Thrusting himself off the van, Clive stumbled over to the door and nudged it open with the toe of his shoe. All the while he clung to his injured forearm, which bled copiously.
Glass crunched beneath his feet as he entered into a long dark passageway. A solitary bulb ahead of him swung lightly in the breeze, which was coming through the shattered door. The bulb was out. Scorch marks were evident at the bottom of the thin glass.
“Blown,” Clive said. His voice hushed.
Creeping down the corridor, he came across another door. Holding his breath tightly, he twisted the doorknob, and swung the wood inward. He was greeted by a kitchen. The walls were gleaming. The floor polished and scrubbed to perfection. A few pots and pans bubbled away on the stove. Frantically looking around the room, Clive’s eyes fell on the impressive knife block. Placing his blood-encrusted blade down, he drew the bread-knife from its slender slit.
“Come to papa!” Clive said.
Spinning around, he headed for the door in front of him, which led him through to another hallway. This one was much longer, but Clive knew he was getting closer to his target. He could hear laughter and applause coming from close by. “Almost home and dry,” he said, his body, soul and mind having found fresh valour, as he pushed on.
Leaning against the corridor wall for support, Clive was about to shout out, but a buzzing sound to his left stopped him. A door caught his eye. Crossing to it, he opened it. He was greeted by stone steps. In the distance he could hear the low hum of a power tool. Condensation or the like could also be heard dripping and splashing.
Clive took the first step. His heavy footfall echoed off the granite, making him wince as though in pain. Slowly but gently, he placed his second step. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Gingerly, he went forward. Nearing the halfway mark, Clive ducked down and squinted. The room before him was cloaked in shadow. A dim light burned somewhere in the vastness.
He didn’t dare call out. Someone was down there. And that someone was working away busily, doing God knows what. About to turn, Clive felt hands at his back – hands which shoved him forward. His body somersaulted down the remaining hard, cold steps. Crashing to a brutally painful full-stop, Clive gasped in surprise and agony. One leg had snapped in the fall, causing a piece of bone to jut out of his left knee.
Bending, he grabbed his wounded leg and rolled about the floor, not noticing the two people now standing over him like vultures. Opening his eyes, Clive looked up at the two faces staring down at him. Only their eyes could be seen. One had a green mask over its mouth, much like something a doctor would wear, whilst the other wore a black leather mask.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” asked the one in the green. “Fresh meat, it would seem!”
Chapter 12
On hearing the crashing noise coming from one of the back rooms behind him, Porky closed the door that stood open behind the bar. None of the others had seemed to hear the commotion, which was a good thing. No awkward questions to answer.
He smiled, knowing that the one, who had gone outside, had now been taken care of. “Welcome to my parlour, said the spider to the fly,” Porky said from behind gritted teeth. “The first two names out of the hat are…” Porky addressed the crowd, whilst mixing the names around inside the makeshift tombola. “Diesel plays Roadblock.”
The bikers looked at each other and laughed. “There goes one of our chances at winning this thing,” Diesel said. “It doesn’t matter, I guess.”
“Names three and four – Iain plays Tommy.”
Iain looked about him, to see who his opponent was. He noticed it was one of the guys who’d come in late. He was now unzipping his two-piece pool cue from a swanky leather case. He proceeded to screw the two pieces together. “Jesus, this guy’s going to be taking it deadly serious, by the looks of things,” Iain joked.
“Rigs plays Christopher,” Porky continued.
“Looks like I got the other one,” Rigs told Iain, as he eyed the second man who’d come in with Tommy. Christopher also seemed like a semi-pro player, as he prepared his cue and playing equipment.
“Slicks plays Gutbust,” Porky said, continuing to draw the names at pace.
All around Iain and Rigs the others took swigs of their drinks as they prepared to do battle on the baize.
“Not many names left in here now,” Porky said, giving the remainder a good rotation with his hand before drawing the next two names. “Danny plays Shogun.”
Diesel turned to his prospect. “Make sure that copper loses, Shogun!”
The medium built Chinaman of the Boas nodded. Again, like Gutbust, Shogun was slight in stature, but deadly with his hands and feet.
“Mandy plays Smith,” Porky continued to reel off names.
“Looks like you’ve got it easy,” Slicks told Smith, the other prospect of the group. “A fucking girl. How fucking easy!” he concluded, taking down most of his pint in one go.
“Grace plays Charlie,” Porky finished.
“I thought you weren’t playing, Grace?” Mandy asked her friend.
“Isn’t a girl allowed to change her mind? Besides, they were one short, so I said I’d play.”
“Can you play?” Mandy asked, almost dumbfound.
“I played a lot when I was with Paul. He taught me a few things,” Grace said, winking.
“I’ll bet he did!”
“Uch, you’ve got such a dirty mind, Mandy,” Grace retorted.
“And the last two, who just happened to be the last people through the door, Sheila plays Barry,” Porky said. “We have our first round line-up. Play will begin in five minutes. For those who’d like a drink, snack or toilet break, please do so now. When I ring the bell next, that will signal the start of the first match, Diesel will play Roadblock.”
The group dispersed. Some headed for drinks and snacks, while others made their way to the toilet. Before Porky knew it, he had two deep at the bar, with the beer and spirits flowing. His till worked overtime, as he feverishly served his customers with calm and expertise. He looked at home behind the counter, Rigs thought.
“What do you make of all this?” Iain asked.
Rigs had now turned his attention on Grace, her slight features and hazel-coloured eyes enticing him. Coaxing him over. She looked back, and gave him and inviting smile. “Rigs? You okay, mate? Rigs?” Iain called. “What’s up?”
“Huh?” Rigs said, turning to face Iain. “What?”
“I said, what do you make of all this?”
“All of what?”
“This. Where we are. What’s going on? All of it. Do you really think that guy, Porky, is going to pay out all that cash to one of us?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“I don’t know. Just sounds fishy.”
“What? Are you being on the level, Iain? You were all up for it twenty minutes ago. What’s changed?”
“I’ve been turning it over in my mind. Thinking about it.”
“I told you – thinking – it’s a dangerous thing for you to do boyo. You’ll end up blowing a gasket.”
“Now I know why we’re best friends. It’s that sparkling personality of yours, with a side serving of tremendous humour!” Iain said, barely able to keep the smile off his face.
“Look, we’ve paid our cash now. Plus, I think we stand a good chance of picking up that cash prize. We could buy that new truck we’re always going on about, man.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just…”
“Just what?” Rigs wanted to know.
“I find it a little odd, I guess.”
“Only now you’re finding it odd?! Anyway, I thought ‘odd’ would have suited your personality, Mr. Strangeways!”
“Gobble me!” Iain said.
“Not before dinner and drinks I don’t, matey!”
“Don’t you find it weird, that a pub in the armpit-of-nowhere would hold such a tournament? There’s nothing around us.”
“Exactly. That’s the whole point – I was chatting to
Porky earlier. He told me that the place is barely surviving these days. They’ve had to do all they can to make ends meet.”
“Yeah, but still.”
“Look, what’s he got to gain from fooling us all? It’s not like he can just keep our money. Rob us blind. Have you seen this lot? They’d rip the fucking pub apart!”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I am. Settle down. Drink your beer. We’ll be out of here in no time, with our arse pockets stuffed with cash. Mark my words.”
“Talk about famous last words. Christ!” Iain said, ramming the last of his fourth pie into his mouth, before washing it down with the rest of his beer.
“I’ll get fresh ones,” Rigs said, collecting his and Iain’s glasses off the table and making his way over to the bar via Grace.
Clearing his throat, Rigs applied his warmest smile, as he edged and skirted around other people on his path toward Grace. “Hi. I’m Rigs,” he told her. “Fancy another, err…?” he asked, indicating her empty glass with a nod of his head. He noticed her friend giving Grace’s elbow a nudge.
“Grace. My name’s Grace. And, yes please. I’d love one, thanks,” she told Rigs.
He beamed. “Great. What’s your poison, Grace?”
“Cider, please. Rigs?”
“Yeah, Rigs. And no problem. I’ll be back shortly,” he told her. “Don’t go anywhere.”
He noticed the girls chatting and giggling as he walked away. In front of the bar, which was now reasonably quiet, he checked himself in the mirror. He could not have looked more of a mess. His beard unkempt, his hair greasy-looking. There were holes in his oil-stained shirt and flecks of grime graced his forehead. Looking down at himself he noticed grease and dirt marks all over his jeans – his boots were scuffed and muddy.
“Sod it, a man’s been to work. I’m still on duty!” he said aloud, and then laughed. Porky joined in on his laughter, but was unsure of what he was laughing about, or at.
“What’s so funny?” Porky enquired.
“Look at me! I’m a bloody mess.”
“Well, you’ve been to work, lad. You’re not entering a beauty pageant here!”
“Ha-ha, I know. But I’m interested in her over there,” Rigs said, nodding behind him.
“Oh, I see,” Porky said, his smile beaming. “Let’s fill those glasses of yours,” he said, all the while smiling as he poured. “Put your money away. These are on the house.”
Rigs looked at the man dumbfounded. “Are you sure? I thought this place was…”
“Struggling? It sure is, but I’ll make more than enough tonight to get by. Here, take them. My kindness will bring you all the luck you need with that little lady over there.”
“Thanks, man,” Rigs said, nodding at Porky.
“Oh, and the very best of British luck in the game,” Porky said, winking at Rigs.
“Cheers,” was Rigs’ parting word.
Winding his way through the crowd once again, Rigs found his way back to Grace, and offered her drink. “Give me a minute, I’m just going to take this over to my mate,” he told her, motioning towards Iain with a series of nods.
“Thanks,” she said, her smile growing wide. “And no problem, you do what you have to do. I’ll stay put,” she told him.
He couldn’t help but smile and let rip with a snorted laugh. Rigs couldn’t get over how hard his heart was beating – it pummelled away in his chest with such gusto, that he thought it would burst through his ribs. How old am I – fifteen? He thought. “Okay, great. I won’t be long,” he told her.
Walking back to Iain, Rigs couldn’t help but laugh. “What the hell is wrong with me? I’m acting like a pre-pubescent teenager, for Christ sakes,” he said aloud.
“What’s going on with you and that meek little thing?” Iain asked. “Buying her drinks, too? Right Casanova on the quiet, ain’t ya?!” Iain scoffed.
“Meek?!”
“Aye. Look at her. Like butter wouldn’t melt, my friend. You may want to watch that one. A tiger between the sheets probably,” Iain said, making mock scramming effects with his hand, whilst imitating growling sounds.
“Pack it in. I suppose you like her friend?”
“Damn right. She looks filthy. Not to mention wild. I’ve been watching her.”
“Watching her? What are you, some kind of pervert? Want me to find you a bush to hide in?!”
“How droll.”
“Listen, I’m going back over there, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, you crack on. But get me her mate’s phone number!” Iain called after Rigs, who hurried back through the crowd. “He either ignored me, or didn’t hear me,” Iain said, taking a gulp of his pint.
Clang, clang, clang, clang, clang…
“Let play commence!” Porky yelled over the noise in the pub. “Now, if you’d all be so kind as to follow me into the next room, ladies and gentlemen. We can get the games underway.”
In a single line, they all followed Porky into the lounge area, where a prestigious-looking pool table was set-up and ready to go. Most of the room was cast in darkness. The only light came from the over-sized lamp above the baize. It cast their shadows on the wall as they stood and absorbed the room. Benches lined the walls. Tables and chairs were scant. The door was shut behind them.
“Now, if you’d all like to take a seat, let’s have the first two players. Every game will be schooled by me. I tolerate no cheating. The slightest hint of foul play by a player will be met by harsh circumstances. You’ll be disqualified. Simple as that. I also ask for total silence from those who are not playing at the time, and to give all the respect you yourself would wish for when competing. Good luck, and may the best player win,” Porky said.
Everyone took a seat. The Boas gathered by each other. Iain sat alone, whilst Rigs continued to chat with Grace. Charlie and Mandy sat with them, while the others dotted themselves all around the lounge. Diesel and Roadblock took up cues.
A coin was tossed.
“May the best man win,” Porky said.
The pool balls were broken by Roadblock. The stripped and dotted balls clattered as they collided and bounded off the cushions and each other. Three of the balls found pockets: two stripes and a dotted.
“Stripes,” he told Porky, getting into a standing position to chalk his cue. Then, just like that, he was down taking another shot, and again his shot was true. Another stripped ball disappeared off the playing field. Then another. And another. The six and seventh stripes were slammed home, just as easy as the first five, leaving Roadblock snookered behind a cluster of dotted balls. All he need was the 8-ball to win the match.
On playing for the 8-ball, Roadblock missed it, giving Diesel two shots.
“Well, fuck me!” Diesel said. “Didn’t know you had such cue skills, Block,” Diesel said, a smile pulled across his face. “Best I get fucking potting or I’m heading for an early shower.”
A titter erupted from the crowd.
Porky cleared his throat. “Please,” he said, putting his hands in the air.
The audience hushed once again, as play continued in the shadowed room.
Diesel picked up the chalk from the table and slowly rubbed the blue dust over the tip of his cue. He eyed the balls as he made a decision on his first move.
“Are we playing two shots carry?” Diesel wanted to know.
Porky shook his head. “No, lad. If you pot, then miss, that ends your turn.”
“Bollocks!” Diesel said, more to himself. He could see Roadblock grinning like a mad fool out of the corner of his eye. “Right, okay,” he said.
Bending down and bridging his fingers, Diesel placed the cue where it needed to be. He took a slow, lingering shot. The white ball glided across the table like a swan crossing an undisturbed lake. It connected with a dotted ball which was hanging over the centre bag. It dropped in.
He took his time.
He chalked his cue as he stalked the table.
Circling it like a bird of prey,
readying itself for the swoop.
Diesel bent down again, and glided the white ball down the cushion, putting another dotted ball home before clearing another three in quick succession.
Not a shot missed.
However, his last dot was snug against the 8-ball, leaving him only one shot to take. Diesel played the dirtiest snooker he could, by tucking the white ball right up behind his dotted ball. This meant all paths to the black ball were blocked.
“Get out of that one, Houdini!” Diesel said. He belly-laughed as he watched the smirk drop from his comrade-of-the-road’s face.
“That’s just fucked up, dude,” the huge Samoan said.
“You can’t go getting one over on your patched superior, brother,” Diesel said, then let out a loud laugh, as he picked up his beer and swallowed more than half of it. Some of the brown liquid drizzled out of the glass, missing Diesel’s lips completely, which splashed the front of his chest and cut.
Concentration, mixed with thought and puzzlement was evident on Roadblock’s face, as he mouthed to himself. His eyes darting from one cushion to the next, as he thought of an elaborate escape. Content, he bent down to make his move. He bounded the cue ball off two cushions, but missed the black hunk of phenolic resin by centimetres.
“Fuck!” Roadblock despaired, letting his arms go slack as he looked skyward.
“Two shots to Diesel,” Porky chirped.
“Ooh, yeah!” Diesel said, before proceeding to poke his tongue out like a poor man’s Gene Simmons. “You’re going down, boy bach,” he told the South-Sea Islander.
“Shit!” Roadblock said, throwing his cue to one side. “For fuck sake!” The rest of the Boas laughed at the man’s anger and dismay.
“Please. Do not throw the cues about the place,” Porky said.
This brought a hard stare from Roadblock, who looked as though he could eat the fat landlord for breakfast and still be hungry.
“Settle down,” Diesel told his soldier, before bending for his shot and seeing home his last dot followed by the 8-ball. “Easy, easy, easy!” he chanted, as he watched Roadblock make his way to the back of the room.
The Rack & Cue Page 12