Free Devil May Care by Sebastian Faulks Page A

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 sideline.
    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