The Big Blind, page 6
‘I bet Mikey could save himself some money if he knew.’
‘He checks.’
‘I don’t like this play. I would have raised here—’
‘Claire checks.’
‘The turn is a king.’
‘Mikey bets, fifty thousand. He’s trying to induce her to call.’
‘Claire’s making a show of thinking about it…’
‘She calls.’
‘They’re both playing a trapping game… you can see how Mikey is studying his opponent.’
‘The river is a six, no change to anyone…’
‘Mikey raises, one hundred thousand. He thinks his aces are good…’
‘And there’s the re-raise from Claire! To a quarter million… look at Mikey’s face, he knows he’s beat—’
‘Or does he think she’s trying to bluff him? If she didn’t have the nuts, that would be the only way to win the hand—’
‘I think he realises she has the nuts.’
‘…and a quick fold from Mikey. With her new chip count, Claire is now on our Top Ten leader board—’
‘Textbook game play from both young players—’
* * *
‘Good game,’ Mikey said. Play was over. They were all bagging their chips. She ignored him.
‘What?’ he said, looking hurt.
‘Nothing,’ Claire said. ‘Nothing at all.’
She stalked off, the bag heavy in her hands.
24
‘Did you see that?’ Sister Bertha demanded.
‘What?’ Sister Mary said.
‘Claire!’
‘What?’
‘Claire!’ Sister Bertha was breathing quite heavily, each word coming out like a puff of angry air. Evidently, she’d run. This in itself was remarkable.
‘What about Claire? Have you heard from her? Is she all right?’
‘Claire! Is on! TV!’
Sister Mary looked at Sister Bertha with concern. ‘What is she doing on the TV?’ she said.
‘She’s playing… poker!’
‘She’s… why would they show people playing poker on TV?’ Sister Mary said.
‘It’s… are you serious?’
‘I don’t understand,’ Sister Mary said apologetically. ‘Isn’t poker a bit silly?’
‘Silly? Silly?’ Sister Bertha’s bellowing breaths reminded Sister Mary of the wolf knocking the little piggies’ house down. ‘It’s a big sports show!’
‘Sport?’ Sister Mary said. ‘How is gambling sport?’
‘Oh, hush!’ Sister Bertha said, looking very out of sorts.
‘It’s not like there’s exercise involved,’ Sister Mary said, with just a hint of reproach.
‘Listen, you foolish woman,’ Sister Bertha said, puffing up. ‘I am trying to tell you, that Claire is on TV!
‘But what is she doing on TV?’ Sister Mary said.
‘Who’s on TV?’ Sister Damien, who was passing by, said.
‘Claire! Claire is on TV!’
‘Our Claire?’ Sister Damien said in surprise. ‘What is she doing on TV?’
Sister Bertha glared. ‘Look!’ she yelled. ‘Claire’s on TV playing poker! It’s showing right now!’
‘How do you know, anyway?’ Sister Damien, who was a little old, said.
‘Know what?’ Sister Alatriste, who came out on hearing all the commotion, said.
‘Oh for… !’ Sister Bertha said, and she marched away. The other nuns, with a little bewilderment, followed.
* * *
It was quite a sight, were you there to see it: a murmur of nuns, marching with determination through the quiet streets, black and white, black and white in the moonlight. Sister Bertha led the way, and the others followed, shaken out of their reverie by the nun’s intensity, and with concern for their sister, who had gone missing. They had all liked Claire, and they were worried for her.
It was Sister Bertha, then, in the lead, and Sister Bertha who led the nuns straight to the nearest pub, a humble little establishment called the Swan. The door swung open and the nuns marched in, into a warm room scented with cider and beer. A television set flickered images high on the wall in the corner. The few solitary drinkers looked up from their pints, blinked, and at least one crossed himself while another sidled to the door and was gone, perhaps overwhelmed by the appearance of so much religious intensity in one place.
‘Hello, Tommy,’ Sister Bertha said.
‘Sister,’ the landlord said. ‘What can I get you?’
‘The remote control,’ Sister Bertha said, with inexorable force. The landlord blinked and complied. Sister Bertha pointed the remote at the television like a weapon and pressed buttons. Channels flickered rapidly until they came to the sport. The picture resolved – a card table, people seated—
‘It really is Claire!’ Sister Damien said. ‘Why is she on television!’
‘Don’t start that again,’ Sister Bertha snapped.
‘The river is a six, no change to anyone…’
‘How can a river be a six?’ Sister Damien said.
‘Mikey raises, one hundred thousand. He thinks his aces are good…’
‘And there’s the re-raise from Claire!’
‘She’s trying to raise money for the convent, I knew it!’ Sister Bertha said, and she clapped her hands, making the other nuns glance at her sideways. Sister Bertha’s enthusiasm was practically unholy.
‘But why? What do we need money for?’ Sister Alatriste said. ‘I thought everything was agreed with the Bishopric—’
Sister Bertha and Sister Mary looked at each other a little guiltily. Sister Damien, with a quavering voice, said that cards were immoral, and demanded a glass of sherry from the landlord. He complied, hurriedly.
‘You just wait until the Mother Superior hears about t—’ Sister Alatriste began, when a cool voice behind them said, ‘I am astounded to find four of my nuns taking shelter at a local hostelry, Sisters. No, please, finish your sentence, dear Sister Alatriste?’
‘I was just telling the sisters that I had an errand I must run, which completely escaped my mind. I really must go… Sister Damien, are you coming?’
‘What?’ Sister Damien demanded. She looked around, saw the Mother Superior, bolted down her sherry, and slid off the stool.
‘Completely forgot the washing,’ she said. ‘I’d forget my head, next, if it weren’t screwed on.’ She guffawed at the landlord and followed Sister Alatriste out the door.
‘Well?’ the Mother Superior demanded.
‘It’s Claire, Reverend Mother, she—’
‘I can see what she’s doing, Sister Bertha.’
‘Come on,’ Sister Mary said gently, tugging on Sister Bertha’s sleeve.
‘But she’s…’
‘It’s time to go.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
On the screen, the two talking heads were discussing leader boards and hand percentages, and blinds, and ranked payouts. The Mother Superior stood her ground until the two nuns, a little sheepishly, left the pub, with Sister Bertha looking back one last time at the television, with a longing look, and one who was religiously inclined may have found in themselves a comparison to Lot’s wife, looking back to Sodom for one final time.
When they were gone, at last, the Mother Superior let her shoulders sag; she took a deep breath and sat down on the stool vacated by Sister Damien.
‘Hard day?’ the landlord said with sympathy.
‘Aren’t they all, Harry?’ she said.
‘The usual?’ he said, and without expecting a reply began to pour a half-pint glass of Murphy’s. The Mother Superior watched the credits roll on the screen.
‘Can you play it back?’ she said.
‘There’s a plus-one channel, I think,’ Harry, the landlord, said.
He waited for the drink to settle and then slid it across the counter. The Mother Superior nodded, and took a sip. She picked the remote and scrolled channels until the poker coverage came back on. It was just beginning.
She sat there for a while, sipping her drink.
‘…all you need is a chip and a prayer.’
‘Don’t give up your day job, Mike.’
‘Oh, you silly men,’ the Mother Superior said.
25
‘Claire? Claire!’
She turned at the sound.
‘Mum? What are you doing here?’
‘My poor baby!’ Her mum’s hug, enveloped warmth, the smell of perfume and cigarettes.
‘Oh, mum, they—’
Hurt, choking her.
‘I know. I know.’
They disengaged, her mother holding her at arm’s length, looking her over. The hotel lobby, or what passed for one. Shabby sofas and a television set flickering, a group of students huddled outside, smoking.
‘I’m glad you’re here.’
‘I wasn’t… I didn’t… I don’t want you to think I don’t support you.’
‘I know, Mum.’
‘It’s just’ – she blew out a big plume of air – ‘a lot to take in, sometimes, you know?’
Claire, half crying, half laughing. ‘I know, Mum.’
‘You don’t make it easy!’
They were both laughing.
‘Being a nun was bad enough, but poker? You know how I feel about—’
‘I know, Mum.’
‘But I love you, Claire. And I’ll support you, whatever you do.’
‘Good, mum, because I still want to be a nun.’
‘A nun, playing poker,’ her mother said.
‘Don’t you start.’
‘I’m just saying.’
But she was smiling as she said it.
* * *
In the room her mother started unpacking. Claire, pacing: ‘Did you have to bring the content of the entire flat with you?’
‘It’s just a few necessities,’ her mother said, removing shoes, shampoo, dresses, hair brushes, a robe, a hair dryer, a box of cereal. ‘What?’
‘Nothing, Mum.’
‘You better win this thing,’ her mother said, looking around the small hotel room. The window opened up on the wall of the next building. ‘You could afford better hotels.’
‘I’m giving the money to the convent.’
‘Of course you are,’ her mother said.
‘Mum…’
‘I mean it. I’m proud of you.’
‘Oh, Mum.’
‘Come on, let me buy you a drink. You can still drink, can’t you?’
‘I’ll have one, Mum. Just to keep you company.’
‘Of course you will. Come on.’
Arm in arm, they left the room and took the creaking elevator downstairs.
* * *
The bar was lively with backpackers and students. They pressed through and her mother ordered gin and tonic and Claire had a soft drink. She hadn’t really liked who she’d become, when drinking. By the time she’d joined the convent she’d stopped drinking alcohol. There was something about drink that made you want to keep on drinking, and she remembered one night, when she could no longer stand the atmosphere at home, her father dying in the next room, and she went out with the others, from bar to bar, drinking until they ended up under one of the bridges, a bottle of vodka, and she stood there, looking down at the cold, dark water of the Shannon, tittering on the edge, thinking how easy it would be to just… fall.
Then someone shouted for her, and she bent down double and threw everything up into the water, without warning, the puke burning her mouth and lips, falling… everyone laughed and cheered. She threw up until there was nothing left in her and then she climbed down. The bile, she thought later, tasted a lot like grief.
‘Claire? You look sad.’
‘I’m just remembering,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ her mother said, and her face was soft in the dim light. She took Claire’s hand in hers. ‘There were good times, too.’
‘Yes.’
‘We had a lot of laughs, in the good times,’ she said. ‘I loved your father, Claire.’
‘I know.’
‘And he loved you. I think he would have even given up cards for you.’
‘The game was his life,’ Claire said.
‘It doesn’t have to be yours,’ her mother said.
‘It’s not!’
‘Do you really think you can win this?’ her mother said.
‘Yes.’ She said it simply.
‘I believe you.’
‘Do you remember when he was on that first televised game?’ Claire said. ‘And we saw him on TV, and he looked so… so handsome!’
Her mother laughed. ‘Like a real movie star,’ she said.
‘And he said the next day, someone stopped him in the street to ask for an autograph.’
‘That was just a story he made up, Claire. He was always making up stories.’
Old remembered pain in her mother’s eyes. Claire squeezed her mother’s hand and they both smiled.
‘To tomorrow,’ her mum said, raising her glass.
‘To tomorrow,’ Claire said.
26
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Pray for us sinners,
Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
* * *
She woke up with a feeling that she was floating on clouds. Grey daylight seeping in through the blinds. She lay on her back and looked up, and her lips moved in prayer. Then she got up and put on her jeans and her trainers and her T-shirt and hoodie, and grabbed her bag, which was already packed, and she left.
When she got downstairs the bar was shut but she saw a familiar figure sitting in one corner, asleep on the table with its arms crossed and its head over its arms, and a puddle of drool pooling on the surface of the table. She went over. Shook his shoulder.
‘Seamus?’ she said. It was the Docker.
‘Huh? What?’ He raised his head, blinked against the light, grimaced.
‘Oh, Claire. I busted out.’
‘It happens.’
He tried to smile, failed. ‘Didn’t make it to the money. Was going to play the side games but met an old friend and one thing led to another.’
By “old friend” she assumed he meant the bottle, now empty, on the table beside him.
‘Your daddy would be proud of you, kid.’
Some suspicion, suddenly raised in her mind. She’d been so angry with Mikey, she didn’t stop to think—
‘Seamus,’ she said gently, ‘did you speak to the TV producers, yesterday?’
‘Speak to… ?’ he said.
‘Did someone ask you about me?’
‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Yes, there was a lovely young woman in the bar near the hotel and she did keep asking me questions.’
‘Did she have a camera?’
‘A camera?’
‘Was she one of the producers, Seamus?’ she said patiently.
He blinked in confusion. ‘I don’t know, Claire.’
‘Right.’
‘Did I do something wrong, Claire?’
Claire sighed.
‘It’s all right, Seamus,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’
27
‘Here we go again,’ Danny Boy said.
* * *
‘It’s Day Three of the EPC, Mike, and the field is shrinking rapidly. Of the original one thousand players only twenty-seven remain in the field. We are three tables away from the Final Table and with the blinds rising, gameplay should be fast and furious as everyone has their eyes firmly on the goal – and on the one million pounds first place prize money.’
‘Indeed, Don, let’s take a look at our Featured Table, where grizzled pros and talented amateurs are competing against – Don, are those nuns?
* * *
Claire raised her head from the cards when she heard the commotion. The cameras, which had been on her a moment before, now swung to the audience, and she could see the doors to the Grand Hall, and through the doors there marched—
‘Woohoo! Claire!’
‘Go Claire!’
She laughed, astonished, as the other players on the Featured Table looked on in bemusement at the nuns who came pouring into the Grand Hall. Sister Bertha was in the front, Sister Mary just behind her, and behind them came all the others, and they came until they stood just by the barrier that separated audience from players, and they cheered her on, and she was laughing, laughing and crying, the cameras watching, and she got up and went to them and hugged Sister Bertha, and Sister Mary, and for a moment she was surrounded, entirely, by nuns.
* * *
‘Well, Mike, you don’t see that every day.’
‘Indeed you don’t, Don. Though it reminds me, for entirely different reasons, of my fourth marriage, which—’
‘Did you marry a nun, Mike?’
‘No, Don, but it was shortly after that I decided to become a monk—’
‘We go back to the Featured Table now, where Irish Mike – can we call him Irish Mike?’
‘I think we can.’
‘Where Irish Mike is in a hand against Vlad “The Impaler” Walewski—’
* * *
She hadn’t seen the Mother Superior.
She was back in the game, and the three tables have gone down to two. She was so close she could taste it.
Nicola “Kicker” Sinclair raised an all-in from an early position. Claire looked down at a pair of kings. Was it worth it? The Kicker was short-stacked. It was an easy call. Claire pushed all-in. Her bigger stack should scare off the other players.
On her left, another short stack, Billy “The Kid” Olson, looked like he was about to call, then did.
‘A big hand developing on the second Featured Table, Mike, with two all-ins against our Irish nun!’
‘I bet she’s praying right now, Don. Let’s see what we have—’
Kicker with an ace-king. Billy “The Kid” with a queen-jack suited. Claire with a sigh of relief – she was ahead, at least for now.
‘The flop comes ten, eight, deuce, rainbow, Mike—’
‘A good flop for kings, Don, but a straight draw for Billy The Kid gives him some outs—’
‘Claire has to dodge an ace, but Kicker Sinclair is outgunned here, Mike—’
‘The turn is a jack. The Kid improves to a pair, and Kicker improves to a gutshot straight draw—’
‘Lots of outs for both players, but Claire’s still ahead—’
