Free Devil May Care by Sebastian Faulks

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
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    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 whitegloved 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. Thirty–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
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    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
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    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