Roulette [18]

I’ve always loved gambling. The heady rush of watching my horse break ahead of the pack, knowing in just a few seconds I’ll be quids in. The palpable tension at the poker table, refusing to smile back at the four kings in my hand. Even losing has a bittersweet feeling, that sense that I’d almost made it big and the next time has to be mine.

Or the next time. Or the next.

I see now that my addiction was not to gambling, and certainly not to winning, but to that hope that things will turn my way. That my ship will come in. Just one more race, just one more game, just one more hand.

I’m still waiting for the big pay out. I’ve hit rock bottom so the only way is up. And I know tonight is the night.

During the years of bad luck, I lost not just money but my family, friends, home and fiancée. I racked up debts that would make a politician blush and ended up owing a lot of money to a dangerous man by the name of Charlie Benedict.

Benedict was a big player in the Manchester underworld, owning several establishments which were rumoured to be fronts for drug manufacture, human trafficking and, of course, illegal bookmaking.

I knew I would be able to break even with him just as soon as that right bet came in. Unfortunately, his patience was not as great as mine and, a few hours ago, he sent the boys round. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming; I was in the hole to the tune of £300,000.

What I didn’t expect was the offer to make it good. Two games, three players. If I won, not only would Benedict wipe my debt I would also receive a quarter of a million pounds.

He gave me the choice to decline, but I knew if I opted for that his heavies would not leave until I was in traction, at best. Not that I need much time to consider – two-hundred and fifty big ones in one evening was a big incentive. I could practically smell the loot.

And this is how I end up sitting at a circular table in the cellar of one of Benedict’s businesses. Across from me sit two strangers who have obviously also fallen foul of Lady Luck. One is a large man, perhaps 28 stones. Though his fleshy face belies his true age, by the downy attempt at a beard I would place him at about eighteen. My other opponent is much older, maybe in his seventies. His sunken eyes ceaseless flick from me to the kid to the men around us. Even from this distance I can smell his fear and poor hygiene.

Benedict’s men strap the three of us to our chairs then position a webcam before each of us. There are also six tripod-mounted cameras in the room, two trained on me, two on the old man and two on the younger one. As his lackies busy themselves making sure the cameras are angled correctly, Bendict walks in. He’s wearing a rubber mask of Boris Johnson and a wireless headset complete with microphone. He ignores us as he chats with someone at the other end of the connection.

‘Are we set up? Got the camera feed? Anybody online yet? Seventeen? Let’s give it a few more minutes then, I want to get to fifty before we start.’

Approaching the table, Benedict addresses us for the first time.

‘Gentlemen, I want to personally thank you for making this possible.’ His hands disappear into the pockets of his blazer. ‘This is the first of what I hope to be a very lucrative new venture.’

From his left pocket, he pulls out two cylindrical metal objects and places them on the table. Although I’ve never seen one in real life before, I immediately recognise them as bullets.

‘As you may or may not know,’ Benedict continues, ‘the thrill of winning soon becomes jaded. Bigger challenges are needed to capture the rush. New games must be introduced to supply that demand.’

His right hand emerges with something clutched in it, but it’s on the other side of him and I can’t see what it is.

‘Although my customers are playing by proxy, nonetheless they are willing to pay exquisite amounts to watch. I wish each of you the very best of luck.’

A slight tilt of the head, and I can tell his next words are not directed at us.

‘Sixty-four? Wonderful. Right, let’s get the show started.’ His tone changes again as he addresses a different audience. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us. As you see on the screens, we have three participants for this ground-breaking event. Your betting options include selecting a winner now or guessing the rounds in which the losers will bow out. Alternatively, there is always the option of watching for the sheer thrill of the game.’

He lifts the hidden item into view and I feel my bowels loosen. It’s a gun.

Benedict delivers more patter to his clients, but his words are lost beneath my hammering heart. My attention is focused solely on the revolver as he snaps open the cylinder and slowly slides a bullet into one of the six chambers. Replacing the cylinder, he spins it and sets the gun down in the middle of the table.

‘…let the game begin,’ I hear him say theatrically as he backs away from us.

I look at my opponents. The shock on their faces tells me that they have also been unwittingly enrolled into this game of Russian roulette. Their haunted eyes reflect the thought in my mind: only one of us will survive the night.

My gaze falls to the weapon. It is now the centre of my universe. One bullet, six chambers.

Five chances to survive.

Realising the odds, I grunt as I stretch for the gun. It is heavy, cold. The pungent aroma of oil mingles with the smell of metal, infiltrates my nostrils, makes me gag. All at once I want to be elsewhere, I want the night to be over, I wish I had never encountered Benedict.

But I am here. And there is only one way out.

One bullet, six chambers. Five chances to survive. The best chance of winning is to go first.

My arm is shaking so much I can barely lift the gun. I rest the barrel against my temple to stop its dancing around.

I close my eyes. Five chances to survive.

Unless the randomly spun cylinder has placed the bullet in the first chamber.

My throat is so dry, my head is swimming with fear and uncertainty.

The trigger moves easily, too easily, and I release a moan as I squeeze it.

What follows is the loudest sound I have ever heard. A tear drops from my eye when I realise that it was only the click of the hammer slamming against an empty chamber.

A little urine escapes me, but I am too relieved to be alive to care.

Yelling a wordless cry of victory, I place the revolver back in the middle of the table. I know my turn will come around again, but for now I have survived. I am alive.

The teenager makes a move for the gun but his size slows him and the older man gets to it first.

I seemed to have held the gun for many minutes before finding the courage to place it to my head. The oldster wastes no time, pointing it to his head and pulling the trigger in mere seconds. I wonder if, in his mind, the process had seemed much longer.

Lips trembling, the kid reaches for the gun. The barrel weaves crazily as he picks it up.

Four-to-one odds I calculate, yet part of me wishes this chamber holds the bullet. I don’t want to see the boy’s brains sprayed over the cameras behind him but I would sooner live with witnessing that trauma than being to one to face the live round.

He sobs as he raises the gun. Snot drools from his nose.

I tense myself.

He puts the gun to his forehead, wails and pulls the trigger.

A hollow click.

His cries increase in fervour. He drops the gun to the table as if it would bite him.

My stomach drops. It’s my turn again.

Drenched in sweat, I reached for the weapon. It’s grown heavier, as crazy as that sounds. Picking it up takes all of my strength. I can’t stop my mind from racing, from throwing mathematical facts at me.

The cylinder has made a half rotation. Of the six chambers, only three remained untried. One of them contains death. Three-to-one. Two chances to live.

This is my last turn in this game, I know. It is the only thought I cling to as I force my arm to bring the gun up.

Pleasepleaseplease.

The fall of the hammer makes me jump.

My chest burns and I realise I have been holding my breath. I breathe in hungrily. The air tastes of dread and sweat but it is the sweetest flavour I can imagine.

I slide the revolver to the old man. He shakes his head, as though he can choose not to join in. It’s him or the kid. I don’t know who has it worse.

The old man has a chance that he will live. The kid has the same fifty-fifty chance, but his fate is in his opponent’s hands. If the oldster is successful, that will mean the kid is left the sixth chamber – the one that definitely holds the bullet.

Refusing to touch the weapon, the old man looks desperately around. Nonsensical sounds escape his lips, unintelligible pleas for pardon. But no answer comes.

With a scream of defiance, the man takes the gun and points it at the kid. Wide-eyed, I watch his fingers tighten on the trigger.

There is a deafening roar and the old man’s head collapses in a mess of red and grey. The revolver, unfired, drops from his grip.

From the darkness around us, one of Bendict’s cronies strides forward. I had forgotten they were there.

Smoke rises from the barrel of a pistol the lackey holds. Placing his gun in a holster, he scoops up the fallen revolver, points it at the dead man’s chest and squeezes.

Click.

My body goes numb. The old man had been safe. The bullet was not in his chamber.

The lackey shrugs and pulls the trigger again.

The boom shakes the bones in my body, thunders in my ears and I don’t think I will ever hear again.

The old man’s chest opens in a shower of blood and bone and guts. Something warm splatters my face. Across from me, face pale, the boy vomits over himself. The acrid smell combines with the stench of blood and faeces.

Calmly walking around the man he has just killed, Benedict’s crony opens the revolver, taps out the spent bullet casing and replaces it with the last live round. He flicks the cylinder shut, spins it and rests the gun down before the kid.

‘Round two,’ he whispers with a wink, then retreats to the shadows.

The boy looks down at the gun. A stifled, stuttering sound escapes him. It is the most terrifying laughter I have ever heard, without a trace of mirth. There is a light in his eyes that is not sane.

He pulls the gun up, puts it in his mouth. Tears are streaming from his eyes. His hands are shaking so badly, I can hear the barrel jarring against his teeth.

His finger touches the trigger. The disturbing cackling stops, replaced by a high-pitched whine.

Click.

‘Hah!’ the boy screams and throws the gun toward me.

My chest is heaving and I’m struggling to breath. I am so dizzy, I feel I am falling even though I am secured in the chair. This fear, this uncertainty, is worse than anything I have ever faced.

Please God, let this unknown teen die. Spare my life and take his. I do not know him, I do not care about him. I can’t die, not here, not this way. There is so much I have not yet done, so many sins to atone, forgiveness to seek.

I take the gun. It’s tacky with bodily fluids.

Pushing away all thoughts, I place the barrel to my temple and squee