The place was devoid of anything to say she had ever been there and she wondered if this was the end of the line for her, was he going to make sure she disappeared? Was someone going to kill her? Terror rose up inside her like a wave and she felt the full force of her lifestyle as she understood what it could finally bring to her doorstep.

Clinton turned off the light and snapped, 'Come on, we ain't got all fucking night.'

Laura faced him, her tear-stained and terrified face making no impression on him at all.

'Please don't hurt me…' She sank down on to her knees, the fear making her legs weak and her heart beat so loud she could hear it in her ears like a drum.

Clinton was a small man; he had a face like an angel, as his mother was always pointing out, but he was slight in his build. He was just a driver and a gofer and that suited him down to the ground. Now though, he was finally understanding the buzz that fear could give to you. He was enjoying Laura's fear, enjoying seeing her brought down a peg or two. She was a whore with big expectations and Patrick had given him his orders and he would carry them out to the letter.

He stared at the girl for long moments as she sobbed and begged for her life.

'Please, Clinton, don't hurt me.'

Laura was imploring him with every ounce of strength she had left, the snot was running from her nose and she could feel it hanging in long strands as she scrambled across the floor to him, begging him, her lovely blue eyes wide with terror, not to harm her.

'Get up, you stupid bitch. You've got a long journey ahead of you tonight. You're the new suck and fuck girl for a friend of Patrick's in Manchester.'

Then he unzipped his trousers and said, with a northern accent, 'Get your laughing gear round that, lass.'

As Laura looked at him she saw the rest of her life in stunning detail and she realised just what she had let herself in for. The illusion of independence she had harboured all this time was just that, an illusion. She would be dependent on men like this for her daily bread until she was reduced to the streets and alleyways as age crept up on her, and her body gave out.

Clinton was choking her with his cock and she knew he was enjoying seeing her debased like this, was paying her back for all the slights, the sarcastic comments and the rudeness he had been forced to endure because she was fucking Patrick Brodie. His nails were digging into her scalp and he used her head for momentum, grabbing at the lovely hair that had always been her crowning glory. As he was coming in her mouth she heaved with the sudden taste of his salty, red-hot sperm.

Clinton left her lying on the floor, her tears silent now and he tidied himself up in seconds. Her bright-red lipstick was smothered all over his penis and his belly. He had enjoyed it so much that he could do it again and he decided that he would do it again. On the way to Manchester he would have her on her knees in the car park of a transport cafe. He was going to make the most of the opportunity he had been presented with. He knew she was out of his league and he wouldn't pay for it even if he had the money. So this was too good an opportunity to miss.

'But why? What have I done for Pat to do this to me?' Laura's voice was low, she was broken and he knew it. More to the point, she knew it.

'You've outlived your usefulness, darling, and now you have to go.'

He was laughing as he dragged her up off the floor by her hair and pushed her towards the front door, making her stumble with the force he used.

He locked up with her set of keys and placed them in his pocket. Then he walked her to the car, and, pushing her none too gently into the back, he slammed the door with a finality that told her she was off the radar, she was already yesterday's news.

Chapter Ten

Trevor Renton was tired, tired enough to leave the table, but he couldn't. He had seen off the two biggest wallets in the game with no trouble at all, more fool him, he realised now. The four other men at the table, none of whom were known to him, had played with seemingly unlimited amounts of money and were nothing more than ice-creams who he should have taken out of the game in the first two hands. They were nothing more than three mediocre players and a thieving ponce.

He had not bothered with them before because he had been too busy concentrating on the real gamers. But now he was convinced that they were on the scrounge, were after his pot; he had started with a fifty on tap and that had turned into a little over a hundred grand. He wondered if he was getting too trusting in his old age, but then again this had been a proper game. No one involved in the set-up had been suspect and he had been assured that the players were good for any debts incurred. Now though, he was not so sure. He had a shit-detector that was telling him that he was about to be scalped and there was not a thing he could do about it. He was a sitting duck and, ironically, this crowd of fucking morons held all the fucking cards.

Not that he would say any of that out loud, of course. He had far too much intelligence to accuse anyone of cheating at this table, not without the back-up of at least a fucking platoon of Vietnam veterans or a large crowd of serial killers. He was aware of the fact that this really wasn't his table in any way. It wasn't on his turf, for a start, and there was no one left that he knew or trusted as he had taken them out of the game. He was in a quandary of fucking Homeric proportions; he knew he was going to be had over, and worst of all, by a crowd of cunts he had seen as so worthless he had not even listened to their fucking names. He was far too well known and far too respected to have to worry about things like this.

He was backed by some of the biggest names in criminal history; he went into the massive games with their money on him as bets, that was how good he was. He had assumed that this lot he was left with were just the usual bystanders you got in a big game. All hoping to have a bit of luck and when they lost their few quid they'd sit back, swill the free booze and watch the real card players at work. And it was work to him and his ilk. This game should have been something these blokes would have wanted to tell their mates about, the big card game they were in. For once in their life they had sat with the best and that was usually enough for them. He had done this lot a fucking favour and a half, he had knocked out not just the daydreamers, but the real players as well. But no one, it seemed, was being encouraged to stay and watch the climax.

The other players had just been escorted out the door; he had come back from the toilet to see them leaving under duress. The alarm bells had started to ring then and he wondered what was to become of him this night. Players always stayed; they wanted to know where and more importantly with whom, their money would finally end up. It was the way you brought yourself down to earth after you left the table. Any addiction brought your dopamine levels up sky high, it was what made you stay there and play in the first place, it was also what kept you there afterwards. Just because you knew you had to leave the game didn't mean you couldn't enjoy it anyway. For most of the real players, watching a good game was the nearest thing to being back in your seat. For the addicted gamblers, not the real players like him and his colleagues, it was the dopamine their brains created that made them stay at the table when all they possessed was lost. It was the dopamine that kept them out all night and made them throw in car keys or their houses; that was what addiction was about.

For him and other professional card players it was about more than the thrill alone, it was about beating the odds and making a pile. It was about keeping your head when everyone around you was losing theirs. It was about winning, calmly and with dignity.