Current Issue

Home

Barry Baldwin was born (1937) and educated in England. Armed with Classics degrees from Nottingham University, he emigrated, first (1962) to Australia, thence (1965) to Canada where he is now Emeritus Professor of Classics, University of Calgary, and Fellow of The Royal Society of Canada. After 12 books and some 600 articles on Greece, Rome, Byzantium, 18th-Century England, and Albania (an exotic interest), he has re-invented himself as a freelance writer of magazine/newspaper columns and (so far) around 30 short stories. Has been a Finalist in the Crime Writers' of Canada (1999) and Antony (Bouchercon, USA) Awards, also a listed Finalist for the Raymond Carver Contest (twice) and the Fish International Publishing Contest (Ireland).

Double Top by Barry Baldwin

As she stepped up to the oche to throw what should’ve been the last three darts of the match, a man near the front of the crowd mouthed, "Miss it, you little bitch." To himself, of course. He couldn't be seen making any less than fully supportive gestures at a member of his own pub's team. Especially the one who had replaced him.

Up to now, Fred had been known for his vocal adherence to the principles of fair play, may the best man win and all that. Man was the operative word. Having a girl on a darts team wasn't natural. Particularly not one as young as her. But although he wasn't alone in this, he had won no support from any of the team selection committee when he'd lodged a formal complaint. They'd straight-facedly insisted he'd been off form lately, had almost lost them the previous qualifier, while her arrows were finding double top and treble twenty as though they were radar-controlled.

Well, they would say that, wouldn't they? No one was going to come right out and admit they fancied this bit of crumpet called Marion Parr––the sort of name you'd expect a nurse, or ex-nurse rather, from the City Hospital to have––and reckoned that if she knew she owed her place on the team to them, she might come across as, Thank you, everybody knows what nurses are like.

The bloke in charge of the committee had settled it with, "Give the lass a chance. It's her birthday the night we play. Make a nice cheap present and might bring us a bit of luck." The others mumbled and nodded their agreement. Superstitious twats, Fred thought, though he only said, "You'll need it with her."

Standing there at the oche, raising her throwing arm to limber up and get her eye back in while waiting for the MC to get a bit of hush from the crowd, she looked as cool as a cucumber. He had to give her that. It was him doing all the sweating. To be fair, he did briefly feel a bit ashamed of wanting her to miss, since it wouldn't just be her loss. The whole team would be choked, and they were supposed to be his best mates. Some mates, he thought, more bile sweeping away these cleaner emotions. Not a single man jack had rallied to his side. They all fancied her, under jokes that she used to give her patients their injections from fifty feet, which accounted for her dead-eye dick skills at the dartboard.

It was an easy target she was going for. One hundred and seventeen. He knew how she'd do it, same as he or anyone would: a comfortable lob into treble nineteen, then a simple twenty with the double to top it off. She'd been doing that and better all night.

The MC finally got his hush. The crowd was poised to let her start the throws that would bring a counterpoint of cheers and sighs, pint mugs raised at shoulder level in a kind of salute, cigarette smoke drifting up like burnt offerings from some old heathen sacrifice. Marion had laid her own pint down carefully on a sodden beer mat in the centre of the little round table placed there for the players to do just that. In a gesture that Fred thought show-offy, as well as plain daft in view of her long jet-black hair, she had stuck her lighted, half-smoked Silk Cut behind her right ear. She knows what she's about, he thought. Some of the blokes talked almost as much about this trademark of hers as about her legs and the bosom that even a blind man couldn't miss.

Before you could say Jack Robinson, the first arrow was in her hand, the arm went up, and there it was, plumb in the middle of treble nineteen. Fred hardly had time to curse to himself before the second dart was quivering in the twenty. Double top was just a formality, the way she was tossing them. Then, with the traditional split-second timing all darts players have, Fred––a waste of good ale, but worth it––dropped his pint mug on the tiled floor of the saloon bar.

It went off like a bomb. The crowd responded in various ways, all noisy. Shouted questions, plain shouts, not-so-plain swearing. One nervous ninny even screamed, "It's Al Quaeda." All Fred cared about was that her third dart had missed double top.

After consulting the captain of the other team, the MC announced that Marion would be allowed a make-up throw. Fred hadn't bargained for this, swore even more comprehensively inside himself, but daren't risk a replay of his own. Anyway, haven't got another glass to drop. And he was too busy warding off the shouting and shoving being dealt out by the infuriated supporters closest to him. His story was that a bloke on the other side had bumped into his drinking arm, a version this bloke was obscenely denying.

Marion took her courtesy throw, and almost pulled it off, but the dart landed bang on the wire and bounced out. The other team's followers had the grace not to cheer, a couple of yobs with lager cans excepted and they got booted out in a flash––this was an old-fashioned boozer with old-fashioned standards when it came to that sort of thing. Marion picked up her glass and drained it, took the now smoldering cigarette from her ear and rolled it across her mouth in the way that Yank actor George Raft used to do in the old gangster films. She shook off all the consoling hands and voices and, without giving the crowd so much as a glance, took off in the direction of the Ladies' lav. Fred himself, bursting not for a pee but for some privacy in which to release his sour triumph, headed towards the Men's at the other side.

***

Fred was well known as the last person to leave a closing pub. So, even in the wake of that night's drama, it was no surprise to barman or bouncer that they had to push him on his way out into the uninviting back street. It was Fred who got the surprise when he was halfway across the car park––he didn't drive but it was a shortcut down to the main road for his bus stop. There was only some sort of van left in it, and he was going to give it a wide berth in case it contained some lovebirds on the job, or worse, the two expelled yobs, when Marion's voice called his name. Changing course, Fred went over with a queasy feeling, one not produced by that evening's intake of Shipstone's best ale.

"Marion? Listen, I'm that sorry about what happened. No hard feelings? It wasn't my fault, you know. That bloke..." Fred wasn't sure why he was coming out with all this. Marion couldn't have any suspicion about the stunt he'd pulled, she hadn't even looked across his way. And by outshouting the other bloke and because most of the crowd, being home team supporters, wanted to believe him, Fred had successfully shifted the blame on to the poor sod, diplomatically contributing to the rain of blows under which the bloke then went down. Still, trying to invent a comparable incident that would console Marion enough to head off any notions she might start to develop about him, he went on. "These things happen. Why, I remember one time––"

"Some people will do anything when they're het up enough. I was just wondering if you'd like a lift?"

This was the last thing Fred expected. "A lift?"

"Yes, a lift. Hop in. This old crate might not look much, but it can leave those Corporation buses standing."

Fred hopped in.

"Well, not just a lift, actually," added Marion, going through a lot of complicated-looking maneuvers with hands and feet to get the van into action. "I thought you might like to stop off at my place for a drink or something."

Even in Fred's limited life, the coda "or something" suggested enticing possibilities. Oh ho, said his brain to his groin, or perhaps it was the other way around, she fancies me!

By now, the engine was revving satisfactorily. "Of course, if you're not bothered, I can run you straight home." She paused. "It's just that, well, I don't feel like going home on my own tonight, after what happened. On top of which, it's supposed to be my birthday. Twenty-one. The first number not on a dartboard. Funny, that. Twenty-one. Meant a lot more in your day, I know. Still, it would have been nice to have topped off the one with the other. Anyway, what do you say to it?"

Fred didn't respond at once. His mind, though, was racing twenty to the dozen. Oh, my, you're on a promise here, my lad. But steady, Freddie. This is perfect. I'll say yes, go home with her, take the drink on offer, a bite of food as well with any luck, then ever so politely turn down the bedroom afters and leave her there with her evening ruined twice over.

"That sounds grand," he said.

There were more surprises in store for Fred. The first was where Marion lived. He was expecting to end up in a boxy bed-sitter much like his own. Instead, she drove to one of the poshest parts of the city, weaved through a series of streets all called something Crescent or Mews, before turning into the driveway of a substantial-looking detached house.

"I'm sitting it," she said, answering his unspoken question. Fred felt a momentary unease at how well she read his mind.

"You what?" he asked, thinking but not saying that she sounded like a broody hen.

"Sitting it. You know, house sitting. Been doing it ever since I gave up nursing. Had to. Lost my room in the Nurses' Residence when I packed that in, and who can afford anything decent, the way rents are? There's always people going away on holiday or getting posted abroad, and with all the housebreaking and squatting these days, they don't dare leave them empty. So that's where house sitting comes in. Free accommodation, free use of the central heating and electricity and telly and VCR and whatever gadgetries they've got, just for keeping it in good nick and being here at night. It's a doddle. You should try it."

"Maybe I should," said Fred. It's just like being a glorified tramp, he thought. At the end of the day, you're on the road again at somebody else's say-so. My room may not be much, but it's mine as long as I pay the rent and that's controlled down to a fair rate and I'm the sitting tenant so the landlord can't get me out.

"Maybe I should," he repeated.

Inside the house, Marion led him into a big room filled with uncomfortable-looking modern furniture, or so Fred thought, giving it a quick once-over. Furniture was one of the many things that didn't interest him. His second-hand armchair and settee were comfy enough, that's all that counted in the long run.

"What do you want to drink?"

"I don't suppose there's any Shippoes' ale going, is there?"

Marion looked as though she couldn't decide if he was being serious or not. "Here, I'll choose for you. You can have a Made by Marion Special. Be with you in a sec, just have to pop into the kitchen."

Fred hoped that when she popped out again, it would be with a plate of food as well as this famous drink of hers.

No such luck. Marion reappeared, carrying a large multi-coloured drink in each hand. "Here you go. This'll put lead in your pencil."

The familiar crudity confirmed Fred's idea that Marion also had another kind of special in mind. Not that the lead in his own pencil had ever been put to the test. He took a cautious swig from the fancy cut-glass tumbler she handed him. "Down the hatch." He didn't add Happy Birthday. It tasted a bit funny, but nice. Or was that nice, but a bit funny? By the time his brain had registered these alternatives, Fred was beyond thought.

When he came to, he unoriginally thought he must be dreaming. How could an ordinary bloke like him be spread-eagled over a mattress on a single bedstead propped up against a wall in what was obviously her boudoir, the very room he'd planned not to be inveigled into? He was stretched out cross-shaped, arms and legs as wide as they'd go, hands and feet tightly bound to the bedstead corners by heavy kitchen string. Expertly bound as well, Fred realized, an experimental tug yielding no pressure on the knots. Of course, she was a nurse, used to bandaging folk. Undressing them, too. During his slumbers, Fred had been relieved of his shoes and socks, brown tweed jacket, striped Viyella shirt and white woolen vest. But what about this red circle, neatly drawn around my heart with a felt-tip marker pen?

Talking of Marion, where is she? Fred refocused his eyes. She was sitting on a small upright chair by the door, thumbing through a magazine whose large colored pages he recognized as the same darts monthly he bought at the newsagent's. Realizing he was awake, Marion put the magazine neatly down on the floor, stood up, and walked over to him without haste.

"I see you're back in the land of the living, then?"

Not wanting to give her any satisfaction, Fred said, "Strong drink, that."

"Yes, it's wonderful what these modern knock-out pills can do."

"Knock-out pills? How did you come by them?"

"I used to be a nurse, remember. When I left the hospital, quite a variety of their little sweeties left with me."

Still feeling even more stupid than frightened, Fred managed another social nicety. "Why did you leave?"

"Oh, I got fed up with blokes like you who can't stand to see a girl get in front of them."

Typical whining Women's Libber, Fred thought, before he realized just what she'd said. "What do you mean, blokes like me?"

"Come off it. I saw you––"

"Saw me what? Like I said, I got shoved by one of their supporters."

"Pull the other one. I've got very good peripheral vision. You have to, working on the convalescent wards, all the bum-pinching that goes on there. And I'd been watching you out of the corner of my eye every time I was up to throw. I know all about you protesting to the selection committee and what you said."

"Who told you that?"

Instead of answering, Marion turned and went back to where she'd been sitting. From the dressing table by the chair she picked up what looked like some kind of long flat case.

"Well, you'd not have liked it if the boot had been on the other foot," Fred called after her. "Anyway, what's all this tying-up business about? If you reckon I'm one of those bondage types like the bloke in that BBC play last week, you've got another think coming."

"It was lucky this house is stuffed with IKEA things," Marion called back. What was she on about now? IKEA things played no part in Fred's life. "Nice and light for hauling about, just like you."

Marion walked back over to Fred, carrying the case.

"What've you got there?"

She flicked open the lid, and held out the case. He saw a set of best Sheffield-made throwing knives, each gleaming in its individual plush blue compartment.

"These? Oh, they used to belong to an old boyfriend. I got a bit suspicious about what he wanted them for, so I nicked them from his valise the night before I gave him the elbow. He never came back for them, so I reckon I wasn't wrong."

Fred didn't ask the obvious question, mesmerized by the sight of Marion producing a packet of Silk Cut, lighting one up, taking a couple of drags, and placing it behind her ear.

"My new arrows. I heard you told the committee I was too new to be on the team. Wet behind the ears, as wet as I see you are around the gills and down below, that's what you said, needs a lot more experience in the clutch. Well, you should be flattered to know I've decided you were right. So, I'm going to get some more practice in, here and now, and who better than you, Mr. Fred Perfect, to help?"

Marion walked back to the dresser, put the case down, took five of the six knives in a sheaf in her left hand, and assumed the throwing position, standing roughly the right distance back on an imaginary oche.

The first knife took Fred fair and square through his left hand. Then the right foot, the right hand, the left foot. They came at him so fast he hardly had time to scream. In any case, there was no scream within the human voice range that could have conveyed what he felt.

Had his misted vision allowed, Fred would have seen that Marion remained quite without expression, although after the fourth throw there was a brief retrieval, inhalation, and replacement of the cigarette.

The fifth and final knife arrived on target, dead center of the red circle drawn around his heart. Marion could never know whether or not he had heard her cry out in the traditional shouted formula of the darts commentator announcing the maximum score as the arrow reaches its destination, "ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Never mind. This was a day to remember, even if she'd had nobody to share it with. Except Fred there. She wondered for a bit what had happened on his twenty-first.

THE END