The Sin Bin

by Tony Black

  I got to my feet and my knees caved. The girl, heavily pregnant, put an arm around me. 'Can you manage this?' I said.

  She smiled, a sweet smile, a real heart-melter. I wondered why anyone with a smile like that needed to live in a place like this.

  She sat me on an old crate, an orange velour cushion the only concession to comfort.

  'You would be Caroline?'

  She brought me a wet cloth, said, 'We've no ice.'

  'You've not much of anything.'

  She gripped her palms, looked at the floor.

  'Caroline, your father ...'

  She turned away, 'Don't. Don't say his name to me.'

  I tried to regain control of my balance, stop the room swaying, 'Look, he's worried about you.'

  'No he's not.'

  'Sorry?'

  The sweet demeanour vanished in a second, she turned, rushed towards me but seemed suddenly cut down in her tracks. She bent like a hinge and let out a loud gasp.

  'Are you okay?'

  Breathless, 'I think the baby's coming.'

  'Oh, fuck.'

  A shriek.

  Pain.

  'You'll have to help me.'

  'What? I mean, how?'

  Another shriek.

  She fell to the floor, started to scrunch up her eyes.

  'Help me, please!'

  ****

  At the hospital we went our separate ways.

  'Will she be okay?' I asked as they wheeled Caroline away.

  No answer.

  Some bright spark put a wheelchair down for me, motioned 'in'.

  'No chance. I walk fine.'

  I got two steps and my knees went again. Had been running on my last reserves of adrenaline.

  'Like I thought, that gash tells a different story,' said the paramedic.

  I touched my head, felt blood on my fingertips. It had soaked all the way down my shirt and into my waistband.

  'Looks like you took quite a clatter.'

  I wanted to say, 'No shit, Sherlock.' But went with, 'Yes, quite a clatter.'

  They spent an hour or so patching me up. I had stitches and a nice head bandage to complete the look. The blood was soaking through the bandage in a red spot, smack-centre, making me look like a kamikaze pilot.

  Amy brought in the news: 'She had a little girl.'

  I tried to smile, but my head hurt too much, even on the codeine, 'Great, she's okay?'

  'Chirping away like a budgie.'

  I sat up, 'Do tell.'

  Amy had on her shit-stopping seriousness look, 'It's not pretty.'

  I motioned to my head, 'Do I look like someone who needs sugar-coating?'

  Amy stood up again, looked agitated. She took off her coat and placed it over the chair by the bed. 'Well, I checked out our minister ...'

  'And?'

  'Let's just say you were right to have your suspicions. He's in line to be the Moderator of the Church of Scotland.'

  'That's a big gig.'

  'The biggest, comes with the Right Reverend title ... you could see why he has Oscar night nerves.'

  Amy put her arms round her slim waist, hugged herself, 'Gus, I feel strange talking about this, but, Caroline said some stuff when she, well after the birth, I think she was still under the drugs, but ...'

  I sat up in the bed and motioned her closer, 'Look, if there's something I need to know, you better just spit it out.'

  Amy started to cry. She was a tough girl and I'd never seen this before.

  'Hey, what's the matter?'

  She put her hand to her mouth, 'Caroline says ... he's the father.'

  I slumped, 'What?'

  The dam had burst, 'She says he raped her. She hates him, got into trouble at home and got into this neo-Nazi crowd because she thought it was about as far away from what he stood for as she could get ... Gus, it's too sad for words.'

  I couldn't listen any more.

  'Give me my phone over.'

  'You can't use a phone in hospital.'

  'Fuck it. Give me it.'

  She passed me the mobi, it smelled of fags, Bensons.

  I dialled Urquhart, he answered on the second ring, 'Hello, Minister, this is Gus Dury.'

  'Oh, hello … have you uncovered anything?'

  'You better believe it.'

  'Well, that's wonderful news.'

  'Is it?'

  'Well, yes, I-I ...'

  'Not so fast. I have found your daughter, but let's just say I've run into a few extra expenses along the way.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'Understand this, the price is now two-thousand in cash by this afternoon.'

  'What?'

  'You heard, Minister ... you ever want to hear that Right Reverend bit upfront then you better be where I first met you, on time.'

  I cut the line.

  ****

  I took Amy, not as back-up, or decoration, but because she set the tone I wanted. She had edge.

  Urquhart was sitting in the snug with a bottle of Highland Spring. Still.

  On our approach he stood up, eyes lit on my bandaged head, then shifted, 'Who is this?'

  Amy looked him up and down, she blew out her Hubba Bubba, popped the bubble fast. She sat right up front. Urquhart had a view of her cleavage most men would have paid money for, but it set his nerves jangling.

  'You don't ask any questions, Minister,' I said.

  I nodded to the barman, 'Rum and coke, twice.'

  There was silence around the table. Amy eyed Urquhart with derision. Once in a while she'd blow out another bubble, just to put the knife in him.

  'Could you stop that, please?' said Urquhart.

  'Why?' said Amy.

  He clammed up, mumbled, 'It's vexatious.'

  Amy fluttered her eyelashes, leaned forward, close enough for the minister to scent the Hubba Bubba on her breath, 'If someone says stop, do you always stop, Minister?'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  A smile, wide, white teeth, 'Never mind.'

  Our drinks came.

  The barman left.

  I spoke, 'Now, let's get down to brass tacks. The cash.'

  He ruffled, 'I think I shall have my side of the agreement fully realised before I part with any ...'

  I raised a hand, 'Hold it right there.'

  Amy slurped rum and coke through a straw.

  The minister shuffled on his seat, 'I have had quite enough of this performance, Mr Dury! Now I engaged your services to locate my daughter and I demand to know what progress you have made towards that end.'

  'The money.'

  Silence.

  Amy leaned forward, yelled, 'The money!' She slapped her hand on the table and yelled again, 'Now!'

  It did the trick.

  He produced a long manila envelope from the inside pocket of his Barbour jacket.

  I opened the package and peered inside.

  'There's no need to count it, it's all there.'

  It looked about right. I peeled out two fifties and gave them to Amy, said, 'Here, you've earned that.'

  She took them greedily, sat them under her glass then returned eyes to the minister.

  I resealed the envelope, handed it back to Amy, said, 'Take this to Caroline ... that girl deserves all the help she can get for making a fresh start.'

  Urquhart's face reddened, 'Now look here, I paid you to find my daughter.'

  'I did.'

  'Then, where is she?'

  'I never said I would tell you that.'

  He made to open his mouth, fumbled for words; we have a phrase in Scotland, 'Are you catching flies, Minister?'

  'I-I can't believe this ... you have swindled me!' He rose and started to do up his jacket. 'I'm not standing for this,' he said.

  I motioned, 'Sit,' patted on his chair, 'unless you'd like me to fuck up your chances of becoming Moderator once and for all.'

  His eyes widened. He lowered himself, slowly.

  Amy sighed, blew another bubble and got up to leave.

  'I've s
een all I can stomach,' she said.

  Urquhart lowered his head and looked into his palms, 'What has she told you?'

  I tipped up my glass, drained it, 'Everything.'

  'She lies, you know.'

  'Will the DNA?'

  He turned to me, quickly.

  'I didn't think so.'

  I stood up to leave, moved towards him and lowered my mouth to his ear, 'If I ever hear you have been within a country mile of that girl, I will personally preside over your crucifixion. Do you understand me?'

  He said nothing.

  'Is your hearing off, I said do you understand me?'

  He nodded. 'Yes, yes, I understand.' I watched him take out his handkerchief and press it between his hands, then carefully began to fold it away again.

  I moved off, left him staring at the tabletop. As I walked, I expected him to ask about his daughter, either one. He stayed silent.

  At the door, my heart pounded. I turned, thought I might see a broken man, in tears perhaps. He was pouring out the mineral water. Face, stone.

  Pretty Boy

  The slot-machine's lights flickered off the blood-splattered floor as Stauner came round. He lay in a mix of piss, blood, fag-dowps, shattered glass and ... hair. Lots of blond hair.

  'The fuck's this?' he said.

  Stauner touched his head.

  'No ... the bastards!' They'd shaved his head. Not a scalping, but a fine going over with the number one.

  'No. No. No,' he yelled out. He slapped palms on the pub floor, tried to gather up as much of his long locks as he could.

  'The bastards ... the fuckers, this is out of order.'

  The blond curls unfurled with every touch; already caught up in the shards and blood, there was no way back for them.

  Stauner rose.

  He looked around: it was The Moorings. He could pick the place any day, his old stomping ground. Pulled some gash in here, he thought, he'd even renamed it, The Hoorings after his successes.

  'How the fuck'd I get in here?'

  The last thing Stauner remembered was handing the Adidas holdall to Monique. She'd kissed him, bloody hard he'd thought, even for Monique. Then she'd grabbed his crotch and asked what he'd been feeding that bad boy on.

  'French lassies!' Stauner said.

  'You are teasing with me, darling. Always you are teasing, no?'

  No teasing about it, he'd thought. He meant every word he said: 'I'm your man, hon … happy to supply the meat for a wee French roll anytime!'

  She liked that, he thought. She spun round and flicked her long black hair in his face. He could still remember how it smelled as she backed onto him, grinding in her 'petit derrière'.

  'Later, mon amour ... I have to take this to safety. You did well, yes? No one was hurt?'

  They were in the clear, there was a phrase, 'Went like clockwork,' he said.

  Monique snapped: 'How much?'

  'Like we thought, hon, ten-large.'

  Hurriedly, she unzipped the holdall, tipped her head towards the contents and tucked her shiny black hair behind her ear, all in one smooth, and very French, motion.

  'Ah, it is all good,' she said.

  'Told you.'

  She leaned forward, touched Stauner's chin and adjusted his glare towards her, 'Always you are looking to the ladies!'

  'Only one lady for me, hon,' he said, reaching out to place a slap on her behind.

  She smiled coquettishly, leaned in even closer, 'My ladies' man,' she said, then ran off, slinging the holdall over her arm.

  ****

  Stauner steadied himself on one of The Moorings' Formica-topped tables. His head spun. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and his ribs ached from a solid, sustained beating.

  Somehow, he found the ability to negotiate the darkness towards the bar, and put on the lights. The brightness made him feel like acid had just been flung in his eyes. He felt his guts heave, then he hurled violently all over the bar counter.

  'Fucksake ...'

  Stauner put his hands out, seemed to settle. There was a McEwan's bar bucket full of water with some melting ice. He raised it, tipped the contents over his head in a oner.

  'Hell's fire ...' he said. The chill rose on his neck, pushed tributaries down his back. In a few seconds, however, it had the desired effect: he was beginning to function again.

  He recalled getting into Franklin's motor. Franklin, fuck me, he thought — Frank the Plank, Frank the Wank — or any other of the hundred-and-fifty piss-takes he'd came up with for the wee poof over the years.

  'Where you off tae, Stauner?' Franklin called out.

  'Eh ... the station, how?'

  'Jump in, I'll give you a fastie. Save waiting for the bus, eh.'

  'Eh, aye, suppose.'

  If he'd been smart, he'd have smelled a rat there and then. What the fuck was Franklin doing given the likes of him a ride for fucksake, thought Stauner. Christ, he'd been done for riding the guy's wee sister when she was thirteen or fourteen. Couldn't see him forgetting about that, even though it was when they were back at the school.

  'So, what's the Hampden Roar, Stauner?'

  'Nothing, why?'

  'Just asking ... bit edgy there aren't you?'

  He looked at the Next Man carriers Stauner had stuffed at his feet, the other side of the gear stick. They were chock-full of new clothes ... for Paris.

  'Splashin' out, Stauner?'

  'Not really.'

  'Next, though ... had a win on the ponies?'

  'Business is good, y'know.'

  Franklin laughed, 'So I hear.'

  That's when Stauner realised they weren't heading to Waverley Station; then he felt the Nylon rope round his neck.

  ****

  Stauner grabbed a glass from behind the bar, pushed it under one of the optics and filled it up with Famous Grouse. The whisky burned on his cut gums, but the feel of it surging down to his stomach was pure bliss.

  He hit the optic again, settled another score with his cravings. As he looked around The Hoorings, Stauner saw the place was a tip. It looked like a bomb had hit it, as his old mam would have said. The curtains had been pulled down, ripped to pieces. Hardly a stick of furniture was left standing. The slot-machine had a table leg through the front, and worst of all, the sin of sins, the pool table's baize had been slashed to pieces.

  'What is this?' he said. 'I must be missing something.'

  He'd been worked over. Got that bit. Properly robbed, understood. But dumped in The Hoorings — the place, trashed — had him scoobied.

  Stauner belted down another low-flying birdie, then staggered towards the door. Sure as shite, he wasn't hanging about. His bags were gone, and the ticket; but, Paris was still on his mind as he tried the door handle.

  'Christ!'

  It was locked. Bolted and shuttered from the outside.

  'Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.'

  Stauner kicked out, slammed his boot into the door. He managed to keep it up for about a minute till he realised that he didn't have the strength to dislodge the shutters.

  He leaned against the wall, the bare plaster felt cold against his back. He felt his knees buckle, and then he slid down towards the floor. Through the window he saw headlights coming, illuminating the car park. Then he heard the sound of tyres on the gravel.

  Stauner stood up. Hit at the door again, but it didn't budge an inch. He ran to the other side of the bar, tried to lift a window, but they were all painted down.

  What'd the fucking Health and Safety have to say about this? he thought.

  He could hear footsteps running up the path to the front of the pub. Panic jumped in him. He felt his chest start to heave. His mouth dried over. His head was a furnace.

  The remains of a chair was to hand, Stauner picked it up and threw it at the window. It smashed as loudly as gunfire, instantly covering the floor in glass.

  He could hear the keys turning in the locks, and voices.

  'Fuck ... c'mon!'

  Stauner tried to reach out,
to open the shutters, but his hands were too big — wouldn't go in. He was trapped, like a fucking big rat, he thought.

  As the pub door swung open two old pugs the size of brick shithouses walked in and stood, square-footed, before him.

  'What's this?' said Stauner.

  The pugs didn't answer. Didn't utter a word. Then in walked Rab Hart. The Wee Man was the last person in the world Stauner wanted to see.

  Hart walked slowly, his expensive shoes crushing glass beneath his every step. When he came level with the pugs, they took a step backwards, stood behind their Guvnor and clenched fists.

  For a moment no words passed between them, then Hart spoke: 'Slight matter of ten grand of mine to discuss, Pretty Boy.'

  Stauner tried for words, but none came.

  'Robbing off me's one thing ... messing up my boozer's quite another. You'll be lucky to get out of this alive, Stauner.'

  'No, Rab ... you don't understand, it was the French lassie, she fucked me over.'

  Hart laughed: 'Fucked you over ... that not your style, Pretty Boy?'

  The Wee Man's laughter hit off the walls, sending blades into Stauner. The pugs joined in, their vast chests making tremors that set layers of bling jingling.

  Hart tipped back his head, he removed his glasses, and one of the pugs suddenly halted all laughter and rushed to his side with a hankie.

  'Fucked you over ... I like that, no, I do, really I do,' said Hart.

  'But, you don't ...'

  'Understand? Is that what you were going to say? Oh, I think I do.'

  Hart nodded to Stauner, and the two pugs sprung like thoroughbreds, 'Understand this — you'll see a good fucking now, laddie!' he said, 'bastardin' sure you will.'

  ###

  This Charming Tam

  She was what you might call a ten-pinter ... but that was alright, Tam had had at least fifteen.

  As he staggered across the dancefloor, he weighed his opening line: 'How do you like your eggs in the morning?'

  Nah, they all knew to say: 'Unfertilised.'

  'Get your coat, you've pulled!'

  Nah, not subtle enough. At this hour — after the last dance — required subtlety. Tam straightened himself, puffed his chest as he eyed his target, up and down.

  'So,' he slurred. 'Is that a ladder in your tights, or the stairway to heaven?'

  Jailbait Stalemate

  (an anti-romance)

  'Fucksake, Jonesy — the age ay that lassie, it's 50/50 you'd get hair oan it!'