The Rack & Cue Page 11

  “But you said your brother was away?” Grace said.

  “Yes, my youngest brother. My older brother became sick…Now; will you all allow me to finish the rules, please? Are you here to win money or to get depressed?” Porky said, smiling.

  “No, you crack on, big man,” Diesel said. “Don’t let us stop ya!” he concluded, his wink acting as a full-stop.

  “Thank you, young man. For those of you who are taking part, these are the rules: Once the pub has been barred and closed for the duration, no-one must leave the premises. If anyone wants to go outside to fetch anything from the car, smoke or use their phone, then please do so after this, before I get proceedings underway. Once I have drawn your names from the hat, play will commence immediately. The loser of each match will then have to leave the bar area, and take up seating in the lounge, until the event is finished and the money has been handed to the winner.

  “The winner, in turn, will be escorted out the front door, or to their room upstairs. I know a few of you are staying here for the evening. We have, in the past, had it turn ugly,” Porky lied.

  “What has turned ugly?” Iain wanted to know.

  “Why, the outcome, lad,” Porky said. “Some people are poor sports, shall we say.” Chuckling, his chins and gut wobbled, reminding Rigs of a portly Oliver ‘Babe’ Hardy.

  A few mutters and titters circled the room, which encouraged Porky to go that one step further with his lie.

  “Yes. They were fighting on the floor!” he said, shaking his head as he pictured the imaginary competitors tussling on the floor of his pub. “After throwing them out, they continued their shenanigans outside. It was madness.”

  Their chuckles grew louder.

  Porky had them in his palm.

  The lies were winning them over.

  The oddness of the situation diminishing.

  “Right, back to matters at hand. As I was saying, the winner will be escorted out the door or upstairs, depending on their situation. Now, as for the winner out of you lot, he or she must then go on to face the pub champion to scoop the cash,” Porky said, an immense smile spreading across his face.

  “Pub champion?” Roadblock wanted to know. “What type of stunt are you trying to pull here, dickhead?!”

  “Please, please!” Porky said, his hands in the air once again as he tried to reassure the masses. “The pub champion must be defeated if you wish to capture the cash prize. It’s been the same rules since I started the competition.”

  “Then where is this so-called champ?!” Diesel mocked.

  “Upstairs, awaiting his challenge. He’s my son.”

  “Son? How old is he?” Iain wanted to know.

  “Seventeen.”

  A burst of laughter erupted around Porky.

  “Fucking seventeen?!” someone shouted.

  “What’s his prize for winning – a glass of milk?!” another shouted.

  “Yeah, with a side of cookies!” bellowed another.

  Porky breathed a sigh of relief. The news had taken a turn he had not expected. This lot thought something special of themselves. They were not going to be beaten by some teenager. They were much bigger, stronger and better than some young lad.

  “Be warned, he’s very good,” Porky said.

  “How good is he?” a voice rang out. The laughter and mutters died down.

  “On his day, he can beat the best,” Porky said, holding nothing back.

  “Does he always win?” Rigs asked.

  “No, he has lost a few times,” Porky lied. The money had never been scooped.

  “There’s some hope then,” someone laughed out.

  “Let’s do this shit,” Diesel said.

  “Right,” Porky said. “I’ll give you all five minutes to get drinks, go to the toilet or pop outside for whatever you need. Be back in the bar in five minutes’ time. I’ll ring the bell just before drawing the names,” he concluded, whilst looking at his watch.

  “What do you think, Danny? Are you still up for playing?”

  “Too fucking right, I am, Clive. But, I have to admit, I think our chubby landlord here is up to something.”

  “I get that feeling, too. I’m worried about Bobby, also,” Clive said.

  “Yeah, me too, Clive.”

  “We haven’t heard anything from him since we got in here. I find that more than a little weird. I know you think his gear is shit, but…”

  “No, I have the same feeling, mate,” Danny said. He had a nervous look on his face, which perturbed Clive. He’d never seen Danny worry or give a fuck about anything. This was certainly out of character, especially if he was concerned about Bobby’s welfare.

  “What do you want me to do, Sarge?” Clive asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m thinking.”

  “Want me to go on outside and check on him – see if he’s okay?”

  “Yeah. But the only problem is if you go out there, you may not get back in here. Porky seems pretty anal about his rules.”

  “Pft, please. I’ll find a way in. Besides, I wouldn’t mind trying to get around the back of this place. See if everything is as legit as it appears,” Clive said.

  “Hmm, that’s not such a bad idea. We might have stumbled on to something here.”

  “Yeah,” Clive said, nodding.

  “Okay, you slip out the front and check on Bobby. If all is okay, take him with you, and see if you can dig around out back. Force entry if you must. Let me know what’s going on behind the scenes here.”

  “Will do, Sarge.”

  Leaving Danny’s side, he walked up to Porky. “I’m popping outside to use my phone,” he told the landlord.

  “That’s fine. You know your way?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Remember, be back in in five minutes or the door will be locked,” Porky warned.

  “I’ll try. Something important has come up at work – I may even have to leave,” Clive said.

  “Okay,” Porky said.

  Was that a mistrusting look Clive could see on the rotund man’s face?

  It unnerved him.

  Sent a cold stab of fear through him.

  Am I doing something wrong? Clive felt compelled to ask the man, but stayed silent. Instead, he offered a thin smile as he turned to leave. He felt Porky’s eyes bore through his back, which made his gums itch. Set him and his hairs on end.

  Stopping, Clive turned and looked back.

  He almost pissed his pants.

  Porky was just standing there. Looking at him.

  His grin almost lopsided.

  Clive started to speak, but Porky winked at him before going off to serve one of the punters.

  The wink felt final.

  As though he was saying…

  Goodbye.

  After shrugging off his thoughts and feelings, Clive had headed out the door. The sky had turned an inky-black. No stars lined the skies, just thick, black clouds, which continued to leak water. The rain came down in cold, cutting sheets, which forced him to turn the lapels of his jacket skyward.

  Taking a cigarette from the box inside his breast pocket, he lit one, and took long, hard drags on it. He hid in the doorway while he smoked and drank in his surroundings. The road could not be seen from where he stood – the lights which graced the roadside did not burn orange after the sun had set. They probably hadn’t been switched on in years, Clive thought.

  Peeking out from under cover, Clive tried to spot the van but couldn’t see anything in the impenetrable darkness. The squinting began to hurt his eyes, so he gave up. “I’ll finish this, and then stroll on over there. Relieve Bobby. Poor bastard must be dying for a piss,” Clive muttered to himself.

  Grounding the fag out, Clive stepped out of the doorway and headed over to where they had parked the van. As he got closer, he had a sinking feeling it wasn’t there any longer.

  Gone.

  “No, it can’t be?!” he said to himself. “Bobby wouldn’t…” his words trailed off. To his shock, his vision
was not playing tricks on him. It wasn’t there. All that remained were tyre marks in the muck which were filled with water. “What the…”

  Bending for a closer look, Clive noticed that the tracks lead onto the road, and seemed to do a U-turn. “Weird. Why are the tracks going in the opposite direction?”

  Puzzled, he stood up and traced the tracks. He found himself crossing the road over to the back entrance of the pub, to where the tyre tracks came to an abrupt halt. “What is this? Some type of game? Why would Bobby move the van?” Clive’s face was scrunched into a ball of confusion. “Maybe I should inform…”

  His thoughts and words were cut short, when a loud clanging from inside the pub shot out. “Shit. That’s my curfew up. Fuck it. I told Danny I’d make my way in through the back, anyway. Finding Bobby is more important than raising the alarm just yet.”

  Looking at the gate before him, Clive huffed. It reminded him of training days. Scaling walls and buildings. Back then, his arse hadn’t been so fat, and hurling himself over obstacles was a far easier task. Now, whenever he landed from reasonable high jumps, his bones ached. His knee joints screamed in agony and his back howled for days.

  “Let’s get this shit over with,” he said, looking up and just about being able to see the top of the gate. Stepping back, Clive ran at the obstruction. His knees clattered against it, forcing the man to swallow a scream. His back twitched as he hoisted himself up and got one leg over the top.

  Letting out a hard huff, Clive swung his other leg over, and landed stiffly on the other side. His knees buckled, causing him to sit down. Hard. The seat of his trousers instantly soaked through. “Oh, for fuck sake,” Clive hissed, as he put his hands down either side of him. The ground was gravelly, which hurt his palms as he pushed himself up.

  With shaking legs, he tried to walk forward, but his knees gave way. This caused him to stumble forward. His body rebounded off something hard, which sent him sprawling backwards. He managed to stay upright. “What the hell?!” When his vision cleared, he noticed the van was in front of him.

  Putting his hand out, he touched the stained panelling of the backdoor. The rain had failed to wash all the blood away. “Oh, fuck. Oh shit. This is bad. This is really fucked up. What…why…who?!” his mind raced.

  Instantly going for his mobile, Clive thought he’d ring Danny, but then realised the Sarge wouldn’t be able to leave the pub. “I need to get in there,” he said, but decided to inspect the van first, by opening one of the backdoors. The hinge creaked over the hiss of rain, as it was edged back open.

  “Bobby?” Clive called out thinly. His guts sank. The stink coming from inside the van was putrid. It smelled as though wild animals had been defecating in there for about a week. “Jesus, what’s that stench?!” Clive muttered, as he fought back down his throat, the bile causing a hot, stinging sensation at the rear of his oesophagus.

  Pulling his hand away from the one door to pry open the other, Clive noticed strings of tackiness pull loose with his fingers. “Ugh, Jesus Christ…” On closer inspection, he noticed the goo was strings of blood mixed with saliva. Briskly wiping his hand, Clive opened the other door fully, which was gloop free.

  “Bobby?!” he called again. The inside was pitch black. No lights from the sky came in through the windshield. “Bobby, are you in here? Answer, or groan if you are. Just do fucking something, man! Bobby?!” he yell-whispered.

  Straining his ears over the din of rain, Clive stood there for long moments, waiting to hear some kind of response from his colleague. He knew that a reply wasn’t coming. “Where the hell are you, mate?” he uttered, as he put one foot up on the ledge of the van, while gripping the inside with both hands. He hoisted himself up and in.

  His foot immediately found a pool of something soft and sticky. Not stopping to think about it, Clive rummaged around on the communication desk, and found what he was looking for. Gripping the heavy-duty torch, which could also be used for clubbing, Clive lit his surrounding area.

  The interior told him all he needed, or wanted, to know. Crimson liquid was splashed on the walls and ceiling, which had drip, drip, dripped into neat, congealed pools on the floor.

  Clive lost the contents of his stomach, which splashed up his trouser legs. The smell of beer and meat pie now mixed with the spicy odour of blood and God knows what else. Staggering around, looking for the exit, Clive slid on the blood and collapsed onto the com desk. His light fell on the small fishing knife Danny kept in the van. Quickly, Clive scooped it up off the floor and placed it in his jacket pocket.

  “You might come in handy, my little darling,” he said, wiping vomit from his chin and chops.

  Out of the van and in the fresh air once again, Clive felt as though he could breathe. It was good being out of the stench, which was suffocating.

  Drawing in deep breaths, which cleared his pooling vision, Clive swept the bright beam about him. He was standing in the pub’s backyard, which was surprisingly big. From the other side of the gate, you wouldn’t think this was here, let alone expand as much as it did. Even the arse end of the pub appeared much bigger. From the front you could only see three floors to the building, but from behind, there were actually five.

  A top floor and a cellar.

  A small window at the bottom of the brickwork gave away the lower level of the structure. The same went for the highest floor. Two bay windows jutted out, which appeared boarded up. Covered. The same went for the lower one. Blankets or such sheltered the glass.

  Why?

  Clive didn’t know, but he intended to find out what the hell was going on here.

  Edging his way around the vehicle, he made for a small door he could see, which he assumed led into the rear rooms of the pub. Healthy clouds of smoke drifted down from the chimney pots above, shrouding the whole yard area. It looked like some kind of graveyard scene from a Hammer Horror, Clive thought, minus the tombstones.

  Letting a small chuckle escape him, he shook his head and moved on. The door looked old. It seemed like a good gust of wind would blow it inward. Rip it down. “I’ll huff, and I’ll puff…” Clive started, but was cut short. “What’s that noise?” Making circles, he pierced the darkness with his light and sought out all the recesses.

  There it was again.

  Much like nails being scraped along the floor.

  Aiming the beam downward, he searched the floor about him and off into the distance. Nothing. But the noise was there. Somewhere. Just out of reach and hiding in the inkiness.

  Clive rushed over to the door and slammed his hand onto the doorknob. He turned it violently. It didn’t budge. Putting his shoulder against the frail wood, he pushed. It stayed solid. An inch was not given. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?!”

  The thing was weather-worn. Rats and squirrels looked as though they’d been having a joyous time gnawing at the foot of the wood, yet it was like trying to bow a steel bar, not a shaky wooden door.

  The scraping sound came closer.

  A throaty growl accompanied it.

  Clive left the door and spun around. There still wasn’t anything there with him. Just the darkness. “Who’s there?” he asked, trying to sound as fearless as possible. “Answer me, damn it!”

  Nothing but the wind replied.

  “I have a weapon, you son-of-a-bitch…I’m not afraid to cut you down!”

  This didn’t seem to cut any ice with the hidden enemy.

  “Stay back. I’m an officer of the law, and I will take you down if I have to!”

  The scratching came to a halt.

  So too did the growling.

  A vicious snarl replaced both sounds.

  “Dogs!” Clive exclaimed. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  He turned and threw his weight against the door. The pane of glass in the centre cracked. Wood splintered. “Got you.” Standing back once more, he threw all sixteen stone of himself against the weakening timber once again. The lock broke, causing the doorknob to come off in his hand. The glass fel
l through simultaneously.

  But he was too late in gaining access.

  The scraping sound was back, but this time it was galloping towards him.

  Clive barely had enough time to see the massive heads lunging out of the darkness. One went for his throat, but missed, and instead bit down on his shoulder, whilst the other clamped onto his arm. The sleeve of his jacket and shirt beneath were torn asunder. Flesh was ripped from his hand, like an electric knife would strip a joint of beef.

  His screams were lost in the eye of the storm as the rain washed his blood, sweat and tears down the nearby drain. Even though the weight of the two dogs on him was crushing, as they thrashed, bucked and nuzzled, Clive managed to stay on his feet with the aid of a wall.

  “Motherfucker!” he screamed from behind clenched teeth. Digging his hand into his coat pocket, he flipped the blade on the small knife and drove it up and into the belly of the dog ravishing his shoulder.

  It whimpered and tried to pull away, but Clive dealt a death blow before it could, by ripping the steel up through its guts. The soft splash he heard hit the floor was more than likely the dog’s innards. It collapsed to the ground and howled, until its life bid farewell.

  But the fight was far from over. Clive could feel his knees weaken from the loss of blood and the jolt they had taken earlier. The weight from the remaining dog was not helping either, but he battled on. Pushing himself off the wall, Clive crashed the back of the dog against the left wing of the van.

  This caused the headlight to burst. The glass was thrown like confetti. The beast yelped, but clamped down harder still on Clive’s arm. “Jesus H. Christ. Get the fuck off me,” he screamed. He then brought the knife up, before plunging it down into the mutt’s face. Getting the blade behind the thing’s eyeball, he punctured the brain.

  The fight was won.

  Clive kicked the still carcass, just to make sure it was dead. “Fuck you,” he panted, as he fell against the body of the van, his arm and shoulder screaming white-hot agony. “Come on, I got to get myself together. I need to warn the others. All I need to do is get inside and walk into the bar. One fucking look at me and they’ll all know,” he said.