“Please, cut me some slack here,” Bosie said, putting his upturned - and empty - palms in the middle of the table. “I need this money. Let’s keep playing. If I lose, I’ll write an IOU. Please.”

Ian looked at Phil, who raised his eyebrows, potentially interested in continuing. Then Ian looked at the pile of cash with which Bosie had been playing.

“Yeah, but how long ago was it that you wrote an IOU for Tony Hunter, Bosie?” Ian asked.

Phil nodded and chuckled.

“Please, guys, come on.” Bosie grabbed his wrist.

Ian pulled free. “No, I think I’ve had enough for tonight.” He pulled the money further out of Bosie’s reach.

“Yes, it’s gone twelve,” said Phil.

Bosie leapt up. “I’m desperate here! What do I have to say? Tony Hunter’s going to kill me! Is that what you need to hear?”

Ian unfolded his large money bag and started filling it.

“Tony Hunter’s not a murderer,” said Phil.

“No?” said Bosie, almost hysterical. “You wait. You’ll see.”

Ian sighed. “You owe the guy - what? Nine hundred quid?” He began shaking his head. “You were never going to make that tonight, least of all now, not even if we played all night and let you write all the IOUs you want.”

Phil nodded sagely as he finished his drink.

“Please!” Bosie cried.

Ian finished collecting his money together and stood up. “Next time you need to get your hands on big money in a hurry, don’t try and win it at poker, Bosie. I don’t know, go to a bank. Get a loan, rob it, whatever.”

Bosie fell back into his chair, defeated. “I’m fucked.”

“It was a good night,” said Phil, holding his hand out at their host.

Bosie didn’t respond.

“Come on,” said Ian.

Phil stuffed his own winnings into his pockets and they headed out into the hall. Bosie didn’t come to see them out and didn’t make another sound. Ian found the door locked and sighed. He unlocked the bolts and undid the chain. The key was in the keyhole. When he turned it the door became loose in the frame. He pulled it open by the key, like a handle.

It was cold out. The temperature had dropped significantly. Their breath frosted slightly in the air.

“Bye, Bosie,” Phil called.

There was no response.

“Come on,” Ian said, then shut the door.

They started along the path.

“Have a lift?” said Phil.

“Sure, but I need to stop for petrol.”

As they climbed into Ian’s cold Vauxhall Cavalier, Phil asked, “Do you feel slightly bit responsible for old Bosie?”

“No.”

Phil laughed. “No, neither do I.”

Ian turned the ignition, and then they were off.

There was a petrol station on the corner of another junction along the main road, heading away from the city centre. The lights were on, but there were no cars on the forecourt and a chain was drooping across the entrance drive. Ian slowed as they drove past.

“I thought this place stayed open until two,” he said.

“I think that’s the BP place,” said Phil.

The BP petrol station was less than a mile down the road, but it was on the other carriageway. Ian sighed as they drove past and kept going for almost another mile until they reached a roundabout and could turn round. When they reached the station there were two cards on the forecourt. Another pulled in behind Ian, who stopped at the LRP pump.

“Ahh, I used to love that smell when I was a wee lad,” Phil said through the passenger window as Ian filled the car.

Ian chuckled. “I bet you did.”

“Oh, I don’t mean I got high on the fumes. Just when I was a kid in the back of the car, and the smell used to fill it. Of course, it was leaded back then.”

Ian was annoyed but not in the slightest bit surprised when he saw how much the tank was going to cost him.

“Well, at least it looks like I’ll be able to get rid of all this loose change,” he said. He opened the money bag and took out Bosie’s final contribution.

A man came out of the shop as Ian walked over. He got into the Saab and drove off. Another man was at the desk when Ian went in. Behind the till was a tall, bulky man, the exact kind of guy you’d feel safe leaving your lucrative-to-thieves petrol station with into the small hours of the night.

As Ian waited to pay, the woman who had pulled into the forecourt after him also came into the shop.

“What pump?” the tall, bulky guy said after the man in front of Ian walked away again.

“Oh.” He hadn’t noted it. “The LRP one. The one with the Cavalier beside it.” He gestured through the window.

The cashier nodded and tapped it into the till.

Ian began to place the loose change on the counter.

NOTES:
I used to like the smell of leaded petrol as the fumes permeated through into the backseat of the car whilst it was being filled up. I remember saying "Hmm, what's that lovely smell?" once and being told to hold my breath because petrol fumes were dangerous. I only pretended to hold my breath, but I didn't believe something as innocuous as an odour could be harmful, least of all when it was such a pleasant one.