The Sin Bin (4 page)

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 seen 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?'