The Rack & Cue Read online

  The Rack and Cue

  David Owain Hughes

  Edited by: J. Ellington Ashton Press Staff

  Cover Art by: Michael Fisher

  http://jellingtonashton.com

  Copyright.

  David Owain Hughes

  ©2017, David Owain Hughes

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book, including the cover and photos, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. All rights reserved.

  Any resemblance to persons, places living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Also by David Owain Hughes

  Man Eating F*cks

  Wind-Up Toy

  Wind -Up Toy: Broken Plaything

  Wind-Up Toy: Playtime, Simone

  Walled In

  Granville

  Choice Cuts: Delicatessen

  White Walls and Straitjackets

  Collision Course

  Chapter 1

  Squeaking wipers. Great, that’s all I need, he thought, as rain lashed the windshield. Lightning illuminated the sky as it tore through the clouds and the thunder crashed on. Flickers from the electrical weather conditions aided the poor visibility on the motorway.

  “Jesus! It’s coming down as though the world’s ending. I can’t see a bastard thing out there!” The CB radio crackled and spat static, catching his attention; the occasional voice coming through as clear as an X-ray. Picking up the mic, Rigs spoke. “Is anyone out there on this piss poor morning?”

  He kept hold of the mic, waiting for a reply. The squealing wipers were starting to drive him mad. A tick developed at the side of his neck, as a headache started to form behind his eyes.

  “Hey, Taff,” came an answer. “Quite the distance from home, aren’t ya, boyo?”

  Rigs ignored the Englishman’s banter, and spoke with an even tone. “Yeah, and a mother of a morning it’s been so far, too,” Rigs said. “Whereabouts you heading, Bristol?”

  “The accent gave it away, eh?”

  Rigs heard the man cackle, and couldn’t help but smile. “Oh, aye, you could say that. You flying solo, Rose?” Rose was the name he gave to all the English truckers he spoke to.

  “Always flying solo, me. Most of us guys do. Why, you got company?”

  Rigs looked over at Iain in the passenger seat, and smiled. His mate’s head was pressed tight against the glass, his peaked hat down over his eyes. Strings of drool could be seen clinging to his lower lip. His breathing was rhythmical.

  “Pretty much alone out here too, Rose,” Rigs said, smiling. “Some weather this is, hey?”

  “It sure is, Taff. I can’t see shit. It’s coming down in sheets!”

  “You heading home or dropping off?” Rigs asked, as a gaudy orange sign out on the road caught his attention. Don’t Drink and Drive – flashed on and off, followed by a second – Feeling Sleepy? No, but a coffee would be nice, Rigs thought.

  “Heading back to the motherland, Taff. You?”

  “Yeah, the same. Heading back after dropping off a few tonnage of lumber in Newcastle.”

  “I… you… be… care… ful… you… were….”

  Rigs replaced the mic as the Bristolian’s voice started breaking up. Communication lost.

  “Ah, fucking thing.”

  Rigs turned his attention to the radio/CD player and hit the power button. He was blasted by the sound of a newscaster delivering the morning news. All local stuff. Nothing of interest. He thought of changing the channel, but the news ended and a song played. Freddy Mercury’s soothing voice filled the cab and set Rigs off singing to “Ride the Wild Wind.”

  “God, remember this one, Iain?” he said, looking over at his companion, who was still asleep. “With all this noise, you’re still flat out kipping. You’re shitting me!” he said, giving a little chuckle, as he increased the volume to the radio. “The man could sleep though an avalanche,” he said to himself, continuing to sing.

  The old but gutsy Foden 3335 growled and grunted its way along the M6, as Rigs shifted through the gears. The diesel engine sounded in great form as its chunky tires rolled through pools of water. The murky liquid was cast against the cab’s body with ferocious lashings. Mud splashed against the doors and mudguards, as flies and other small bugs were squished on the grill, bonnet and licence plate.

  They’d left Newcastle around two hours ago, after getting the last of the cargo out of their container by eight A.M, and into Greg and Sons’ Timber Warehouse by nine-thirty. It shouldn’t have taken them so long, but the factory only had one fork truck in use, with two others out-of-action.

  Rigs had hoped to be home by mid-afternoon, but that was never going to happen now. The setback at the lumber merchant hadn’t been the only hurdle. The traffic on the way up had been horrendous, with accidents and jams most of the way to Birmingham and beyond. A five-hour journey had turned into seven hours, which might have been longer, had Iain’s need-for-speed not been such a hungry and insatiable one, he thought.

  Now it was Rigs’ turn, as his foot pushed down on the accelerator. He didn’t need to be home. There was no reason. No wife. No girlfriend. Just Coal, his six-year-old Staffordshire bull terrier. The mutt was either sitting by an empty food and water bowl, due to a shitty neighbour who couldn’t look after herself, let alone a dog, or was fast asleep on the sofa, farting and yawning.

  He hoped the latter. It was more than likely the latter.

  The pooch is used to solitude.

  But it wasn’t Coal.

  It was something else.

  Rigs just wanted to be home. To kick off his size thirteen Caterpillars and strip to the waist, maybe guzzle down half-a-dozen bottles of Hobgoblin beer, while slumped in his favourite chair; to listen to the rain splash against the roof and drift off to sleep in front of the box, while Coal lay at his feet and licked his toes.

  It sounded like heaven and he wanted it. Badly.

  Rigs turned the radio up a few clicks.

  Roy Orbison was singing about driving all night – how apt, Rigs thought. He sang along to the track while tapping the thick steering wheel with both hands. One booted-foot thudded the floor by the side of the clutch.

  “I drove all niiiiiight!” Rigs belted out, eyeing himself in the rear-view mirror, flashing his pearly whites and fluttering his eyelashes. He was pretending to be ol’ Roy himself, singing to a stadium full of screeching women.

  “What. The. Hell are you doing?” Iain said, trying to contain his laughter.

  “What?” Rigs asked, as he stopped singing. “Problemo?”

  Iain wiped the saliva from his chops, rolled his head on his muscular neck, then “Ooh’d” and “Ah’d” as his bones clicked and crunched. He stretched his arms and arched his back. “No. No problem here. Just find your poofy singing hilarious.”

  “It could be worse, ya know. I could be howling out a bit of One Direction,” Rigs stated.

  “Ugh! Now that would be a crime against humanity,” Iain said.

  They both looked at each other and laughed.

  “Where the hell are we?” Iain asked, looking at his watch. “It’s gone eleven o’clock, mate.”

  “I’m not sure, but I think our exit is coming up pretty soon. Can’t see Jack in this weather, mate.”

  “Want me to get the Tom-Tom on the go?”

  “No thanks, ma’am, I can get us home.” The remark earned Rigs a powerful thump from Iain, which caught him on
his left shoulder. The area began to deaden. Rigs chuckled. “Bitch,” he told Iain. “You could have waited for me to get my handbag out.”

  “True. With all that make-up you carry in it, you probably would have brained me.”

  “Huh,” Rigs snorted, which was followed by a laugh.

  “Any chance we can pull this tub over for a few? I need coffee and a stretch of the legs, mate,” Iain said.

  “To be honest, I think that’s going to be our best bet, fella, and see if this weather calms down.”

  Roy had been replaced on the radio by Don Henley, who was singing “The Boys of Summer,” as the rain continued to hammer against the cab’s windows, the wipers on full, which made them squeak and groan even more.

  “Jesus, have we got a mouse trapped under the wiper blades?” Iain asked.

  “I know what you mean. It sounds bloody awful.”

  “I’ll get them changed as soon as we get back.”

  “Good idea.”

  “We got a long haul next,” Iain said.

  “Where? I haven’t seen our schedule for the next few days.”

  “Clyde.”

  “Clyde?!” Rigs blurted. “What the hell are we picking up there?”

  “Drums of fuel,” Iain said.

  “Where’s the drop zone?”

  “Bideford.”

  “That’s going to be some job. We’d better make sure this pile of scrap is in fine nick,” Rigs said.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, mate. With all the work we got going on, we’ll soon have enough to buy two new trucks, then scrap this bloody thing.”

  “Sweet,” Rigs said, putting his left fist out so that Iain could bump his knuckles against Rigs’. It was something they did when they were pleased with a situation.

  “Look, up there,” Iain said, indicating with a nod of his head and a point of a finger. “Isn’t that a pit stop we could use?”

  Rigs had to squint to see the blur and ripple of a red light up the road. It was either a petrol station, Road Chef, or a service station. Rigs hoped for the latter, wanting to be off the road until the rain eased. His longing for home had ceased, now that Iain was awake.

  “Nice. It’s a Motto service station, mate.”

  “Great. My throat’s as dry as an Arab’s dap.”

  “Dap? They don’t wear daps,” Iain said, smiling.

  “Sandal, then. Happy?”

  “Better. Best get over to the left lane,” Iain said.

  “How’s it looking behind? I can’t see shit out the wing mirror,” Rigs said, flipping the indicator downward.

  “Go on, start pulling over. The guy behind is flashing you to go.”

  “How sweet of him,” Rigs said, manoeuvring the rig over to the left-hand lane, and up the off ramp to a large roundabout. Once there, they took the fourth exit and pulled slowly into the Motto parking area designed for lorries and coaches.

  Rig’s killed the engine, which grumbled to a stop. The bonnet hissed and spat, as rain splashed the heated metal. Both men just sat there and watched.

  “Well,” Iain said, not taking his eyes of the windscreen.

  “Well what?” Rigs asked, doing the same.

  “Who’s getting the coffee?”

  “I’ll go,” Rigs said. “Don’t worry your pretty little features about it. But you’re…”

  Before Rigs could finish his sentence, Iain had already produced a twenty pound note out of his pocket. “Get us something to munch on, too.”

  “Such as?”

  “Sarnies, sausage rolls. You know – the same old heart stopping shite,” Iain said. “I think we’re going to be here a while.”

  By the time Rigs got back to the lorry with a bagful of goodies and two coffees, he was soaked to the skin.

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  “Raining out, is it?” Iain asked, as he watched droplets of rain fall from Rigs’ unkempt beard and long hair. Beads of water trickled down his face and trembled off the end of his nose.

  “Funny you should ask, but no, it’s not. I took a shortcut through their carwash.”

  “Well, that was a silly thing to do!” Iain told Rigs, who in return gave him a sarcastic look. “I wouldn’t get your panties in a bunch with me just yet, mate. I have bad news.”

  “Great. What is it now?” Rigs asked, handing one of the coffees over to Iain.

  “The fuzz has closed off most of the main roads and motorways this side of Birmingham. We either find another route home, or we’re stuck here until they reopen them. Your call, mate.”

  “Shit. Right, okay. This is what we’ll do, then. We bunk down here for a couple of hours, finish our drinks and food, maybe get a bit of shut eye, then move on.”

  “What if the roads are still closed by then?”

  “Then we get the Tom-Tom out. She’ll find us a route around the major roads and get us home. Don’t worry. It’s not as if we’re in any sort of hurry or danger, right?” Rigs said.

  “If that’s how you want to play it, that’s fine by me,” Iain said.

  Both men sat there sipping their coffees whilst listening to the radio.

  The rain continued to pour down.

  Chapter 2

  Porky watched the lone figure approach his pub on the CCTV screen, which was rigged up behind the bar. The silhouette drifted across the deserted car park with urgency.

  Even though the picture was grainy on the small security screen, he could still see steam rising off the approaching shape that was more than likely caused by the abysmal weather.

  He’d also come to the conclusion that it was a man making his way to the bar door, due to the sheer bulk of the person’s frame.

  Could be trouble, he thought, as he bent down and eyed the steel bat suspended under the bar’s counter with hooks. Carved into the bloodied steel was the name “Mary”. He winked and clucked his mouth at the clubbing instrument. “Hey there, lovely,” he said.

  “Pint!” the silhouette said, slamming a tenner on the counter. An empty glass further down the bar jumped and rattled to a stop.

  Porky unbent, finished eyeing his concealed beauty under the wood work surface, and faced his customer. Beads of water broke on his forehead, due to the exertion of bending over. His rotund frame barely fit behind the bar and his gut pushed against the beer taps.

  “Hello, sir. Hell of a morning to be out,” Porky said, smiling his yellow-toothed grin. The other half of his dental work was either chipped, scuffed, or damaged by decay and plaque. “Pint o’what will it be? We have fine ales from Shrewsbury, Nottingham, Sheffield….”

  “Give me anything,” the man spat, his face cheerless. Rainwater slid into his mouth every time he spoke and spattered Porky’s face.

  Porky cast his eye over the stranger’s hand which was flat on the bar. Underneath the big, gnarled mitt was the crisp, ten-pound note. He tentatively reached for a pint glass, not taking his eyes off the weird customer. He placed the glass under the Ancient Breed Beer tap.

  “York’s finest this one. Yes, sir,” Porky said, trying to make conversation as he drew the pint. “You from around these parts?” he continued, placing the glassful of dirty, brown liquid in front of the man, who had a scar running down the side of his face.

  “No.” he said, all the while eyeing Porky.

  “Business?” Porky asked.

  “Yeah. I’m with the crew working on the motorway. You must have seen us? We’re always there.”

  “You’re with the men cutting in the new road?” Porky asked.

  “Yeah,” the man said.

  “I see. Right, that’ll be three of your English pounds,” he said, indicating the pint of ale.

  The man took his hand off the tenner. “Open early, ain’t ya?” he asked, his eyes steely and squinting.

  The question took Porky by surprise. “Er, erm, well. Yeah. Getting ready for our big night, see, friend.”

  “And what night may that be, friend?!”

  Porky could feel himself getting irri
tated by the man’s tone and inquisitive looks. He gave his best smile, and then pointed at a poster on a wall opposite them. “Why don’t you join in?” he asked. “Try and make yourself a bit of cash, fri—”

  “The name’s Grant,” he said, cutting Porky dead.

  “Right,” Porky said, mopping his now flooded brow. “Why don’t you join us tonight, Mr. Grant? Maybe earn some serious money?”

  Grant looked over at the poster, which appeared to be years old; the paper yellow with cigarette smoke. One of the corners was peeling away from the wall. It read –

  Porky’s Annual Pool Tournament:

  Open to all.

  Entry fee: £50.

  Prize: £2,000!!!

  For Rules and More Information,

  Please See Bar staff.

  “Two-grand prize?” Grant asked.

  “Yes, sir. Two big ones!”

  “Pft,” Grant snorted into his beer. Then muttered, “Two-grand my arse.”

  “Genuine. It’s the truth, sir. Every penny gets paid out to the winner.”

  “How many are you expecting to turn up?” Grant asked, looking around the deserted pub. “Hardly roaring with trade here, is it, Tubs?”

  Porky ignored the ‘fat’ remark, having been called worse by better men, and smiled. “Porky’s Annual Pool Tournament pulls a crowd, you’ll see.”

  “And you play this lavish competition on that piece of shit?” Grant asked, nodding at the dishevelled-looking pool table, which was situated a bit deeper into the bar area. A vintage jukebox clung to the wall by its side.

  Porky didn’t bother turning around. “No, sir,” he said, shaking his head and sniggering. “That’s just for the regulars and paying customers to use. The tournament table is set-up in the lounge area.”

  Grant took a hearty swallow of his Ancient Breed then wiped his mouth on the cuff of his Donkey Jacket. “Tastes damn fine, does that. York ale, you say?”

  Porky nodded a glowing beam on his face. “Glad you like it. It’s the pride pint of my pub,” he said.