Free Devil May Care by Sebastian Faulks Page A

not looking at Bond. He was bending over his bag to extract a new racquet and was testing the tension by banging the frame of another racquet against the strings. He said, ‘I mean francs, of course, Mr Bond.’
    ‘Old, presumably,’ said Bond.
    ‘Oh, no. New. As new as we can find them.’
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    Bond calculated rapidly. It was more than seven thousand pounds, silly money, far more than he could afford, but in the strange tussle to which he now appeared committed, he felt he could show no weakness. ‘All right, Dr Gorner,’ he said. ‘Your serve.’
    ‘Ah, the good old English ‘‘fair play’’,’ said Gorner, heavily, in his oddly accented voice. ‘I suppose to turn down my bet would be ‘‘not cricket’’.’ He spat out the words with such bitterness that it took a moment for him to register the joke. ‘Not cricket,’
    he repeated, laughing mirthlessly as he walked back to serve. ‘Not cricket at all. Ha ha. Just tennis.’
    The sum of money that had been bet and all the antics with racquet and bag and stretching added up to just one thing, thought Bond: a threat. You can’t beat me, Gorner was saying, and it’s foolish to try. Be 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
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    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
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    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