The Gambler
by Sean Harry Redmond
He had enjoyed a flutter, ever since he was young. He’d never had much money to speak of but for
some reason, as soon as the money came in, be it from legitimate or
illegitimate means there he would be, it fuelled him, gave him vitality, it
could also cripple him, but he needed that too, losing was part of the product
an integral part of the bargain he struck on an almost daily basis. He wasn’t educated per se; he had attended
school for as long as he could stand it, and left with the minimum his
potential afforded him, an achievement that still fell short of the government
targets, though such targets are subject to change as they so often do, just like
odds. He never felt that that had
disadvantaged him. But then again he
never had any great dreams, stricken by the poverty of ambition perhaps, but
not of opportunity, or ability.
In all he was contended, so long as he was here. This chapel of statistics, with its very own
paradise, and its very own hell, it had been his personal theatre, it had been
the scene of many a triumph and much slaughter, yet each victory and each
defeat felt as fresh as the first. Each
moment while at once individual was also fluid, and part of a singular
hive. His memory could recall some of
the more impressive or depressing moments, but frankly he had been here so
often, and gone about his business with such a frequency, that distinguishing
one moment from the next was difficult to say the least, he preferred not to
dwell and was loath to reminisce. There
could be no end, and he could not remember the beginning, but he knew that
whatever happened today would have happened before, and that whatever would
happen in the future, will have happened in days and months passed. It was a loop that comforted him. Whilst any 2 given days could be completely
different, they would in fact be entirely the same. This was why he came. He loved this, he would return to this point
eternally, if he could.
Though by admission he was a compulsive perhaps even
obsessive gambler he did not himself feel addicted. There was a thin, yet clear
distinction. He could walk away if needs
demanded he leave, and often they did.
It was only on very rare occasions that he would actually watch the
race, or game he had money on. He was
generally a busy man and so finding something to do was rarely a problem. He didn’t feel like a junky, didn’t demand he
be here, and sure he lost money, but then again he found he didn’t need a great
deal in his day to day life, and didn’t have that many people in his life to
spend it on. Gambling quenched a thirst
in him, it was the loss of control that he enjoyed, the act of throwing dice in
the air and letting them land wherever the universe determined.
The bookie was a sanctuary, a place to forget, and a place
to escape because when an individual relinquishes control, they no longer
stress, worry, or panic, at least he didn’t.
He always imagined it as though it were an old saloon, but not the kind
with the dancing girls and the mundane and aimless fighting from a Western,
more a desolate lonely place, with room only for 3, himself, the bartender, and
of course, his beverage of choice – short, and blue, and the guiding hand of
fate, it was this potent, yet ever reliable friend that would see him
through.
He handed over his cash and his slip; the cashier gave a
familiar smile, “To the boozer?” as if the question need be asked. “Where else?” came the reply. “See you tomorrow Johnny?”
“Hopefully in a few furlongs time,” collecting his coat and
arranging his pockets, his soul purged for now he left the bookies. Walking the length of the high street had
become arduous and a test of his mettle.
He did not fit in here anymore. This place had changed since he was
young shops had changed hands so many times, faces changed, in this part of
London even the language was changing.
It was odd to think that to some people’s eyes he was in fact once part
of a change. Though anyone who did think
that was long dead by now, long dead and forgotten. Johnny was well versed in the background of
East London. Every immigrant population
that has become a part of the British nation finds its origins here. Be they Jewish, Muslim, Catholic, Irish,
Polish, or French they all started here.
There was an odd sort of pride in that.
It was a shared heritage he identified with. Though it did not stop him feeling out of
place. That he could not help.
He didn’t blame the latest in a long line of newcomers for
his feelings of loneliness but rather those who had left him. Most of his generation had found a ‘better
life’ in the suburbs though he wondered what that really meant. Yes they drove lovely cars, and lived in
great big houses with fantastic gardens but how could that be what they really
wanted? They must have missed the old
place, the laughs, and the booze, the knowledge that you know almost everybody
in your block of flats, and the block of flats opposite and the block of flats
behind, point being you knew everybody, and everybody knew you. That familiarity was something he
missed.
When he was a young man the local boozers were the places to
catch up have fun and live life to its fullest.
Now the pubs that were left had become rescue centre for those left
behind, and not the cheap kind. There
was a time when he could walk into any pub within a mile and be assured that he
would see a face, not always a good looking one or a friendly one, but at the
least recognizable. He would often find
himself mourning the past. It was
impossible not to when so much had gone, and what had replaced it was entirely
unimpressive. It was difficult to find
food to eat here now that wasn’t Halal prepared, he was never too sure what
that meant, he knew it was a religious preparation and he had never taken
religion seriously. Perhaps he should
have, maybe he should have tried to learn more about the people around him,
perhaps then he wouldn’t be the proverbial fish up a tree? It was too late now.
Suddenly John couldn’t catch his breath, everything stopped,
“Honk!” panting and in a semi state of shock he jumped back from the road, “you stupid old git” John could only
mumble to himself, death to whatever it was the driver of the car had said. He had no doubt it was stronger than
git. He stood on the pavement collecting
his breath, as he looked down the road where the car had sped off.
One thirst had been quenched but his other thirst had intensified. The dry green arches that had welcomed him here so many times before had started to wane, and rusted metal had begun to seep through, the rheumatic walls would be here much longer than himself. The glass was single pained, and the windows dingy. His first step in and he had already smelt what was not there. The smell of tobacco – strange how he missed it, he didn’t smoke but he missed the smell a great deal. Now all that lingered in the air was stale beer and piss it was palpable, wretch worthy. He much preferred tobacco to that. That had been the beginning of the end he felt. It seemed that after the smoking ban the price of his pint had increased year on year, and with every passing year another pub closed.
Looking over at the jukebox he remembered that this was one
of the ‘infected zones’ a pub where the students and young professionals who
had flocked to the relatively cheap parts of London had taken over. The kind of people who wore sunglasses no
matter what the weather was like, where the blokes weren’t blokes at all and
spoke “oh so very effeminately”. They
wore jeans that must have constricted blood supply so much that there balls
must have blown up from the constant strain.
That probably explained the ladylike way they all spoke. At least the music they played was familiar,
most of the time. That was part of the
reason they flocked to pubs like this.
It was very cool and retro to be here.
An old ska song faded out, and silence overpowered the room as one of
the kids by the jukebox fed the machine.
“Bitter Johnnie?” Frank was keen to be busy besides John the
toddlers by the jukebox were the only custom. “I’m always bitter” John lied,
and did so the only way he knew how, with a smirk on his face that twisted ever
so slightly to the right side of his face “ESB, its bloody cold out.” Reaching into his pockets John pulled out a
£5 note and completed his second transaction of the day – though this one gave
him no fulfilment. Sipping his pint and
collecting his change all the while staring at the unceasing news coverage of a
missing girl. “Bunch a cunts these
journo’s…” It wasn’t a question.
“Probably turn out its one of the parents, they say that half of em
are”. John heard what Frank was saying
but didn’t really listen, the words just swept over his as the muted coverage
on the television was joined by a song …“Stop
your messing around...Better Think of Your Future”
It was probably time by now.
“You still get teletext on that thing?” Whilst he might not watch the
race he wanted to know the winner so he could get back to the bookies, there
was a lot on today, Football, Rugby, Horses.
He made a point of backing one thing at a time, any more would divide
his attention. Frank handed him the
remote, “You know I can’t fucking make heads or tails of this”. John grumbled, “Give it ‘ere…what was it
horses?”
“Cheltenham.” Inwardly John’s body was pulsating, blood
pumping nerves tingling; outwardly he was calm, but his insides were a
veritable hive of activity. “How much
you have on it then?” Straight face John
replied “Knicker”.
“Fuck off knicker! I know you well enough to know that a
knicker is about the most you’re willing to leave the bookies with,” Frank
muttered but John caught the last word “addict!” One of the youths from the jukebox had snuck
up behind John as he turned to Frank and in turn John decided to take issue as
eloquently as he could.
“Frank, you know I object the use of that fucking obscenity,
now tell me who won the fucking race or shall be forced to take my custom
elsewhere”
“Haha, calm down, fuck sake I can’t read it from here, can
you?” Both men squinted at the screen
hanging from the ceiling neither able to decipher what may as well have been
Greek. In the end both gave up.
“What can I do you for?” The youth handed over his empty
pint glass and ordered his “Strongbow” as confident as could.
“Couldn’t do me a favour boy could ya? Read that teletext for me tell me who won the
13:00 at Cheltenham? Frank give him the
handset”
“Yes sir, of course sir is that all you require?” one could
taste the sarcasm Frank injected in his words, but to John they left no
sting. This had been their way for
decades.
“Just give him the fucking handset” The young man didn’t
have time to respond, and immediately got to work finding the right page. “Did you say 1 o clock? John nodded.
Upon hearing the name John was thirsty. He sipped at his pint, but it did nothing for
him. He quickly thanked the young
bespectacled man in the chequered shirt, and left a quarter of his pint in his
glass, before telling Frank that he would be back in a while. It was all very rushed and very quick. He had to get back fast. Not because he had won, but because he had to
put money on a few more games, a few more horses, there was always something
else. It didn’t matter that he had won
£250 and that was what people didn’t understand. This was the rush he lived for, knowing he
was returning to go through the processes again. His heart fluttered, and his mind traversed
what he had read earlier, a collection of form, odds, fixtures, race times, his
fingertips tingling. Saturdays were best
for this, so many things to put his money on, he was spoilt for choice and now
his mind was dead set. The pub was long
behind him, it was only now he realised that he had forgotten his coat, but he
wouldn’t go back for it, it would be there on his return. He had the receipt, he had his ticket to
ride. His mind raced through the weekend
fixtures, “Leyton Orient away defeat, Arsenal home win, Chelsea score draw,
West Brom home win…”
He collapsed, clutching his chest, he tried to take air in
but his body rejected it, he tried to exhale but there was nothing to be
expelled. Passers-by ignored at
first. They just stared. His mind was still walking to the bookies. He was willing his body to get up and go but
it just wouldn’t respond as if he were caught in the grip of an ever tightening
clamp. The more he fought the tighter
its grip seemed to get. His eyes slowly closed, and opened slower. Each time they closed he could see it. The bookmakers, he had to get there. He would get there. His eyes opened, he could see more people gathering
round, another talking to him, loudly, but he couldn’t make out the words. The pain in his chest was ever-present, and
his breathing laboured. John’s stiffened
arms were no longer his, and they no longer clutched at his heart. Instead they were starting to weaken, with
all the tenacity he could afford he opened his mouth. At first a raspy gasp escaped but he was sure
that he had managed to evacuate the one thing that mattered to him, “Nietzsche’s
Ghost”.
There was no prophetic flashback of his life there was no
light that he could run towards, none of it.
There was only the horse. There
was only death.
.jpg/200px-Moli%C3%A8re_-_Nicolas_Mignard_(1658).jpg)
