Read Online The Amateurs by John Niven - Free Book Online Page B

hooded man. The Beast looked up from cutting the deck as Ranta walked over. ‘How ye doing, boss?’
    ‘Ach, fine, Frank. Ye see it aw.’
    ‘Fucking luck oan this prick here,’ Frank said, indicating Davy, one of the other card players, a young lad in his early twenties. ‘A hundred-odd pound the cunt’s taken aff us.’
    ‘Is that right?’ Ranta said. ‘Good for you, Davy son. As well you taking it aff him as William Hill, eh?’
    Ranta walked across to the middle of the room and gently pulled the sack off the man’s head. He had a strip of silver electrical tape across his mouth and his face was bruised and cut, slick with sweat and blood. He blinked into the cold fluorescent light, his eyes adjusting, the pupils shrinking, as he looked up into the face of Ranta Campbell.
    The man started to cry.
    ‘Shhh, Charlie, c’mon, son.’ Ranta spoke soothingly, in the tones he used when one of his children fell and skinned their knees. ‘Nae need fur that. Ah just want a wee chat.’ Rantaripped the strip of duct tape from Charlie’s mouth, tearing off a good portion of skin from Charlie’s upper lip in the process. Charlie hardly seemed to notice. A torrent of speech instantly poured out of him:
    ‘FucksakeRantafucksake!Ahdidnaeknowwhitwasgoingoanaahsweartaefuckahdidnaeah’llgetyethemoneybacksoahfuckingwillplease–’
    ‘Charlie, Charlie, shhh. Ah don’t care about the money. It’s trust we’re talking about here. Now, come tae fuck, we all know you couldnae huv thought of this on your own. Christ son, you’ve no the brains you were born with. Who was the bright spark who had the idea?’
    ‘Ah swear, Ranta, oan ma wean’s life, ah didnae know anything aboot it.’
    Ranta sighed and thought for a moment. ‘Strip him off and haud him doon,’ he said.
    Davy and Frank ripped Charlie’s clothes off and, with Alec helping, they pinned him naked and wriggling on the cement floor.
    ‘Open yer mouth, Charlie,’ Ranta said, picking Alec’s driver up from the table. He already had a golf ball and tee in his hand.
    ‘Naw, Ranta, please.’
    Ranta knelt down and forced a wooden tee peg between Charlie’s teeth. ‘Now, ah’ve been struggling a wee bit wi’ the driver lately so, ah’d recommend keeping yer heed very still.’ Ranta tried to place a golf ball on the tee, but it kept falling off because Charlie was struggling so much. ‘Here, Davy, hold his head.’
    Davy roughly got hold of Charlie’s head and Ranta managed to tee his ball up, the ball standing a couple of inches clear of Charlie’s nose on its long wooden tee peg. He addressed theball and all his men pressed their heads closer to the ground.
    ‘Ah’ve been trying to shorten ma backswing a wee bit, Charlie,’ Ranta said, taking a few preparatory waggles with the club, ‘mair accuracy…’
    Suddenly Ranta swung the club and Charlie–hyperventilating now–felt the cool breath of air on his face as the driver thundered by, millimetres from his face, picking the ball cleanly off the tee and sending it rattling off the grey breeze-block walls and bouncing around the unit. Ranta teed up another ball. Davy, Alec and Frank, really fighting to hold Charlie still.
    ‘But ah don’t like sacrificing ma power…’
    Ranta addressed the fresh ball. Charlie was really trying to say something. Ranta nodded to Davy, who released his jaw. Charlie spat the tee and ball out and, panting, said, ‘Bobby Hamilton…it was Boab’s idea.’
    ‘Ah fucken knew it!’ Alec said. ‘That wee prick.’
    ‘Good boy, Charlie,’ Ranta said. ‘You know, ah wis thinking o’ maybe changing ma balls.’ He was moving down Charlie now, waggling the driver above his groin. ‘They say these new Spaxons have a really soft feel. Ah don’t know. It’s a big decision, whit brand o’ baws ye play with.’ Ranta nuzzled the cold titanium of the clubface up to Charlie’s bare testicles. ‘Whit dae you think?’
    ‘Ranta–’ Charlie began, but the word