The Hoax

The Hoax Nikki Rodwell Published by Nixie Books Cover design by Nikki Rodwell The Hoax © 2023 Nikki Rodwell The Hoax Nikki Rodwell asserts the right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of Nikki Rodwell, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. www.nikkirodwell.co.uk This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. ISBN: 9781916398931 (paperback) TABLE OF CONTENTS PROLOGUE Chapter 1 - RONNIE Chapter 2 - JAMES Chapter 3 - RONNIE Chapter 4 - JAMES Chapter 5 - RONNIE Chapter 6 - JAMES Chapter 7 - RONNIE Chapter 8 - JAMES Chapter 9 - RONNIE Chapter 10 - JAMES Chapter 11 - RONNIE Chapter 12 - JAMES Chapter 13 - RONNIE Chapter 14 - JAMES Chapter 15 - RONNIE Chapter 16 - JAMES Chapter 17 - RONNIE Chapter 18 - Ronnie Chapter 19 - JAMES Chapter 20 - RONNIE Chapter 21 - JAMES Chapter 22 - RONNIE Chapter 23 - JAMES Chapter 24 - RONNIE Chapter 25 - JAMES Chapter 26 - RONNIE Chapter 27 - JAMES Chapter 28 - RONNIE Chapter 29 - RONNIE Chapter 30 - Amanda Chapter 31 - JAMES Chapter 32 - AMANDA Acknowledgements Can You Help? Free Exclusive Content About The Author Free exclusive content for readers of ‘The Hoax’ https://bit.ly/the-hoax The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool. William Shakespeare PROLOGUE The room is stifling, thick with cigar smoke hanging under the dim overhead light like a canopy. The dark corners of the room seem to close in as the other players lean forward to watch with bated breath. I slide the last of my evening’s winnings forward, making the pile on the table look like a bunch of paper Monopoly money. My total gamble stands at thirty grand now, and I know my opponent can’t match it. The river card has been dealt and this is the end. “All in,” I say. Jeremy lets out a small gasp – I know he thinks I’m bluffing again. He knows me better than anyone else around the table, but he’s never seen me double bluff like this. His eyes widen as he waits for the reaction, fiddling with the corners of the cards he is about to deal. Jeremy is the one who invited us all here tonight, but I don’t think he ever intended for things to spiral quite so out of control. Bets are unlimited, and the other players folded in our last round, sensing the stand-off between me and the big guy sitting opposite me. His face is pitted with acne scars, and he looks like some big sugar daddy as he puffs on his cigar, his young piece of crumpet hanging off his arm. Pete, I think they called him. I’ve never met the man before tonight, and something tells me I don’t ever want to meet him again. There’s something a little unnerving about him, almost mafia-like. He leans back in his chair, watching me. His fingers are almost as thick as the cigar he holds between his index and middle finger, and he takes a long drag before puffing out a billow of smoke as if it stung the insides of his mouth. I maintain eye contact, ensuring my jaw is clamped and my face is neutral. I don’t want to give him a hint of emotion. My stomach is doing somersaults, but I visualise the sensation as a compressible gas fizzing in my stomach. I bottle it before it can rise through my system, affecting my heartrate or body temperature. As we eyeball each other, two tiny creases mark his brow, revealing his frustration. A bead of sweat trickles down his forehead. He can’t match my bet and I know that he’s cornered. The woman, presumably his fiancée judging by the rock on her wedding finger, leans in and whispers something in his ear. She’s like one of those trophy wives you see attached to the arms of famous footballers, all silicon and fake smiles. I don’t know what she’s doing here tonight; these events usually happen in the backroom or basements of the men’s club, which aren’t the place for a woman. But tonight, being as we’re in Jeremy’s pad, she was allowed in for some reason. The den is Jeremy’s man cave. The room is set out like a cinema, with a seventy-inch TV with the latest tech surround speakers at one end. The six black leather recliner chairs are positioned for prime viewing in a semi-circle around the TV in front of a smoked glass coffee table which is scattered with an array of remote controls, barely visible since that end of the room is unlit. We’re seated in the other half of the room, around a mahogany Regency-style table. Its craftsmanship would be the envy of any home card player. The round centre has a tactile brown leather playing surface, and each of us has an ornate brass chip holder which we use as ashtrays since we play with cash. It’s a sacrilege to the intended purpose, but they are routinely removed and polished up to be replaced for future games. The drinks cabinet on the wall behind my opponent is a mess; the Tiffany lamp highlights the surface strewn with glasses and half-drunk bottles of whisky and red wine. My crystal tumbler still contains a healthy measure of single malt whisky, which I take a sip of as I wait for his next