ornate cut glass vase adorned with a thistle. The reward from his surprise win at the Scottish Open had funded this magnificent table and the luxurious extension in which it stood. He now had the benefit of practising whenever he liked, for as long as he liked and with whom he liked. He knew that his form was progressing exponentially and he was looking forward to proving to the rest of the world that he truly did have star quality.
He reached down into the cabinet beneath the trophy and pulled out a squat bottle and a crystal glass. He poured himself a generous measure of Chivas Regal and took a sip. However, just as the amber nectar was smoothly burning its way down his throat he heard a faint tapping sound. He spun around and there, just on the other side of the picture window, was a face.
‘Fans, bloody fans!’ he muttered. Was this another scourge he would now have to endure? The endless intrusion into his personal life?
However, if his other adoring fans were anything like the face that gazed back at him through the glass then maybe, just maybe, he could put up with the occasional groupie or so.
She was tall, with long black hair, swept seductively across her left eye; her long neck was framed by a mass of soft, tan fur. She was staring unashamedly at him and he had but two options. He chose the first one – he gave her the benefit of his warmest smile and gestured in the direction of the front door.
As he hurried into the hall he wondered if this was what being a top professional was really about. He flung open the front door and . . .
. . . she was not there – instead the doorway was framed by two of the largest men he had ever seen. They were dressed, maybe appropriately, like undertakers and, like a tsunami – slowly, powerfully and inevitably – they advanced into the hallway sweeping him ahead of them like so much flotsam. Once in the hallway they stepped aside to reveal a much smaller man who at first glance appeared to be far less threatening than the gorillas but a second glance took in his black hair, immaculately slicked down; his suit which reflected the moonlight in silken shades of grey; his lips, which turned up in the confident smile of a man in complete and utter control of his world . . . but his eyes were the most terrifying part – they were the cold, dead eyes of the great white shark, the eyes of a ruthless killer.
‘Good evening, Mr Morgan,’ he said in a cultured Neapolitan accent. ‘Might I come in?’
Darren nodded his head subconsciously.
The man swept past him and into the snooker room where he settled into the large black leather chair in the corner. He adjusted the chair for optimum comfort and then beckoned for Darren to take the chair opposite, into which – with a little encouragement by the gorillas – he dropped with a soft thud.
‘Now, Mr Morgan, I understand that you are a rising star in a very competitive sport. I am a great fan of the game myself and I take a very close interest in the players and their achievements – a very close interest indeed.’ He smiled – it was not a comforting sight. ‘We both know that snooker is a game which always has, shall we say, an unpredictable element to it. Now, I am a gambling man but whenever I choose to make a wager I favour a more predictable base-line.’
He paused for a moment – to allow the nuance to sink in – ‘And I can be most generous to those who choose to cooperate in this regard . . .’
Darren stared back at him, fear clouding his eyes, unable to come to terms with what he knew was about to be asked of him.
‘You are competing in the UK Open next week and you will be playing Li Yuedong, some Chinese embryo, in the opening session on Monday afternoon. This Chinese is a rank outsider – upon whom the Bookmakers are offering 750 to 1 – which makes for a most interesting wager. My people have assessed your abilities and their assessment is that on current form you have the capability to defeat him with ease; however, they also predict that there is very little likelihood of your continued advancement beyond the quarter finals for which the prize money would be a mere £20,000. My offer to you, Mr Morgan, is the sum of £50,000, in used bank notes, to be paid to you immediately after your defeat in the first round.’
Darren shrank further back into his chair.
‘This defeat will be in the deciding frame – which will confirm both your commitment and effort and also demonstrate your devastating misfortune.’
Darren felt himself beginning to shake uncontrollably – this was not what he had worked so hard for, this was not what he had struggled to achieve all these years, this was unethical to the point of criminality . . . but the sight of the two gorillas was uncompromising and he knew that this was not a suggestion but a directive – a directive which would carry very heavy penalties for non-compliance.
After the men had gone Darren refilled his glass and took a huge slug.
The following Monday Darren arrived at the Marshall Arena in plenty of time, he wanted a decent session on the practice tables to steady his nerves.
At 1pm he entered the arena and saw that his opponent was a small child, barely 18 years old, holding a snooker cue – this was going to be the worst thing he had ever done but the kid would clearly benefit from it.
The first frame set the scene for him – he tried desperately to fluff some pots to allow the kid a chance but Yuedong was very nervous and again and again he was unable to take advantage. Darren’s game deteriorated to the point that if he played any more badly then suspicions would be raised. He had little choice but to take the first frame.
The second was in much the same vein and it was only after a mammoth effort that he engineered the loss of the third. However, from that point on it grew harder and harder and it was a great relief when Yuedong managed to creep embarrassingly towards a decider.
The moment had finally arrived. This one he had to play very, very carefully.
After a prolonged safety battle the reds were well scatted and Darren was faced with an unmissable pot which he simply could not avoid taking. The black that followed was equally simple and he quickly settled into a comfortable rhythm. Before he knew it he had potted frame ball and in doing so he had used all blacks – he was up for a maximum.
It was only his third 147 in tournament and under any other circumstances it would have been a magical moment but the look on the kid’s face dragged him back to reality again. He had played magnificently but he had screwed up big time.
He needed a drink.
The car fired up with a deep throated roar and when he turned onto the motorway he floored it.
After a couple of hours in the pub he made his way unsteadily back to the car. His mates had implored him not to drive but he told them not to worry because ‘a Porsche Carrera can outrun anything the police have got.’
He swung into his driveway and up to the garage where, at the push of a button on the dashboard, the up-and-over silently swung open. Once inside he set the door to close and fumbled the keys from the ignition. The keys slipped from his unresponsive fingers and dropped onto the floor. As he bent forwards he banged his head on the steering wheel and he shouted an expletive. He scrabbled around wildly on the floor but he could not easily find them. He gave up, he forgot about the keys and staggered indoors.
He looked up at the trophy on the shelf and giggled as he thought that if he won this one he would have to get a bigger shelf. As he bent to kiss his beautiful new table, which was responsible for his form, his eyes perceived but his brain was somewhat slower to register . . . however, his brain very quickly caught up. He raised his eyes and two other cold, dead eyes were staring back at him, two lips were parted in the rictus of a grin. The horse’s head was standing on the semicircle of the D and the blood had oozed across the green baize.
He was terrified. He knew that it was a warning – he knew that they were coming for him . . . the two gorillas were coming for him . . .
His only thought now was to escape – to put as much distance between him and them as humanly possible.
He ran to the garage and flung open the car door. He hit the central locking and the garage door buttons simultaneously. As the door slowly opened his fingers scrabbled desperately around the pedals but he could not find the keys. Just then a faint tinkling behind him froze him to the core.
A cultured Neapolitan voice said, ‘Is these what you are looking for, Mr Morgan?’