“A feisty one!” he said, giving Iain’s arm a nudge. “You lucky devil!” he told the trucker.
Iain said nothing.
“Names three and four – Grace plays Sheila,” Porky continued.
“Should be an easy one for you,” Rigs told Grace. “She was poor in the first round against that fella she played.”
“Iain plays Slicks, which means Rigs will play Danny. That completes our line-up, ladies and gentlemen. Would the first two take up cues, and join me here at the table, please?”
Grace, Sheila, Iain, Slicks, Rigs and Danny all dispersed, making room around the pool table for Diesel and Mandy to commence play.
“End of the line for that slimy biker,” Iain said. “I’d love to ring his fucking neck, aye!”
“Ah, let it go, man. He ain’t worth it,” Rigs said.
“Rigs is right, Iain,” Grace said. “And, as you pointed out, he ain’t going to be around much longer. My girl is going to put him out of this competition, by kicking his arse.”
But a powerhouse of a display by Diesel shocked them all into silence, as the biker potted seven of his balls in a row after breaking off. If it wasn’t for the black rattling in the jaws of a middle bag, and staying there, the game would have been won.
“Holy shit!” Rigs said. “He’s done her!”
“No…no…not yet, he hasn’t,” Grace said, finding it hard to formulate her sentence.
“Come on, love!” Iain called in support. “Do your thing.”
“Please,” Porky said. “No calling out or making noise while players are at the table.”
“Sorry,” Iain said, winking at Mandy, who had a stern look on her face.
“Come on, bitch. My cue playing arm is going stiff,” Diesel ribbed.
“You mean your wanking arm, dickhead,” she bit back, making him laugh.
“I love that rage of yours, my lovely.” She gave him the finger, making him laugh harder. “Take your fucking shot!” he barked at her.
“No rushing you opponent,” Porky chirped.
“Well, she’s taking the piss here, man - walking ‘round the table, doing that stupid studying-the-table-shit!”
Then, just like that, Mandy took her shot, immediately potting one, then a second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth, before her prowess collapsed like a house of cards. The seventh rattled in the jaws, with the white going close to a side cushion. “Shit! Fuck and piss!” she yelled, raking her hair out of her eyes, which had covered her face in her frenzy.
“Crap,” Iain muttered.
“He’ll probably fuck the black up,” Rigs said.
“Go on, boy, fucking do her!” Slicks called, saluting his lieutenant with his beer.
“I sure will,” he said, bending over to take his shot. In a cocky manoeuvre, Diesel closed his eyes and struck the white ball. It slowly rolled across the table and gently connected with the eight-ball. In turn, it tenderly rotated into the middle bag.
“Winner. Diesel!” Porky called.
“Wooo-hoooo!” the biker yelled, “In your fucking face,” he screamed at Mandy, as he blew her kisses and shooed her away with his hands. “Bye-bye!”
“You’re such an arsehole,” Mandy said, making it sound as gracious as she could. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d lost to such a mediocre player. Walking over to Grace and the two truckers, she had tears in her eyes.
“Hey,” Grace told her friend, while rubbing her arms. “It’s okay. I could still do it; you know?”
“Sorry, Grace. I really should have beaten him. I…”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, Mandy. It’s only a silly game, anyway.”
“But all that money we’ve put in…”
“Pft, what – forty quid?! Behave. We took a chance. Besides, I’m still in!”
“I guess you’re right,” she said, a smile finally appearing.
“Hard lines,” Iain told her. “At least I’m not the one which has to put you out of the competition,” he said, winking.
“Hey!” she said, throwing a punch which caught his upper-arm and deadened it.
“Oww!” Iain mocked, whilst rubbing the numb area vigorously. He winked at her again.
“I’m sorry, miss. But you’ll have to join the others in the backroom while we play the rest of the tournament.”
“But she…” Grace was about to argue, but Mandy stopped her.
“No, rules are rules,” she said. “I’ll be fine. See you later,” she told Iain. Hugging Grace, she whispered down her ear. “Kick some arse, girl!” then left the room like the others had before her.
“It’s starting to look pretty bare around these parts,” Slicks mocked, his American accent dreadful.
“Good eyes, bell-end,” Iain mocked. “Never noticed myself.”
Before another war-of-words could start-up, Porky intervened. “Would Grace and Sheila please come forward?”
“The best of luck, bitch!” Diesel told Grace, which enraged Rigs. He wanted to punch the guy until his fist hurt, but he swallowed the feelings. He didn’t want his emotions running away with him at such a crucial time. He needed to get into the next round. He knew he could win this thing, now that Mandy was out. She’d been unlucky against the outlaw.
“Sheila to break,” Porky announced.
How Sheila had made it through the first round, Rigs didn’t know. Her form was awful. Just plain dreadful. She could barely break the racked pack, let alone hold her cue straight. She must have known her chances would be slim!
Slim? They were fucking anorexic!
Again, this forced a titter from him.
“What the hell are you laughing at now?” Iain wanted to know.
“Nothing. Just at how shit that woman is. Look at how the back half of her cue moves from left to right as she takes her shot. Crap.”
“Ha! I know. Pretty damn hilarious.”
Grace left the woman standing by eight-balling her into the baize. It was a deserved stuffing for a person who had literally no right in taking part. Not even for the fun of it.
“Winner. Grace!” Porky announced.
Slicks and Diesel scoffed. “Stevie Wonder could have beaten her!” Slicks ribbed. Diesel screeched out a laugh, whilst backhanding Slicks’ shoulder.
“Good one, man.”
“Morons,” Grace said.
“Iain and Slicks, please come to the table,” Porky said, while reading off a card which had all the players’ names chalked on it.
As they shook hands, Slicks applied pressure on Iain’s hand, provoking a lop-sided grin from the trucker. “Is that the best you can do, granny?” he wanted to know, wiping the smile off the biker’s face.
“I’ll fucking cue-whip the life out of you, son,” Slicks said.
“I’d love to see you try,” Iain said.
“Please, gentlemen, let’s try and keep this civil.” Porky flipped the coin. “Call,” he said.
Iain nodded his head, indicating Slicks could claim either heads or tails.
“Heads,” Slicks said.
“Tails it is,” Porky said.
“Guess I’ll be breaking,” Iain said, splitting the pack tactically, by hitting them softly. There was just enough impact for three balls to spin free and hit cushions either side of the table. This complying with the rule of two balls ‘must hit cushions on the break off shot’.
“What kind of womanly shot was that, pussy?” Slicks asked.
“The kind that’ll screw you over, mate” Iain said, smiling, as he puckered his lips ready for a kiss.
“Ugh, you sick bastard,” Slicks said, bending to take his shot, which he missed. He’d aimed for a ball which was slightly adrift of the pack.
“Well, that was pretty useless,” Iain muttered under his breath. He then took a delicate shot, which split the balls that little bit more.
“Take a decent shot!” Slicks demanded.
“Now, now,” Porky said. “I’ll be the ref here, thank you. Iain has done nothing
wrong. Tactical play is allowed!”
Slicks said nothing, just gave Porky a hard stare.
He went for another loose ball. This too was missed, with the ball jarring the pocket and being spat back out. “Goddamn it!”
“You’re doing well!” Diesel shouted support.
Porky let that one slide. He also let Iain’s fan base get away with one yell of support.
Iain glanced the white off the pack again, which broke them apart further. Again Slicks missed his ball.
“You’re leaving me shit, man! What is this – pool or chess?!”
“Tennis, the last time I checked,” Iain retorted.
This time Iain went for a pot, which he nailed. The white ball screwed back, smashing the rest of the balls full on. This sent them whizzing around the table, with a second ball finding a top pocket.
“Two striped balls potted,” Porky announced.
“Hmm,” Iain said, I wasn’t even going for that!” he laughed, and then dropped the chalk as he tried to dust the tip of his cue. Bending to pick it up, he staggered to his left, almost falling over as he did. “Shit, too many beers, methinks,” he said, looking over at Rigs, who gave him a stern look. A look which told a thousand stories, but one story was more important than the others – “Don’t fuck this up!” he nodded over to him. I got this, he mouthed, provoking a nod of approval from Rigs.
“Come on, man, take your shot. Stop fucking around,” Slicks badgered.
“Eager to lose, hey?” Iain asked.
“Keep your hair on, Slicks,” Diesel said. “You’re playing into his trap”.
Iain potted two more balls, but came unstuck on the fifth, allowing Slicks in to pot four solids on the bounce. Five and six also disappeared, but he left himself snookered behind one of Iain’s.
Trying a three cushion escape saw him miss one of his spotted balls by centimetres. “Bollocks!” he yelled, before ploughing his fist into a nearby wall.
“Two shots to Iain,” Porky said.
Iain took them well. He firstly moved the white back into the D before clearing out his remaining stripes and downing the 8-ball.
“You piece of shit,” Slicks raged, going at Iain with his pool cue. He cracked the playing implement across his back, which broke in half.
This spurred Rigs on, who jumped in to save Iain. He levelled Slicks with a powerful left hook.
From behind, Diesel grabbed Rigs, spun him around, and then planted his forehead in Rigs’ face.
“Aw, you son-of-a-bitch!” Rigs snapped, as he went to one knee. The burly biker stood over him. Rigs grabbed him by the bollocks and twisted. He drove his attacker back against the nearest wall but was head-butted in the face again. As they continued to scrabble by the wall, Slicks and Iain rolled about the floor, each man delivering punch after punch to the other.
“Enough!” Porky shouted. With bloody Mary at hand, Porky clubbed his open palm. “Pack it in. Now!”
Danny and Grace did nothing – just watched as the fight continued. Tables spilled over, knocking empty and half-empty glasses of beer onto the expensive looking carpet.
Porky went in swinging. He clubbed Slicks in the small of his back repeatedly, not wanting to injure Iain – the man had started nothing in Porky’s eyes. After a repeated beating to the back, Slicks rolled off Iain, finally catching Mary to the face.
While semi-conscious, Porky grabbed the man by his greasy hair, and dragged him over to the door. “Get up and get out!” he commanded Slicks.
He opened the door for the wounded man and was relieved to see Baby standing on the other side, waiting for the next loser. She grabbed the fallen Slicks by his ankles and dragged him sharply through the open door. Once he was on her side, she beat him mercilessly.
Closing the door on Slicks’ bleats and whimpers, Porky turned to see Rigs and Iain laying into Diesel. They’d seen nothing. For that, he was grateful. “Right, you two – leave him alone.”
Sweating and breathing hard, Iain and Rigs let up.
Diesel held his pummelled guts as he slid down the wall which had been supporting him.
“That might teach you a lesson, lad,” Porky said, pointing Mary in the fallen biker’s face. “Now get up and go sit down. We have a competition to finish here.”
Smoothing his hair back and straightening his dirty shirt, Porky called for Rigs and Danny to play their quarter-final game.
By now, Danny had lost all interest in the game. He was worried. He’d kept checking his phone. He’d heard nothing off Bobby or Clive. It was weird. He thought he would have heard something by now. Anything. But nothing? And what the fuck was with this place? Losers had to go into a separate room? Something didn’t gel. Also, why was it so quiet? Had none of the others noticed this? His mind reeled. Raced, even.
Wouldn’t all the bikers be making some kind of drunken noise next door? Something would be heard, surely?
He planned to throw this game. He needed to check this place out. Find Clive. See if he had anything.
“Tails,” Danny said.
“Heads it is,” Porky announced. “Rigs to break.”
I can’t make this look too obvious, Danny thought, but I need to get to my guys. Pronto.
The break was good. Rigs got in and among the balls, potting four before Danny even knew what had happened. This guy’s good, he thought. Even if I wasn’t going to pitch the game, I don’t think I’d have won.
When Rigs finally missed, Danny purposely missed his ball, letting Rigs back in. He made it look good. “Damn!” he said, and whacked his leg with his fist. “I rushed that,” he scolded himself.
“Hard luck, mate,” Rigs said and was off potting again. When he was down to his last ball, he missed, and left it tight against a cushion. “Shite!” he muttered, “Guess I’ve let you in here, Danny.”
“Too right you have,” Danny said, taking his shot. He deliberately slammed the black home, handing victory straight to Rigs.
“Yes!” Rigs blurted, not wanting to gloat in Danny’s face. “Sorry,” he said, offering his hand.
“It’s okay,” Danny said, shaking Rigs’ hand. “You win some, you lose some.” Picking up his jacket, Danny headed over to the door. “The best of luck to the rest of you,” he said before leaving.
“Nice guy,” Iain said.
“Yeah,” Rigs agreed.
“The semi-final will commence in twenty minutes, ladies and gentlemen. This should be time enough to go to the loo and grab a drink,” Porky said.
Chapter 16
Standing alone in the new corridor, the pub seemed to stand silent. Nothing moved. Nothing creaked. The people in the room he had just left behind could not be heard. The door could not be opened. There wasn’t another door nearby, either, just a long walk down a darkened corridor.
“Well, this doesn’t seem right,” he uttered. Hitching up his trouser leg, Danny pulled his sub-nosed .38 from his ankle holster and cocked it. In the silent and narrow space, it sounded like a crack of thunder.
Edging his way down the passageway, with his back against the wall, Danny held the gun out in front of him. He didn’t care if he was completely wrong, and that he may be about to burst in on a room full of people he’d just been playing pool with.
He’d rather have rouged cheeks than a fate worse than humiliation.
“Hello?!” he called, knowing that was a stupid thing to do.
As he grew closer and closer to the door at the end of the corridor, he stopped. Listening, he thought he heard screams of pain. His brow furrowed as he scrunched his eyes. “Can’t be…”
A clicking sound to his left made Danny jump back from the wall, as a portion of it slid to one side. A staircase which led upwards was revelled. “Jesus H. Christ – a secret passage? What am I – stuck in a game of frigging Cluedo?!” he rasped.
Going over to the stairs, he began to climb, just as the door at the end of the hall opened, exposing a gigantic person dressed in black. “Fuck,” Danny muttered, tip-toeing up the s
teps in front of him. The wood in the wall shut, cutting off all light and sealing him in.
“At least I can’t be seen!”
Fumbling blind, Danny rooted around in his pockets, firstly finding his mobile. From the light off the screen, he searched for his lighter next, which was in the breast pocket of his jacket.
“Bingo!” striking the Zippo once was all it took. “You’ve never failed me, baby,” he said. He thumbed the indents on the back of the lighter. An inscription.
“From all the lads.
Congrats, Sarge!”
He remembered that day well. There had been a party, with plenty of scotch and cake; a celebration of his promotion.
“A good bunch of lads,” Danny said, reminding himself that only he and Clive were the only two left from their training group. The others had either moved on or had been killed in the line of duty.
Shaking off the memories, Danny continued to climb the lighter and gun out in front of him. It seemed that the path had not been used in years, as cobwebs and dust littered the staircase. A harsh stench of rot and damp filled his nostrils, along with the smell of shit.
He coughed, but didn’t gag. Danny had come across worse. Much, much worse.
Getting to the top of the steps, he rounded a corner, and was faced with another flight of stairs. “How big is this place?!” he interrogated himself. “Four or five floors? Six, even? Can’t be, can it?”
Some of the bare boards on the second flight were broken. His foot went straight through one, which was decade beyond any form of repair. A rat squawked. “Fuck off,” he half-yelled. “Pissing rats.”
This part of the climb was the worst. Danny had to slash through spider webbing with his .38, just to get by. The dust finally got to his nose, enticing a sneeze. Then a second, third and fourth. Tears streamed down his face as the hairs on his arms raised and his nut-sack shrivelled.
“Jesus,” he uttered, wiping the tears from his face by using the sleeve of his jacket. Finally reaching the summit, Danny was faced with a massive room. “Fuck,” he whispered in awe. “It must span the whole pub. I’ve never seen an attic this big.”
The Rack & Cue Page 15