Next of Kin by John Boyne Page A

know you?’
    â€˜You’ve met me before.’
    â€˜I have?’ Montignac tried to recall; he was sure he would remember such a mountain of a man. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t—’
    â€˜I work for Nicholas Delfy,’ said the man. ‘He was hoping that you might be able to pay him a visit this evening.’
    Montignac felt his stomach sink a little. ‘Nicholas,’ he said quietly, considering it, pretending that it was difficult for him to remember who Nicholas Delfy actually was, his life being so full of important and powerful people that a few were always likely to slip through the cracks. ‘Yes of course. Nicholas. I haven’t spoken to him in quite some time.’
    â€˜I believe that’s what he’s concerned about,’ said the man. ‘Perhaps he misses your company.’
    Montignac smiled, although it wasn’t comforting that the man had a sense of humour. ‘Well you can tell him that he’s on my list,’ said Montignac hopefully. ‘I have a busy couple of days coming up but I’ll try to make it in to see him on Friday if that’s convenient.’
    â€˜Friday,’ said the man in a neutral tone.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Morning or afternoon?’ he asked.
    â€˜Oh, let’s say afternoon,’ said Montignac, finishing his own drink but ignoring the one the man had bought for him. ‘About three o’clock?’
    He stood up and the man stood too, his face relaxing into a mocking smile.
    â€˜Mr Delfy would like to see you tonight,’ he said in a tone which suggested that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
    Montignac nodded, recognizing the futility of trying to escape. ‘Fine,’ he said, reaching down and finishing the second drink in one mouthful. ‘Shall we go then?’
    Twenty minutes later they pulled up outside the front doors of the Unicorn Ballrooms and marched straight past the doorman with only a quick exchange of nods between the two employees. In the dully lit corridor beyond, Montignac caught sight of his own reflection in one of the mirrors and the burst of white hair on his head stood out like a beacon in the darkness.
    He had been to the club on many, many occasions in the past but had been deliberately avoiding it over the previous five or six weeks. Even at night, when he had the urge to drink or gamble, or the sudden thirsting need for a woman, he had stayed away. He’d written a letter to Delfy on the morning of his uncle’s funeral the previous month and that had been the only communication between the two during that time and, although he hardly dared to believe it, he had started to think that Delfy might have forgotten about him entirely and the matter would be dropped. It was a foolish thought, however; the debt was far too large to be simply written off. In fact, he had been waiting for just such a visit as the large man had made to the bar tonight—he must have been observing him from earlier in the evening and he was grateful that he hadn’t made his presence felt at Claridge’s—and knew that the inevitable could be put off no longer.
    He didn’t look around as they went down the stairs to the bar area but could hear from the sounds of conversation and laughter around him that most of the booths were full. He could make out the distinctive whirring of the roulette tables in the distance, a sound that was like an addictive music to him, and remembered the first night he had ever come here, almost two years earlier, when he had entered the casino with just over a hundred pounds in his pocket and left having increased it fivefold. He’d gone home that night, enraptured by his success, and even started to make calculations of just how much money he could make at the tables if he devoted himself to them for a few hours every night, a wealth that could accumulate over five or six years into a figure that could rival even that of his