Staying Inn

STAYING IN

Gorman climbed into his van and side-punched the steering wheel. Another frigging house with nothing to sell. He had better strike it lucky today or Kennedy would break his legs. The loan shark had already snapped two fingers on his left hand. And all for the princely sum of three hundred quid.

With a sigh, he peered through the grill behind him. The meagre pickings of that day's bargain hunting would fetch next to nothing at auction in Glasgow tomorrow. But he couldn't quit now – for his legs' sake. He decided to do another lap round Loch Lomond. Maybe he had missed something last time round.

A few miles on, thick fog crept in from the Loch, obscuring his view of the road. Strange, he thought. The sky was still blue, albeit speckled with clouds. And it was still blustery which should have scattered the fog. Yet, there it was, nesting on the middle of the road like a giant bird. He flicked on the windscreen wipers, fog lights, heating, and slowed down.

The road was clearly visible inside the fog which had formed the shape of a tunnel. After a long while, he checked his watch. It had stopped. By his reckoning he should have been on the outskirts of Glasgow by now. So why wasn't he? And where were all the towns an villages he should have passed along the way?

The tunnel ended at a cottage. Its thatched roof and slate-grey façade were streaked with ivy. Tangled grass grew wild in a fringe of garden, and poked up through cracks in the flagstone path.

It was obvious that fate had led him here. So he might as well pay the occupants a visit.

When he knocked on the door it opened immediately, but only a crack. A curious eye peered though it. “Aye, what is it?” asked a croaky voice.

A musty odour invaded Gorman's nostrils. “The name’s Gorman. “I pay cash-in-hand for furniture and bric-a-brac. Mind if I come in?”

The door opened wider to a shrivelled-up man in a red bathrobe and brown slippers. A shock of grey hair flopped over his eyes and he swept it back. He bared a mouthful of yellow, crooked teeth. “I’m Jake. Come in before you catch your death.”

Something gnawed at Gorman’s spine and he shuddered. “Thanks,” he said humbly as he stepped past him into the hall. He crunched something underfoot and looked down at his feet. Leaves and twigs. He lifted his gaze. There were light patches on the yellowish walls where pictures and shelves might have hung. Next to him, stood a rickety table with three legs and a black, plastic chair. Nothing so far, he thought. “Maybe there was treasure to be had elsewhere.

The door slammed shut, startling him. He clenched his fists, irritated that he was so jumpy.

Jake shuffled past. “Follow me.”

At the end of the hall they entered a living room. Jake eased into an armchair, and Gorman sat on the proffered seat opposite. Against the wall between them was a two-bar electric fire. Gorman hoped Jake would turn it on as he was freezing.

Jake motioned to a coffee table upon which sat a portable black and white television. Its snowy screen showed Lassie Come Home.

“Aye, a rare film that,” Jake said as the credits rolled. He turned his attention to Gorman. “Thought you might be a conman. I’ve had them all up here knocking on that door. Flashy gits in suits trying to sell insurance. Even religious nutters.” His eyes narrowed. “But I’ve never had anybody come in and look at the furniture. That’s a new one on me.”

Gorman felt heat in his face. How could Jake even suggest such a thing? Then he remembered his former life as an MP and the expenses scandal. Still, he had to keep up the pretence of honesty.

“Look, mate,” Gorman said. “You can look me up on the internet. Gorman Removals. Anyway, check the gear.” He gestured to the black bomber jacket, jeans and trainers he was wearing. “Hardly conman attire. And as for that heap of rust out there, it’s ready for the knacker’s yard. So no, mate. I’m not a conman.”

“Fair enough. You’ve got the look of an honest man.”

Gorman noted sarcasm in those words. Did Jake know about his past life? It had made national news when the story broke.

“I don’t have much either as you can see,” Jake continued. “Except that telly over there. I’ve had it for fifty years. Since the day I arrived. It’s outlasted three cats and a budgie.”

Gorman glanced again at the TV. It showed a programme called Zoo Quest and a lemur on a tree branch. The programme looked older than Gorman and he was forty-seven.

“Oh, where are my manners?” Jake said. “Do you want some tea?” He motioned to a filthy mug on the wooden mantelpiece. “Only got the one cup. I can have my tea afterwards.”

“Eh, no thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Jake screwed up his face. “So, you’ll pay cash, you say. Up front I hope.”

“Of course.”

Jake raked his stubbly chin. “There’s that stuff in the hall. How much are you offering?”

Gorman didn’t want to insult him by telling him it was worthless. “Och, the shop’s choc full of stuff like that. I was looking for something different.”

“Oh.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “It’s no often I get visitors. Auld Nick makes the house invisible except for a day or two every ten years or so.”

“Auld Nick?” Gorman said with a note of surprise. “You mean the devil?”

“Aye. The fly man himself. It's his house. But you'd think it would be a den of iniquity, wouldn't you?” He shook his head slowly. “Nope. Not the case here. Seems his pet hate is dishonesty. So don't go ripping people off in his house. You'll find yourself stuck here forever. Unless you find another dishonest person. Then you get to walk out. That's how it works apparently.”

Gorman had already lost everything he could: wife, kid, house, three cars and a political career. Now he was a glorified rag and bone man. As for what Jake had told him, he didn’t believe in that mumbo jumbo.

Jake continued. “You wouldn't happen to be a gambling man?”

“Well, I do like a wee flutter on the horses now and again. Why?”

“Because Auld Nick fair likes to gamble. And he’s damn good at it.”

What a fruitcake? thought Gorman.He was obviously wasting his time here. This wasn't fate, it was bad karma for the things he had done. He stood up. “Time I was going.”

“Oh, please don’t go, Mr. Gorman. You’ve only just got here.”

“Maybe another time. I’ve got stuff to do.”

“In that case I’ll see you to the door. A pity you won’t stay. That last guy that came – an Italian guy I think he was. He was a painter. Jack Veterinary or something. When his car broke down he and his girlfriend spent the night here.” He glanced at the wall. “He sketched that for me.”

Gorman studied the rough sketch. It was Jack Vettriano’s The Singing Butler. The butler and a maid were holding umbrellas while a couple in Edwardian dress were dancing on a wet beach. The original painting had fetched over seven hundred thousand pounds at auction. The Scottish painter, real name Hoggan, earned half a million a year in print royalties alone from his paintings.

“Did you hear from this man again?” Gorman asked.

“No. Probably still working down the mine. That’s what he talked about with his girlfriend. He was an engineer or something.”

Jake was right. Vettriano was a mining engineer. He didn’t exhibit his paintings until he was in his thirties. Could this be a real sketch by him? It looked genuine enough. But he would need to get it seen by an expert or even Vettriano himself. If this turned out to be real, it would be worth a small fortune.

“My nephew likes to sketch,” Gorman said. “He might like this to copy. How about I give you a quid for it?”

“Apart from the telly, it’s the only thing worth looking at. Besides, I’ve got a funny feeling that it’s worth more than you’re saying. Because you guys always offer a lower price.”

Gorman turned to face him. “Aye, there are no flies on you, Jake, eh? I'll give you two quid for it.” He checked his watch. “But if you’re not interested, I'll be on my merry way. Got other clients to see.”

“Two quid is a lot of money in my present circumstances.”

Gorman forced a smile. “Good.” He fished out two pound coins from his wallet and offered them to Jake. “There you go.”

Jake looked down at the coins and up at Gorman. “Sure there's nothing I can say to persuade you to stay? I get awfully lonely here.”

“Got stuff to do.”

Jake bowed his head. “Hmm! Pity.” He snapped his fingers and looked up. “I've got an idea. Why don't we gamble for the sketch? It'll make things a wee bit more exciting. Would you do that for me?”

Gorman didn’t want to give importance to the sketch in case Jake increased the price. But he didn't want to walk away without it either. And it might be his last chance to pay off his debt to Kennedy. He decided to play ball.

“Okay,” he said. “I'll stake the two quid.”

“Sounds fine by me.”

Gorman trembled with nervous excitement. For a lousy two quid he was about to turn his whole life around. He'd quit dealing with losers like Jake and open an antiques shop.

Jake scooped up the money and shoved it in his pocket. Then he leaned forward, fire burning in his narrowed eyes. “Remember! Any cheating, and you stay here for eternity. So you've been warned.”

“Really?”

“Aye. That's how things work here. It's Auld Nick's house.”

Gorman blew out a sigh. “Fair enough. And how will he know?” He could barely contain the sarcsm in his voice.

“Oh, he'll know all right.” He produced a pack of stained, dog-eared cards from his pocket. “Bring the coffee table over from under the telly.” It sounded like a command.

Gorman threw him a sneer as he rose from his seat. He dumped the TV on the floor and turned the table upside down to shake off the thick layer of dust and mould on it. He blew off what still remained and returned to his seat, plonking the table between them.

Jake wiped the table with his sleeve and placed the pack of cards on it.

“You shuffle,” he said.

Gorman took the cards, shuffling them clumsily, deliberately dropping one, picking it up with a fake blush and an apology.

“Deal,” Jake said, rubbing his hands.

“What will we play?”

“Pontoon.”

“Best out of - ”

“Just the one game. I’m feeling lucky.”

Gorman dealt them two cards each, face down.

Jake scooped up his cards and studied them. His brow wrinkled. His eyebrows shot up and fell. He repeated the process a few more times. Then he smiled triumphantly as he slapped the cards on the table. “A ten of clubs and a nine of hearts.” He sat back in his seat, fingers interlocked. “Beat that.”

Gorman drummed the top of his cards, bursting with confidence. “So, for the sketch.” He turned over his cards. A nine of spades and an ace of diamonds. “Dealer wins.” He stood up and unhooked the sketch. “Thanks for the game, Jake. Maybe I’ll see you around some time. I’ll see myself out.”

“Ach, well. I always was unlucky at cards. Cheerio the noo. Thanks for the company.”

“Don’t mention it.”

A phone rang beside Jake.

“Oh, that’ll be Nick,” he said. “Wonder what he wants.” He reached over the side of the chair and picked up a red receiver. “Hello, Nick.”

“Bye,” Gorman said as he stepped past him, carrying the sketch. A song played in his head and he shimmied down the hall and opened the door. The fog had disappeared, replaced by brillaint sunshine. It reflected the mood he was in.

“Wait minute,” Jake said.

Gorman turned his head.

“Auld Nick said you cheated.”

“What, me?” Gorman replied with fake disgust. “Of all the cheek.” Moving forward, he battered his head off something hard and invisible. “Ow!” he shouted as he flung his hands up to rub where it hurt. The sketch fell from his hands and tumbled over the threshold.

He dropped to his knees to retrieve it, but he couldn’t stick his hand outside.

“Damn it!” he said, staring in horror at the sketch. “I can’t reach it. How can I get out of here?”

Jake stepped outside and side-kicked the sketch. He raised a hand in a goodbye gesture.

“Get me out of here,” Gorman screamed at him.

Jake turned round. He had changed into a handsome young man around twenty. His blue eyes narrowed in a smile.

“Do what I did,” he said in a posh voice. “Find some mug daft enough to cheat at cards.”·He climbed in the van and drove off.

“Come back here,” Gorman screamed. “Come back.”

But Jake couldn't hear him for the roar of the engine.”