Tristan Aries snuck in through the back of the pub—the owner, Rue, left the rear door on the latch during the day for deliveries, and sometimes forgot to lock it after hours. Sneaking into the lounge with his balaclava pulled on tight, Tristan spotted Rue from behind, cashing up at the bar. He flipped open his flick-knife. His stomach churned, and he almost turned back. But then he thought of Makeeba at his funeral, standing over his coffin, and he inched up to Rue — big guy, shoulders like a bison, neck as thick as a grown man’s thigh — and slipped the flick-knife around to the jugular vein and pressed it close enough to make Rue’s heart stutter. “Don’t even move,” he whispered. Rue’s body tightened. With his free hand, Tristan grabbed the zip-bag full of banded banknotes. Probably about three or four K in all; that day’s takings. “I’m sorry,” he said. Rue cocked his head, sensing his voice. “Tristan?” “Sorry,” he said again. “I’ll make it right.” “I’m gonna kill you,” Rue growled. Slowly, hands in the air, Rue twisted around to look at him, his mouth pinched tight, mostly hidden by his bushy grey-threaded beard. Tristan pointed the tip of the blade against his throat. Rue said: “You just fucked up.” “I know, man. I know. But I didn’t have a choice. I’m sorry.” Holding eye contact, Tristan backed away, knife-point tipped forward. He rounded the bar and exited the pub through the front. It was just after nine. He still had time to fix this. *** Twenty minutes later, Tristan pushed his way into a back-alley betting shop on Drayton Lane, moving through smoke-filled air—loud talking and bantering from half-cut men in their mid-forties, their noise overlapping the commentators on the multiple screens dotted around the room. Tristan weaved through, nodding at a few people here and there. The paying booths at the back were manned by two men and a woman, protected by a Perspex screen. A small slot at the bottom of the screen allowed customers to pay. Tristan grabbed a sheet from the side and checked the horses in the next race: Christmas Runner, Lightning Black, All Drinks On Me, Last Chance Saloon—that was the one. He knew it, soon as he saw it. 7/1 and so damn fitting for his situation. This was it: do or die, win or be killed. He pulled out the bands of notes and bet £3335 on Last Chance Saloon. This would bring in almost 25K if he won, giving Tristan enough to pay off Froggy—a loanshark notorious for making you leap off a building if you were late on payment—and leaving enough left to pay back Rue with a hefty bonus as an apology. The horses were the reason Tristan owed Froggy so much money in the first place, and tonight was his last chance to pay it all back. Otherwise he’d have to walk the plank. He just needed the horse to do right. Ticket stub in hand, Tristan settled at the back of the room behind the regulars and watched the screens. He pressed the ticket between his hands and held them diagonally across each other, praying, pushing the ticket together. “Please, God,” he murmured, “don’t let me die like this.” The screen on the right flickered, then loaded with the horses in place. Last Chance Saloon was in seventh spot, at the end. Tristan felt uneasy about that, and as the commentator went down the line talking about the horses and the jockeys, the front door of the betting shop opened. Tristan glanced over. Shit. Fuck. It was one of Froggy’s soldiers, Elmo, a man named after a fucking red doll but ruthless enough to cut his throat. Squirrelly looking, with bloodshot eyes. Elmo scoured the room and Tristan slipped the ticket into his pocket and tried to melt into the shadows. He rested his hand around the grip of his knife in his hoody. The door opened again, and this time it was Rue with his two brothers. Older, bigger, scarier. Fuck sake, he thought. On screen the horses were off—and that’s when Elmo snapped his head in Tristan’s direction. This was followed by Rue and his brothers doing the same thing, as if Tristan had let off a flare and they all spotted it at the same time. Last Chance Saloon was in third place. Come on, come on. The men began to slowly push through the crowd. They wouldn’t kill him in here, he knew that. Too many cameras; too many witnesses. But they’d drag him outside and kill him there instead. He began edging around the back, away from the Rue brothers. But Elmo cut him off on that side too. Last Chance Saloon was now in second spot and gaining ground on first. Come on, Tristan thought, then pushed through the people in front to get away from Elmo. He heard Elmo say something like, “Stop runnin’, pussy”, and suddenly someone gripped him by the upper arm with the strength of a bodybuilder—one of Rue’s brothers, whispering in his ear, “Don’t make a scene.” But Tristan twisted to see the race: Last Chance Saloon in first place now. He broke away from the brother’s grip. “It’s winning!” he shouted, pulling out his ticket and waving it at them. “Look! I got your money, just wait! Just wait!” He held his hands out to stop them coming closer. They watched Tristan, then the screen. The horse leaping ahead now. Tristan felt tears of happiness push at his eyes, his chest swelling with joy. Last Chance Saloon was bounding towards the finish line. “Yes! Go on! Yes!” Tristan screamed— And then the horse buckled, its legs folding underneath itself. Tristan’s legs did the same. He hit the floor. He wasn’t sure who picked him up, but he knew he’d be dead by the morning.