Devil May Care Read online

  ‘Ready,’ said Gorner. It was less a question than a statement.

  He marched up to the net and began to measure it carefully with the metal yardstick that hung from the end. ‘You think I am wasting my time with this, Mr Bond, but I invite you to consider. At our level, almost every shot passes only a few inches over the net, and perhaps once each game the ball will actually strike the netcord. Add in the “lets” from services and the figure is higher. In a close match there are perhaps two hundred points and a typical winning margin of less than ten. Yet of those two hundred points perhaps thirty, including services, are affected by the net – more than three times enough to win the match! One should therefore leave nothing to chance.’

  ‘I’m impressed by your logic,’ said Bond. He swung his racquet a few times to loosen his shoulder.

  Gorner adjusted the net by slightly tightening the chain that was attached to the central vertical tape and hooked to a bar in a hole in the ground. He then slapped the netcord three times with his racquet. There was no handle, Bond noticed, to raise or lower the net from the post. The netcord itself ran down the post and disappeared beneath a small metal plate into the ground – presumably on to a wheel where it was pre-tensioned by the staff. This left the central tape and chain for fine-tuning purposes.

  ‘Good,’ said Gorner. ‘Will you spin?’

  Bond twirled the racquet in his hand. ‘Rough or smooth?’ he said.

  ‘Skin,’ said Gorner. He leaned over and inspected Bond’s racquet. ‘Skin it is. I’ll serve.’

  Bond walked back to the receiving position, wondering what a ‘skin’ was, unable to suppress the thought that the slang term might apply equally to rough or smooth.

  Although they had taken a few practice serves, this was the first chance Bond had had to see Gorner’s action properly. ‘Watch the ball,’ he muttered to himself.

  This was easier said than done. Gorner bounced the tennis ball in front of him with his racquet once, twice, three times, then started to turn round, like a dog when it makes its bed. When he’d completed a 360-degree circle, he threw the ball high with his left hand and kept the arm, with its large white glove, extended until the last second – when the racquet smashed through and sent the ball thudding down the centre line. So put out was Bond by the whole procedure that he had barely moved.

  ‘Fifteen,’ said Gorner, and moved swiftly to the advantage court.

  Forcing himself to concentrate and not to watch the circling rigmarole, Bond dug his toes into the beaten earth. His backhand return was cut off by Gorner, who had moved swiftly to the net and slammed his volley into the far corner. ‘Thirty.’

  Bond won only one point in the first game. Gorner opened a bottle of Evian from the fridge and poured some into a glass, from which he took a single sip. He made a gesture with his left hand towards the fridge, as though inviting Bond to do likewise. As he did so, the buttoned cuff of his shirt separated for a moment from the white glove. When he moved off again, Gorner playfully smacked the net twice more, as though for good luck.

  Trying to put out of his mind what he had seen of Gorner’s hair-covered wrist, Bond walked back to serve. One’s first service game is always important in setting the tone for a match. Bond, who had a strong first service, decided to throttle back a little and concentrate on accuracy. He pushed Gorner wide on both sides, but whenever he came in for the volley found himself adroitly lobbed. At 30–40 down, he twice served into the top of the net and saw the ball rebound on to his own side. Double fault: a craven way to lose one’s service.

  It was difficult for Bond to find a way to break up Gorner’s rhythm. He remembered with Wayland in Barbados that he could sometimes slow the game down, mix it up and make the young man overhit in his desire to attack. Gorner made no such mistakes. His slashed forehand was hard for Bond to volley: he had to get his racquet right out ahead and punch through it to nullify the spin – not that Gorner gave him much chance to volley, since as soon as he saw Bond advance, he unleashed another lob that fell, with irritating regularity, just inside the baseline, leaving a clear mark in the reddish surface.

  When Bond served, Gorner would swiftly call ‘Out’ and make no attempt to play the ball, which would hit the back netting and rebound. Just as Bond was about to hit his second serve, Gorner would shout ‘Hold on’ and trot back to push the rogue ball out of the way. ‘Can’t be too careful,’ he explained. ‘I saw a man break his ankle by standing on a ball only last week. Carry on.’ By then, Bond’s rhythm was disrupted and he was glad just to get his second serve in play.

  Tenaciously, Bond clung on to his service games until he found himself facing Gorner at 3–5 down. It was his last chance of breaking back before the set was over. He decided to stay back, work Gorner from side to side and hope to elicit a mistake. For the first time, Gorner began to look fallible. He twice hit his fizzing forehand long, and for the first time in the match Bond had a break point, at 30–40. Gorner served wide to the backhand, but Bond hit a solid cross-court return and got himself into the rally. He then hit deep to the base line and Gorner spooned up a half-court ball off the backhand. This was Bond’s chance. He closed in, kept his eye on the ball, and whipped a forehand topspin winner down the line. ‘Out,’ called Gorner. ‘Deuce.’

  Gorner was into his service procedure again before Bond had time to protest. Gorner won the game and the set: 6–3. As they changed ends and Bond went back to serve for the first game of the second set, he went over to where he thought his forehand drive had bounced. There was a clear scuff mark three inches inside the sideline.

  Bond gathered himself. As he went into his service action, Gorner was jumping around, twirling his racquet, feinting to come in, then rapidly retreating. It was an old tactic, Bond knew, but not an easy one to counter. He forced himself to watch the ball and smacked a hard first service down the centre. ‘Out,’ called Gorner.

  ‘I think not,’ said Bond. ‘I can show you the mark where it landed.’ He walked up to the net and pointed.

  ‘An old mark,’ said Gorner.

  ‘No. I saw my service land there. I deliberately left a margin for error. It’s at least six inches inside.’

  ‘My dear Mr Bond, if your idea of English fair play is to question a man at his own club, then please be my guest and play the point again.’ Gorner smacked the sole of his shoe with his racquet to remove any loose particles of dirt. ‘Go on.’

  Bond’s first re-taken serve was long. He hit the second crisply, with slice, and was disappointed to see it hit the netcord and skew off into the tramlines.

  ‘Double fault,’ said Gorner. ‘Poetic justice, don’t you think?’

  Bond was beginning to feel enraged. From the advantage court, he fired his best, angled serve wide to his opponent’s backhand. ‘Out,’ came the prompt and confident call.

  As he wound up for his second, Gorner called, ‘Careful! Behind you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought I saw a ball just behind you.’

  ‘I’d prefer it if you left me to look out for these things.’

  ‘I understand, Mr Bond. But I could never forgive myself if my guest were to come to some harm. Please do carry on. Second service.’

  Tennis, more than most games, is played in the mind. Anger is useless unless it can be channelled and kept under control – as a key to concentration.

  Bond knew he had to change his game against Gorner. For a start, he seemed to be having no luck at all. He had hit an inordinate number of netcords on his service, few of which had rebounded into play, whereas Gorner, even with his rather flat service, had not once touched the net. Furthermore, there was no point in Bond’s hitting the ball close to the line. Every shot he played from now on had to bounce at least two feet inside the court. With this in mind, he began to play more and more drop-shots, since no one can dispute that a ball which lands only a few feet over the net is in play. The drop-shot itself seldom wins the point in club tennis, however, and the player who produces it must
at once go on to a high state of alert. Bond had learned this lesson at a heavy price from the speedy Wayland. Gorner was not so quick, and Bond was ready for all his attempted lob and flick replies, even punching several successful volleys past the man he had finally dragged out of position.

  Gorner now circled not once but twice before serving. At the top of the ball toss, he held his white gloved hand for as long as he dared in front of the white tennis ball before hitting it. He became a jack-in-the-box while waiting to receive. He interrupted almost every service point of Bond’s with a move to swat away a ball that had conveniently rebounded from the back netting, or ‘fallen’ from his pocket. But the distractions only succeeded in making Bond concentrate harder until, in the eighth game of the set, he finally and for the first time in the match, with a sliced forehand volley, hit straight down the middle of the court – far from any line – broke Gorner’s service.

  Bond hit two unreturnable first serves to go 30–love up, then netted an easy backhand volley. On the fourth point he was lobbed. 30–all. Serving into the forehand court, he had the choice of swinging it out wide or hitting flat down the middle. He chose neither. He punched an 80-per-center straight at Gorner’s ribs, so as to give him no width. Gorner, surprised by the change of line, spooned up his return and Bond collected the winning volley with relish.

  It was 40–30: set point to Bond. As he began to serve for the set, Gorner called out, ‘Excuse me, Mr Bond. Will you forgive me? A call of nature. I shan’t be one minute.’

  He jogged off the court to the clubhouse.

  Bond pushed his hand back through his damp hair in irritation. The man was shameless. And the trouble with people who are shameless is that they are curiously invulnerable.

  At the umpire’s chair, Bond pulled a bottle of Pschitt from the fridge and took a couple of sips. He was playing as well as he knew how, but he was wary that Gorner might have yet further means to avoid the possibility of losing. He was clearly a man who would rule nothing out.

  Gorner returned swiftly from the clubhouse. ‘Do forgive me, Mr Bond. Now where were we? Was I serving?’

  ‘No. I was. It’s forty–thirty. Five–three.’

  ‘How could I have forgotten? So this is set point?’ There was a guileless yet patronizing note in his voice, implying that such matters as the score were generally beneath his notice.

  Bond said nothing. He had worked over Gorner’s backhand so much that it must be time for something new. Taking careful aim, he served hard down the centre. Gorner anticipated well, but Bond’s serve hit the line – a tape that stood a fraction proud – and bounced up awkwardly towards Gorner’s chest, where he mis-hit it into the base of the net. It was the first bit of luck Bond had had all morning, and there was no point in Gorner calling the service ‘out’ as only the line-tape itself could have caused the difficult bounce.

  As they sat on their chairs, Gorner said, ‘You’re quite a fighter, aren’t you, Mr Bond?’

  ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘On the contrary.’ Gorner stood to one side and did some stretching exercises. ‘I would like to propose that we raise the stakes a little.’

  He didn’t look at Bond as he spoke, but busied himself with the strings on his racquet.

  ‘All right,’ said Bond. ‘It’s a hundred pounds, isn’t it?’

  ‘I believe so. So … Shall we say a hundred thousand?’

  Gorner was still not looking at Bond. He was bending over his bag to extract a new racquet and was testing the tension by banging the frame of another racquet against the strings. He said, ‘I mean francs, of course, Mr Bond.’

  ‘Old, presumably,’ said Bond.

  ‘Oh, no. New. As new as we can find them.’

  Bond calculated rapidly. It was more than seven thousand pounds, silly money, far more than he could afford, but in the strange tussle to which he now appeared committed, he felt he could show no weakness. ‘All right, Dr Gorner,’ he said. ‘Your serve.’

  ‘Ah, the good old English “fair play”,’ said Gorner, heavily, in his oddly accented voice. ‘I suppose to turn down my bet would be “not cricket”.’ He spat out the words with such bitterness that it took a moment for him to register the joke. ‘Not cricket,’ he repeated, laughing mirthlessly as he walked back to serve. ‘Not cricket at all. Ha ha. Just tennis.’

  The sum of money that had been bet and all the antics with racquet and bag and stretching added up to just one thing, thought Bond: a threat. You can’t beat me, Gorner was saying, and it’s foolish to try. Be sensible, be realistic, let me win and it’ll be better for you in the long run.

  The means by which he’d made himself clear were subtle, Bond had to admit. Unfortunately for Gorner, however, the threat only made Bond more determined.

  For the first six games, the set went with service. With the score at 3–3, Gorner served again and went 15–40 down. Bond knew it was a crucial moment. He sliced a backhand return deep – but not deep enough to risk being called out – then retreated to the baseline. Gorner slashed a fizzing forehand slice down the centre of the court. Most of these shots stopped and stood up as the backspin told, though occasionally they didn’t grip, but merely hurried through. This was a hurrier, and Bond was almost cut in two as he tried to slice it back. Gorner was on to his weak return, pushing him deep into the corner, but Bond lobbed diagonally, and drove his man back. He didn’t charge the net, but stayed back, and the rally ground on for sixteen strokes, from side to side. Bond felt his lungs burning and eyes aching with concentration. He kept pounding Gorner’s backhand, pushing his forehands as close to the line as he dared. When he could hear Gorner panting and gasping with the effort, he suddenly dropped the ball short. Gorner ran in, but failed to make it. Game to Bond.

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Bond, unnecessarily.

  Gorner said nothing. He raised his racquet and smashed it down on the net post, so the wooden frame collapsed. He chucked the racquet to the side of the court and pulled another from his bag.

  The show of rage seemed to galvanize him, and he ripped into Bond’s service with no sign of the nerves that had threatened both players in the cautious exchanges of the previous games. With his combination of slice, lob and competitive line-call, he broke back at once. Four–all. Bond cursed himself silently as he prepared to receive.

  For the first time that Bond could remember, Gorner hit the netcord with his first service. The ball ballooned out, and Bond successfully attacked the second with a cross-court forehand. Emboldened, he unleashed an aggressive backhand to the incoming Gorner’s feet to go love–30 ahead. Suddenly the tightness in Bond’s chest and the heaviness in his legs seemed to have gone. He felt confident, and hit another low, flat return of serve that skimmed an inch above the net to give him three break points.

  Gorner circled three times in the advantage court, finally tossed the ball high with a flash of white glove and served with a grunt. The ball hit the top of the net and dropped back. He gathered himself and hit a flat second serve, which hit the netcord, ran along three feet and fell back harmlessly on his side.

  ‘That is unbelievable!’ he exploded. He ran to the net and hammered it with his racquet.

  ‘Steady on. You’ll have the secretary out here,’ said Bond. ‘Five–four. My serve, I think.’

  Bond drank a full glass of Evian at the change. The match was almost over and he wasn’t bothered about having too much fluid in his stomach.

  While he waited for Gorner to complete his changeover rituals, Bond bounced the ball and planned his service game. Three-quarter speed down the middle to the deuce court, out wide to the backhand on the advantage court. Then, if 30–love up, hit the variants: slice wide to the forehand, then straight down the middle in the advantage court.

  Gorner finished towelling himself and went slowly back to receive. As Bond prepared to serve, Gorner advanced almost to the service line, then doubled back. He managed a decent backhand return, but Bond put the volley away a safe two feet inside the sid
eline.

  Gorner advanced to the net. ‘I wonder if you’d like to raise our bet, Mr Bond. I was thinking of a double.’

  Bond didn’t have the money and he didn’t have the authority of the Service to presume on theirs. But he felt that in the last two games the odds had turned inexplicably in his favour.

  ‘If you insist,’ he said. ‘Fifteen–love.’

  He netted his first serve, but hit a deep second with topspin. Gorner’s return was short and Bond was able to pressure him into a backhand mistake.

  Following his plan, he swung the next serve out wide and stunned Gorner’s return with a drop volley, giving himself three match points.

  Now for the middle line, he thought. He threw the ball a little lower than usual, and slightly further in front of him, then hit with all his power, flat down the centre. It bounced in the corner of the service box and curved away from Gorner’s flailing racquet to hit the back netting half-way up. It lodged there, whitish grey, smudged with red.

  Bond went to the net and held out his hand. Gorner came to meet him and, for the first time since they had met, looked him in the eye.

  The relief and elation of victory evaporated as Bond felt the intense and violent hatred of the eyes that bored into him.

  ‘I look forward to a rematch,’ said Gorner. ‘In the very near future. I do not think you will be so fortunate a second time.’