The Rack & Cue Read online

  “What was that?!” Bobby gasped on seeing the thing dressed in all black snatch the mirror from off the vehicle. Drawing the hammer back on the sub-nosed gun, Bobby drew a breath. He faced the back doors. He knew he had to go out there. To squash the threat. To get help.

  The thing that scared him the most was the fact that he knew this was not the work of the Boas. There was a new enemy out there. An enemy they had rattled and forced into evasive action. He knew now, that the pub held a much darker secret than they had first thought.

  It wasn’t just Danny, Clive and himself that were in trouble. It was every person inside that place. Bobby didn’t know what lurked in that forbidding building, but it was dangerous; dangerous and deadly. The others had to be warned. To be saved.

  “I’m warning you. I’m armed!” Bobby yelled at the top of his tiny voice.

  The rocking ceased.

  Bobby smiled.

  Lowering his gun, he shuffled forward. Getting his free hand close to the handles of the back door. He gripped his bladder as tight as he could, in fear he would piss himself on seeing the unseen threat.

  Gripping the door’s handles, Bobby forced himself to place his ear against the metal. He jumped at the touch of the cold material. “Shit,” he scolded himself. “Don’t be a pussy.”

  Putting his ear back against the door, he held his breath and tried hard to block out the sound of rain. Somebody was out there. He could hear their footfalls squelch in the muck. Splash in the pools of water.

  He gulped. Hard. Then he started to pull the handle of the door towards him, which in turn released the lock. Bobby eased the door forward. He started to level his gun, ready to get a clean shot off.

  “You’re getting it now, bastard!”

  Pushing the door wide, Bobby yelled as he levelled his gun off.

  “Freeze!”

  But nothing or no-one stood before him. All that could be seen was the slanting rain. It bounded off the road and hissed as it left behind its watery mark.

  Bobby’s body sagged slightly, as he dropped his guard. He brought the gun back to his face, as he un-bent his knees and he got out of the firing stance. The low grumble of an engine in the distance before him made him squint, as he tried to see through the thick blankets of rain.

  A single, solitary light could be seen approaching. It disappeared here and there, as it manoeuvred bends and dips in the road. “What the…What now? And where the hell is the fucker who was messing with the van?!”

  Jumping out, Bobby poked his head round both sides, seeing nothing. Nobody was there. “What going on around here?!”

  The grumbling sound became louder.

  Closer.

  Bobby could now see who and what was approaching. A motorbike.

  “Shit. Boas!”

  Trying to scramble back into the van, Bobby slipped. His footing lost on the wet sill. He fell backward and onto the road. His shirt and trousers soaked through immediately as he hit the dirt. His glasses jumped off his face as the gun sprang from his grip.

  He rolled around in the muck, cursing, as he blindly felt for his gun and glasses. They were the only two things which could save him. Dig him out of his near hopeless situation.

  The low grumble became a high one, as the bike rolled to a stop in front of Bobby. Through slanted vision, he saw the kick-stand to the bike being lowered by blurry boots. The steel ‘hog’ was then tilted to one side. The engine killed. A fag flicked from gloved fingers.

  “Looking for this, cop?” the voice spat. It was too soft. Too gentle to belong to an outlaw.

  Bobby heard the gun hammer click into place, as his hands groped his glasses. Slowly, he put them on his face. The biker was brought into focus. Bobby huffed out a laugh and let his hands drop to his sides. His palms slapping the legs to his soggy trousers.

  “Huh, I might have known it was you, Jack. You’re never too far behind your boy Diesel, are you?”

  The big man got off his bike and walked towards Bobby. He never lowered the gun, which was pointed at Bobby’s chest.

  “You fucking pigs think you got it all worked out, don’t you?! I’ve been tailing you pricks since we left Cardiff.”

  Bobby’s mouth sagged. Sarge was right. These arseholes were getting inside information from someone. “Which fuck in my department is informing?!” Bobby demanded.

  Jack laughed, as he stood nose-to-nose with Bobby. He pressed the cold muzzle of the .38 to Bobby’s throat. “You honestly think I’d tell a piece of shit like you something like that?” he said, before spitting in Bobby’s face, who almost threw his guts up from the impact of the green-yellowish phlegm. It smelt of tobacco and whisky.

  The man who stood before Bobby was heavily scarred and tattooed. Ink covered his face, neck, shoulders and arms. One eye was covered by a patch. He was a lieutenant in Dutch’s army. Had been for many years.

  “What are you going to do?” Bobby said, all the while smiling. “Shoot…”

  A robust elbow hammered the side of Bobby’s jaw, which sent him sprawling through the mud once again. Some of his knocked out teeth bounced off the van and rattled to a halt in the mire.

  “Shoot you? I’m going to soften you up first, my boy,” Jack said, firing a steel-toe-capped boot into Bobby’s ribs. A fierce crack ensued.

  “Argh, fuck,” Bobby cried in pain as his hand instinctively went to his injured side. “Just fucking kill me, if that’s what…”

  A powerful fist smacked Bobby in the already wounded jaw. This time, it broke. The blow flattened him to the ground, stopping him from crawling away from the attack.

  Jack lowered himself to one knee and wrenched Bobby’s head back by the hair. He then repeatedly and savagely bounded the man’s head off the van’s bumper, until a massive split raced across the fallen man’s head.

  Shoving Bobby’s face into the sludge, Jack got to his feet once again. He stamped on the injured man’s back with glee. “I’m going to bust your fucking spine, little man. Put you in a fucking wheelchair. Make you a fucking cabbage!” Jack roared over the rain. The bandana atop his head, completely saturated, stuck to his skull.

  Stepping back from Bobby, Jack held his sides as he caught his breath. Pounding filth like this fucker gave him nothing but joy. It also took the wind from him these days. “I guess pummelling aresholes like you comes at a price, Bobby. And when I’m finished bouncing your head off this road, me and my boys are going to rip Danny and Clive apart. We’re going to redecorate the countryside in their blood, guts and brains,” he said, then sniggered.

  He lit a cigarette as he stood over the fallen man, before booting him twice, three times in the face. Bobby’s left eye socked collapsed. His vision lost.

  “Argh,” he screamed, as blood and mucus filled his mouth. He gripped his ruptured eye, before feeling a fresh, burning pain.

  Jack, after dragging the fag to a burning state, stubbed it on Bobby’s cheek, before kicking in his other eye. After this, Jack backed off. He watched the fat pig before him squirm on the ground.

  “That’s right, dickhead. You dig around in the filth. Little piggy,” he said, before making pig sounds.

  “My eyes, my fucking eyes!” Bobby cried out. “I can’t fucking see, you bastard,” he continued, a high-pitched squeal escaping him. “Help! Help me! Dannnnny, Clive! Help! For God Sake…”

  Bobby’s wails and pleas were cut short, as Jack stuck his boot into Bobby’s side once again, cracking more ribs. One had now splintered which poked out of Bobby’s flesh and peeked through his shirt.

  The poor bastard didn’t know whether to grab a destroyed eye or clutch his ruptured side. “Urrgggh,” Bobby agonised, as he collapsed to the ground once more.

  “Ha-ha! Suffer, you filthy fuck,” Jack said. He lit another cigarette. This time he didn’t stub it out on Bobby. This time he enjoyed the tobacco, taking long, hard drags of the Mayfair. “Maybe I’ll shoot your knees out next, Bobby. What do you think? Or stomp your back until I hear that big ol’ thick back
bone crack? Choices.”

  “Daaaaaaaannnnnnnyyyyy!” Bobby yelled, his cry pitiful, but loud. Tears burst from the battered man. “Heeeeelp!”

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up!” Jack snarled, as he ferociously booted Bobby in the mouth until he was happy he’d kicked all of the man’s teeth out. His gums ripped to shreds. “Now, where was I? Oh, yeah.” Jack said, leaning back against his bike. All the while he continued to watch Bobby writhe as he smoked.

  Bobby crawled around the side of the van. He crawled through all the shit, mud and pools of water as he tried to be free of Jack’s wrath. If only he could prolong his fate, then maybe, just maybe, Danny or Clive would come to his rescue.

  His eye sockets pained him.

  The hurt was like nothing he’d ever felt before.

  “Where do you think you’re going, buddy boy?” Jack asked, as he walked with a spring in his step around the side of the van. He followed Bobby’s mud trail. “Leaving so soon? Just as the fun was getting started. You party pooper, Bobby,” Jack said, drawing the .38 from the waistband of his jeans. He clicked he hammer home. “Ain’t nothing like the smell of gun oil and pistol smoke,” Jack quipped, as he homed in on Bobby. He placed the muzzle to the back of the fallen man’s right knee. He never blinked nor hesitated, as he pulled the trigger.

  The hammer slammed down. The bullet smashed its way out the front of Bobby’s kneecap, and drilled its way into the dirt. Before Bobby could bellow, Jack had covered the man’s mouth. He felt warm blood flow between his fingers, as it poured out of the copper’s toothless mouth.

  Jack didn’t shilly-shally.

  He shot-out Bobby’s other knee, before clubbing the man repeatedly about the head with the stock of the .38. He beat Bobby into a semi-conscious state, before stopping to catch his breath. “Nothing better than making a fucking pig suffer,” he said, and again spat on Bobby. “Now to wreck all that shit in your van. No doubt you and your boys have some good shit on tape of the little deal that went down in Manchester. Right?”

  Turing away from Bobby, who was lying motionless on the floor, Jack laughed and headed for the back of the police van. “You won’t go running out on me, will you, Bobby? Not while we’re having so much fun,” Jack said. This made him laugh hard, as he stood in front of the backdoors. He pulled them open simultaneously.

  “Who the fuck…?” the cigarette which had been pinched tight between Jack’s teeth, now sagged, and fell from his mouth. The ash end hit his boots and spun off. It hit the wet ground and fizzled out. Before him, standing much, much taller than the biker was a woman clad in black leather. Only her happy, glowing eyes could be seen, as a zippered gimp mask covered her face. The only indication to it being a woman was the jutting tits. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

  “Well, well, what do we have here?” Jack said. All shock gone from his tone which was now replaced by excitement. “You’re a big one, ain’t ya, beaut?” Jack continued, who then went to clamber into the back of the van.

  It wasn’t until a flicker of electricity to his right caught his eye, did Jack notice the total destruction to the inside of the van. All the communication equipment had been totally mangled by the bat in which the woman was holding. The wrecked console hissed and hiccupped smoke and blue sparks.

  “Jesus,” Jack muttered. Fear now beginning to return. “Why would you…” his sentence trailed off like a derailing train, as he saw the huge woman walk towards him. The steel bat raised high above her head. “Fuck!” he said, trying to pull the .38 from his waistband.

  Before Jack managed to get the gun level, however, Baby smacked him across the side of the face with the bat. Jack’s shot went wide, and blew out the windshield behind his attacker.

  Even though the blow to the side of his head was a hard one, Jack never went down. Just rocked him. He faced her again. “You fucking bitch,” he spat. Blood and bits of tooth surfed out of his mouth on crimson saliva. “Now you’re going to fucking get it,” he said, honing in on Baby.

  She smashed the bat down on Jack’s wrist, busting it in as many places as possible. The man finally went to ground. As he did, he gripped his shattered wrist.

  “Why the fuck…?”

  Baby clubbed the biker under the chin. Hard. The shot snapped Jack’s mouth shut, and sent him tumbling backwards. Relentlessly, Baby was on him like a rabid dog.

  Jumping down from the back of the van she didn’t give the big man an inch. She kept the upper hand as she pulverized the biker about the head, back, sides and face. Bones cracked. Blood drained.

  Once the bat became dented and useless, Baby went to the back of the van and picked up her Nazi knife. Gripping the haft, blade pointed towards the ground, Baby rounded on Jack once again. She buried the knife in his privates.

  Had it not been raining as hard and heavy, Jack’s child-like screech would have been heard by all in the pub. This, however, did not stop Baby from ripping open the man’s scrotum. She then dug his balls out of his split sack with her hand.

  His whimpering and crying gave her great pleasure, as she placed both testicles in her mouth and savagely chewed and broke them up.

  She ended him by sticking her knife in his throat and ripping his gullet out. Jack’s gargling crescendo was loud and soggy as he struggled for his life on the floor. This prompted Baby to then stab at the man’s heart – once, twice, three times – in quick succession.

  Standing, she swallowed her mouthful and stalked around the van to the fallen Bobby, who had managed to crawl off into the distance. It didn’t take her long to catch up to the broken policeman.

  Baby slashed at the man’s back. Slowly. Her swipes uncalculated but brutal. She toyed with him, before finally becoming bored. Straddling Bobby, she yanked his head back, and began to saw through his scalp. Once it was free, she slowly pressed the tip of her knife to his throat and eased the steel in, right up to its hilt.

  She pulled it back out quickly, delighted in the short, sharp gush of blood which squirted free. She wanted to rub her cunt, but knew she had to clean her mess up, before someone passed by.

  Baby started with the bike. She replaced its kickstand before pushing it over to the side of the road. A mass amount of foliage decorated this section of motorway, so she pushed it into the thicket. The metal beast was quickly devoured by the green, which satisfied her.

  Going to Jack next, she grabbed him by either side of his open denim jacket and hoisted him off the floor. She placed him over her left shoulder like a sack of coal. She then carried him over to the back entrance of the pub. Once there, she used the single metal door to gain entrance to the garden of The Cue.

  She didn’t bother closing the door. She threw the carcass down onto the cobbled flooring. “Away, dogs. Away!” she yelled at them. “He’s mine,” she growled. This sent the mutts back into their wooden home. She smiled, and then returned to the carnage.

  After scooping up the ruined body of Bobby, Baby threw his remains on top of Jack.

  Before going back to collect the van, Baby opened the big double doors – this would allow her to drive the van into the garden area. These types of vehicles always came in handy.

  Starting the engine, Baby drove it over to The Cue and parked it on their land. She looked out onto the road, before closing the doors, and smiled. She was happy to see the area spotless. Nobody will be any of the wiser, she thought, as she closed, bolted and wrapped chains around the heavy doors.

  “Oh, Baby! What have you gone and done this time?” Porky said from the back door. He looked at the stacked bodies. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked, all the while shaking his head and smiling. “Look at the state of you! Blood all over you. Get in here. And bring them with you,” he told her, pointing at the bodies.

  Chapter 10

  “…think we can win it again, that’s all…”

  “Did you see that?” Rigs asked Iain, pulling the Foden to a halt in the pub’s car park.

  “Huh? What are you going on about now? You were just a
sking me about Wales vs. France…”

  “There, to the side of the building?”

  Iain looked mystified. “What am I meant to be looking for? Or at?!”

  “I’m sure I saw someone milling around. A big fucking someone, too!”

  “What? Are you nuts,” Iain said, scoffing. “Who would be crazy enough to be running around in this weather?”

  Rigs shook his head. “Maybe I’ve been driving for too long.”

  “I think maybe you’ve been watching too many shit horror films, matey. Making you screw-bally,” Iain said, while tapping the one side of his head with a finger. “You’ve got a bit of brain melt on the go, boyo.”

  “I think you should take over the driving when we get back on the road.”

  “I think I should, too!”

  “And just what is that supposed to mean?” Rigs asked, smiling.

  “Well, this place is hardly the Ritz – more like the Pits!”

  “Regular comedian on this trip, ain’t ya? All that sleep, see. It’s woken your brain from its five-year slumber,” Rigs retorted, his eyes never leaving the building. The place looked archaic. Surely it wasn’t open for business?

  But the glow from inside the pub suggested otherwise.

  “So I am funny after all, hey? Well, who would have guessed it? You always used to say to me, and I quote, “If wit was shit…”

  “…You’d be constipated, yeah, I know. And I still stand by that,” Rigs said. His eyes were unblinking as he drank the old place in. The Rack and Cue would have been a beauty in its time, he thought. Grand-looking.

  A good old cider drinking pub for the farmers, who at one time, had probably ploughed and cut hay in the surrounding fields. Now those fields lay overgrown. The road itself was just a busted trail, with weeds and grass growing through the ever increasing cracks, splits and fractures in the decaying tar.

  Rigs pictured the place in its heyday – a thatched roof would have graced the old building. But that style was long gone, replaced now by slate. And, lined along the slate, were crows. Loads of them, in fact. Rigs couldn’t get over how many there were – and at such an hour in the day. It was like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s Birds, he thought.