The Rack & Cue Read online

  “Freaky,” he mouthed.

  “What now?” Iain asked. “Did the Headless Horseman just go galloping through that graveyard over yonder?”

  “What graveyard?” Rigs asked, finally tearing his eyes off the pub as he feverishly searched the surrounding area. But not much could be seen, as the light faded with each passing minute. The rain continued to pelt.

  “Jesus, I was just kidding, mate. What’s up with you?”

  “I told you, too many hours on the road,” he said, giving off a titter that neither convinced himself nor Iain.

  “Well, then, let’s go inside,” Iain said. His guts growled in agreement. “I’m Hank Marvin!”

  “You’re always starving! Doesn’t your mama feed you up at night?” Rigs joked, a genuine smile spreading across his face this time.

  Iain rolled his eyes. “Hardy-fucking-ha-ha! Are you going to kill the engine, Rigs? You’re burning fuel, and you know what this thing’s like. She’ll drink us dry, just like the big old dirty slut she is.”

  Reluctantly, Rigs turned the key in the barrel which in turn killed the engine. It grumbled and rumbled to an antagonised stop. The engine hissed, gurgled and spat as it begun to cool – the rain hitting the bonnet helped its cooling process.

  “Noisy bitch, isn’t she?” Iain said.

  Rigs didn’t hear him. He was again looking at the building. Hypnotised by it.

  What was it about this place? he thought. He’d been in and around much older places in his time. Those birds, man. Those fucking birds. They had no place being there at such a time. It was fucked up. Then, the rhyme hit him. Just like that, it danced its merry little way through his head. “Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye. Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie…”

  “What does it mean?”

  “What, old Betsy being a noisy bitch? Probably means she’s on her way out, the clapped out old whore, as she is.” Iain said, grinning. He was lost to Rigs’ insane musings.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Rigs said, not bothering to concern his best mate with his loopy thoughts. “Right, shall we?” he asked Iain.

  “Yes, please! The board over there boasts to have some of the finest ales this side of the black hole!” Iain said, laughing. “I slay myself.”

  Rigs looked over at the large man by his side, and couldn’t help but join him in laughing. He was infectious, along with his big grin and wild laugh. Iain removed his hat and ran his hands over his bald, prickly head. Beads of sweat had gathered under the thick, cotton material of the head gear.

  “You need to wash that bloody thing. It stinks.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But it’s my good luck charm. The only thing I’ve ever won.

  Rigs lowered his eyes at this, his smile faltered. “Come on, the first one’s on me.”

  “You’re actually getting a round in?! Mr. Frugal himself! This, I have to see.” Iain finished. He opened his door and jumped out into the rain. His shirt instantly soaked through and stuck to his back and chest. He was unfazed by it, as he casually walked from the truck down to the pub entrance.

  Rigs followed suit, but watched as Iain meandered along. He could see the muscles in his friend’s shoulders shift like balls of granite, as Iain rolled them as he walked. Trying to loosen his stiff joints. When he arched his back, the mass which made up his chest was staggering. “All those years over at the timber yard, see.” Iain would say. “Made me strong. Just like Popeye, but without the spinach.” This was usually followed by Popeye’s famous “Ugg-gggg”, laugh.

  He wasn’t the tallest of men, but he had a very bulky, muscular frame, with a bit of extra luggage around the gut to make up for it. Nobody fucked with him. Not even the bigger guys. His forearms were as thick as two-by-fours, but he didn’t have a neck to speak of – it was so huge in circumference. He’d been known as ‘The Bull’ in his last place of work.

  A very apt name it was, too. Not only was he built like one, but he possessed the rage and temper of a bull, too. You wouldn’t see it often, but when he did snap, look out.

  “Hey, Miss Daisy! Are you planning on coming, or are you just going to stand there looking like a wet teabag all day, dear?”

  “Hold your shit together, man. I’m coming.” Rigs trotted down the car park to catch up with his friend, who was now standing at the pub’s front door. “I still think we should have tried somewhere else,” Rigs continued, before they entered.

  “Come on, not that again. Where do you suggest we try, mate? There is nowhere. We’re stuck in the middle of God knows where, with this God-awful weather. We won’t be making it home until tomorrow.”

  “Huh,” was all Rigs could muster.

  “It looks like the place may have rooms open for the night. That means we could have a few jars, and then bunk down here for the night. Either that, or use the truck.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time for us to sleep it off in the truck!”

  “Nope. But I’m not sure I could put up with a night of your rancid arse. Especially in such close quarters as Betsy.”

  Rigs’ mouth dropped open. “You cheeky motherfu—”

  “Ah, good evening, gentlemen. Won’t you come in out of the rain?” Porky bellowed out the open door. The two drenched truckers turned and looked at the fat man before them, then burst out laughing.

  “Why not?!” Rigs said.

  “Good,” Porky said. “The more the merrier,” he beamed.

  This caused Rigs to smile further, as he followed Iain and Porky into the nice warm pub. A healthy glow from a near fire danced on the foyer wall. It felt homely, and good. A pleasant smell stuffed his nostrils.

  “Please. Do come into the bar and dry off. I’m just about to take my famous pies out of the oven. Surely you gentlemen will stay for a pint and a pie?”

  “Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye. Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie…” Were the birds gathered on the roof mourning their feathered comrades of the air? Rigs thought, and smiled. Don’t be so fucking ridiculous.

  “Come, come!” Porky encouraged. “Into the warmth, gentlemen, please.” Rigs heard the dead blots clack. The front door had been locked. “The bloody wind has been causing hell with the doors. Blowing them open and shut, open and shut. It’s caused a nasty gash in the wall behind the door,” he explained. “It’s making a right mess,” he continued.

  Would you even notice? Rigs thought, inspecting the rest of the dirty, mould covered walls inside the place. But he soon retracted his last though, on entering the bar. It was grand.

  The walls inside were a gleaming white, with a black and red trim. No dust or decay evident here. Not in the slightest. Covering the walls was an array of framed pictures of rugby and football teams; local, regional and national. Among those were posters advertising ales from all over Britain and the rest of the world. London Pride, Best Bitter and Tetley crests could be seen hanging here and there, along with a witty photo of the Hoffmeister bear playing pool. On the back wall, hung above a massive open and roaring fire, which crackled and spat, was the famous portrait of the dogs playing cards.

  Huh, Rigs thought. That picture never gets old. A true classic.

  The floor was comprised of slabs. Not a bit of carpet graced this area of the pub, just thin-looking shag in front of the fireplace. On the mantle above the beastly fire was a line-up of trophies and trinkets boasting ‘180s’ for darts, ‘147s’ for snooker, and various cups and shields for winning pool, football and rugby tournaments. All local stuff, from what Rigs could gather.

  Even though the place smelled good and was polished and scrubbed to buggery, it had a very old air about it. As though not much money had, or would, be spent on décor. The chairs and tables looked as though they had come straight out of the 70s, along with the gleaming brass pint pumps. Even the glassware which lined the old crooked shelving, and hung from hooks behind the bar, looked ancient.

  You couldn’t escape the smell of old. That damp, musky sort of smell. I
t hung in the air, but very faintly. The odour of Brasso and other cleaning fluids masked it somewhat. But it was there.

  Also hanging behind the bar were old copper pots, brassware and stone jugs which were inscribed with various cider makes and brands. The place was a treasure trove. Almost a time capsule, Rigs thought, looking up at the old wooden support beams of the roof.

  “What a place,” Rigs mouthed. “It’s a beauty.”

  “Why thank you, good sir. The Cue is one of the oldest pubs in the U.K. –second only to Ye Olde Fighting Cocks. Or Fighting Cocks. We weren’t always known as The Rack and Cue, either.”

  “Oh?” Iain said.

  “No, no. This old girl used to fly under the name of Ye Olde Parson.”

  “Parson?” Rigs asked.

  “Yes. He was a famous local parson, going by old records and local history. Seems he was some kind of miracle worker. Cured the sick and infirm. Even livestock, by all accounts.”

  “Hell of a guy,” Iain quipped. “Is the first one on him?” he asked Porky, and sniggered. The fat landlord didn’t look impressed.

  “What will it be, gents?” he asked, ignoring Iain’s remark.

  “Think I’ll try a pint of Black Death,” Iain said.

  “Ah, a fine choice, sir. It’s dark and highly creamy ale from Manchester. Smoother than Guinness, softer than silk,” Porky said, claiming a glass from under the counter. He began to pour the black liquid into the container, taking measured care in pulling the perfect pint. It was filled to the brim expertly, without so much as a droplet wasted. “And for you, sir?” he asked Rigs, placing Iain’s pint in front of him.

  “Erm,” Rigs pondered, looking at all the choices before him. “I’m not sure. I’m more of a ruby-coloured ale man myself,” Rigs said.

  “Then how about a taste of home?” Porky said, beginning to pull a pint of Dragon’s Breath. “This fiery little number has a life of its own. Brewed in Pembrokeshire, this cheeky little fellow has a honey roasted walnut taste, with a brown, red hue to it.”

  “Sounds delicious,” Rigs said, having to stop himself from licking his lips. The long trip had provoked a healthy rasp within him. “This should hit the spot,” he said, taking the pint from Porky.

  “That’ll be six of your English pounds please, gentlemen,” Porky said, a broad smile cast along his face. “And, as an appreciation of your custom, two hot pies will be brought out to you shortly. Free of charge, of course.”

  “Thanks!” Iain said. “That’s very good of you,” he concluded.

  “Yeah, thanks. Much appreciated,” Rigs added. “It’s been a long, hard trip.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine, gents. Please. Go and take a seat. I’ll be over with your pies shortly,” Porky said, taking the ten pound note off Rigs. Giving the man his change, Porky was off again. “Now please, go and sit yourselves down. Maybe you’ll think about sticking around, and joining in on our annual pool tournament?”

  “Huh?” Iain said.

  “There, on the wall,” Porky said. Pointing at the advertisement. “It’s a £20 per person entrance fee, but the cash prize is a juicy one. Go and sit, think about it,” Porky beamed, and headed off to the kitchen.

  Both truckers pulled up chairs close to the fire, and read the poster. “I don’t know, man. Seems like a lot of money to throw away.”

  “Oh, come on, Rigs. It’s only £20 quid! You’re an excellent player. You played pool for the A and B team at Treorchy Hotel for years.”

  “That’s been some time now, mate. Years, even.”

  “But think about what we could do with all that dosh? Think about it. We could fix the Foden or even replace it. If this lot here is your competition, then we’re laughing!” Iain said. The excitement on his face was evident.

  “Let me mull it over,” Rigs said, taking a hearty gulp of his pint. As he did, he looked at the other punters and noticed the south Wales Hell’s Angels were here. Six of them, to be exact. “What are they doing here?” Rigs said more to himself, than Iain.

  “Who?” Iain asked, baffled by what Rigs had just said.

  “Those guys,” Rigs nodded towards the Boas.

  “Oh, fuck. Great. Well, if any of those shitheads try anything here, I’ll fucking knock ‘em through the wall,” Iain said, taking a sip of his ale. “Dickheads like that piss me off.”

  “Shh!” Rigs said. “What if they hear you?!”

  “Fuck ‘em. I’ll bust their heads open. I don’t care how big they are, or how many tattoos they have!”

  “They could be carrying guns or knives. They’re batshit crazy, Iain. You don’t want to mess with those guys.”

  “Well they best not mess with us first. Or they’ll be leaving here in a fucking hearse.”

  There was that nasty streak, Rigs thought. Just like that. Iain could be so unpredictable.

  “Well they don’t seem to be doing anything unruly. Just getting wasted and trying to chat those girls up. God, the one looks like a right tart,” Rigs said.

  “Here you go, gents,” Porky intervened, placing two hot pies down in front of Iain and Rigs. “I hope you enjoy. Would you like any sauce? Seasoning? Cutlery?” he asked, smiling all the while.

  “Brown sauce, if you have some, please?” Iain said.

  “Same,” Rigs said, also smiling. Porky’s grin was contagious.

  “As you were,” he said, and was off to get the sauce the boys had asked for.

  “What a hell of a nice guy,” Iain said. Picking up his pie, he took a massive bite out of one side. “Oh, this is bloody gorgeous,” he said, his mouth full.

  Rigs shook his head, and waited for the sauce to arrive.

  “Not eating yours?” Iain said, about to take another mouthful.

  “I’m just awaiting the…sauce,” he answered, seeing Porky approach. “Thanks,” he told the landlord, as Porky plonked the bottle down on the table.

  “Oh, and before you go?” Rigs asked. “Do you have any rooms free for tonight? My friend and I are thinking of staying the night?”

  “Marvellous!” Porky exclaimed. “Yes, we have plenty of room at the Inn! I’ll do a cut price for you fellas – fifty pound for the night. I’ll get one of the other staff members to prepare a room for you.”

  “Oh, and we’ll be joining in on that tournament of yours.” Rigs said.

  “We will?” Iain said, again with his mouth stuffed.

  “Grand, just grand. Come and pay me at the bar when you’re good and ready,” Porky beamed.

  Danny was draped over the bar along with Clive. The stayed huddled together, enabling them to speak quietly and still be heard over the ever increasing noise inside The Rack and Cue.

  They’d entered the pub singing at the top of their voices as they tried playing the drunken business fools. Clive had suggested wearing the football jerseys they had in the back of the van, but Danny had advised against it – “It’ll look a bit obvious. And, for another, I don’t think there’s any footy on today, Clive. We just go in and pretend we’ve had a few. Passing businessmen, who are on a high after sealing a major business deal.”

  It wasn’t much of a plan, Clive had thought, but it was a plan. Plus, it had worked, as they slipped into the pub and up to the bar without any questioning. The Boas hadn’t been interested in them in the least, which had been Clive’s biggest worry. He thought that the outlaw bikers were on to them somehow. That they knew they were being tailed by police.

  Like Danny, Clive didn’t trust his own department either. He also thought the Boas were being fed inside information from a higher ranking officer. Hell, maybe it was the chief himself! Maybe even the Mayor of Cardiff. The Boas had a lot of people in their pocket. A lot of wealthy, connected and powerful people – this whole operation could have been a ploy to get the three of us killed, Clive thought.

  But he never spoke of these fears with Danny. Oh, no. Danny wanted this badly. To take this gang down. To rip them apart from the inside out.

  “Have you heard anything b
ack?” Danny asked. He was as close as he could get to Clive, without things being obvious.

  “No, nothing yet.”

  “These microphones probably don’t even work!” Danny said, lowering his mouth to the left lapel of his jacket, hoping this would nudge a response from Bobby.

  “Ah, give the guy a break, Danny. You ride him too hard, too much. He’s only trying his best, just like the rest of us.” Clive said, taking a gulp out of his Ancient Breed. He hoped the mics weren’t working, if Bobby was about to become the topic of conversation. Not that the equipment would stop Danny.

  “And why should I?”

  “Because he’s one of the good guys, that’s why.”

  “Huh, that’s a maybe,” Danny said.

  “What do you mean by that, Danny?” Clive asked, whilst scrunching his face into a puzzled looked?

  “It means I’m not sure I entirely trust the guy. I mean, the fucking things he has fitted to our jackets don’t even fucking work. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was on their side!” Danny said, nodding as discreetly as he could in the direction of the bikers.

  “What?!” Clive said, letting his voice get a little too high. “Don’t be crazy, Danny,” Clive said, his voice more controlled.

  “Since when did you join his fan club, Clive? Have the higher powers got to you, too?!” Danny accused.

  “I can’t believe you just asked me that, Dan. After all these years of me watching out for you. Covering your arse.”

  “I’m sorry, Clive. I was out of line in saying that,” Danny said, clasping a hand to his partner’s shoulder. “I know you’d never turn on me. Turn on the job. The badge. Whatever it fucking stands for these days.”

  “It’s okay, mate. Just settle down. Bobby’s a good guy – he’s been with us for years now, and he wouldn’t double-cross us. No way.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Barkeep!” Danny called Porky, draining the last of his pint. “Two fresh ones over here, if you would. The boy here, and me, have some celebrating to do! Won a big deal today, didn’t we, boy?” Danny asked Clive, putting his arm around his friend and pulling him close. Both men jostled in a playful manner.