I’m still working on a piece about our time in Shropshire—you should see that next week. It’s proving a little more difficult to get a grip on, but I think I’ve finally figured out the structure and key points. Hopefully it’ll be worth the wait.
Instead, let me offer up a piece of original short fiction. Reading Writers celebrated the results of our Spring Competition this week. Judged by author Gill Thompson, the theme was A Terrible Loss. Clearly the notion resonated, as we had the biggest ever response to a competition prompt. My entry, in a stunning reversal of fortunes from last year when I won both writing competitions, did not place—which I’m relieved about. It’s a take on a famous tragic hero of literature. See if you can figure out who I’m lovingly parodying.
‘They told me I was everything. T’is a lie!’
That’s how it always starts with the old guy. Three drinks in, a beer and a shot of the cheapest bourbon we have on the side. Rounds one and two sucked down in silence, bar the odd grumble and mutter to his sidekick, the freak in the motley coat. Once the old guy gets his nose into the third round, the volume ramps. Gradual at first, then louder and louder. His sidekick tries to calm things down. It never works.
Eventually tears come, and I know we’re close to the end of the performance. One last roar of primal despair and he’s done. Shuffles out, chin on chest, weighed down with sorrow. Clutching the crumpled paper bag he totes everywhere, heavy with whatever he’s stuffed inside.
Normally by now I’d have barred the pair of them. My clientele doesn’t need that sort of floorshow. They’re a cultured, refined class of barfly who react badly to anything that distracts them from the important business of the day—beating their livers into submission. We’re losing business, which is impressive for any drinking establishment still in one piece during wartime. But the guy in motley swipes a crisp fifty across the bar-top to me every time as they leave.
‘You may think me a fool,’ he says. ‘ But this keeps him quiet at night. Staves off the nightmares—well, some of them.’
And that was our routine. Twice, three times a week. Drinks, sound and fury, exit stage left pursued by black dogs. I was almost getting used to it. I was certainly getting used to the bump in my pay packet.
So, the last time I saw him. Saturday, that’s six days ago. Six days, ok? Our guy had sunk bourbon numero tres in a single swallow, and was cooking up for a big show. Tearing of hair, rending of garments, the whole tragic panoply. Trouble was, our pal in the technicolour shitcoat who would have normally kept things to a low-key breakdown was scrunched in the phone booth by the front door, muttering urgently into the mouthpiece. He kept flicking glances at his—boss? Dad? Lover? But whatever was on the other end of the line was holding him fast.
In the end, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I grabbed a bottle from the top shelf, poured two shots and took the lot down to the loud end of the bar.
‘Come on, buddy,’ I said. ‘You can’t do that in here.’
It was like I’d flicked a switch. He stopped in an instant. He raised that great leonine head, letting the soft light of the bulb above him hit every angle of the rubbled landscape of his face. His eyes were a blue I’d hardly seen before, except in the lowering moments before a storm ripped itself from the sky and struck hammer blows on the earth.
It was the sort of face that inspires apocalyptic poetry is all I’m saying.
‘Once I could have had you killed for saying that.’ His voice up close was lower, deeper than I’d realised. The deep boom of the sea in a subterranean cave. A voice of command, a voice from which dissent shrank and withered. ‘One glance, a single gesture and my guard would have dragged you away and beaten you to fragments.’
I matched his gaze, careful not to blink. I’d run a bar for long enough to know you don’t take shit from the clientele, and threats should be shut down before they bloom into action. I raised my glass, took a sip. Inside my guts were churning. The old guy had a power to him, that was sure, even in this badly compromised guise. I just couldn’t let it show.
’Yeah? So what happened? The only guard I see is busy talking to grandma over by the door. The drink’s on me if you can keep the dramatics down for once. It’s good stuff, not the cow-sluice I usually rip you off with.’
He smiled then, and his face lit up like winter sunshine. Bright, hard, cold. He took the glass, lifted it, clinked mine.
‘What are we drinking to?’ I asked.
He thought for a moment. ‘Family,’ he said finally. ‘Can’t live with them, can’t—actually, that’s it.’ He sunk the shot, closed his eyes in bliss. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You have been ripping me off.’
We both laughed then, loud enough that the guy in motley glanced over. The expression on his face was too complicated to make sense of, but it was mostly fear wrapped up in determination.
The old man waggled his glass and eyebrows at me. ‘I promise to behave if you keep up this new level of hospitality. He tilted his head, puppy-like. The sort of puppy who’d rip out your throat if you didn’t keep up with the treats.
I sighed. ‘Fine. Special offer, today and today only. You’re back on the dregs tomorrow.’ I re-brimmed our glasses. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
He flinched at that. I could see his mind spinning. ‘Call me—Roy,’ he said eventually.
‘Ok, Roy. The drink’s not free. I’ll take a story in exchange. Your story.’
‘My story? Oh, well, that’s a big ask. My story is a vast tapestry woven from woe and despair. The tale of a great man fallen. Of betrayal, of a tremendous loss. An empire torn asunder. A world abandoned to chaos .’
He started talking then, and to be honest I didn’t really understand everything he said. See, I’d kinda thought he was a mob boss, a toppled capo di tutti capo of one of the gangs from the north side who spent all their time fighting over turf. Those guys always exaggerate the drama of their sad little scuffles. But Roy, he was talking about something else. Something huge.
Something to do with the war. The dark cloud of our country fighting against itself.
He was part of it. If I heard it right, he was the cause of the whole tragic mess.
And suddenly, the spell was broken. The freak in motley was running back down the bar. ‘We have to go,’ he said, breathless. ‘Now.’
‘But I’m just getting comfortable,’ Roy said. The whine in his voice was back. I wonder how much of the sad victim act was put on for his companion.
‘They’re coming,’ Motley said. ‘We’ve stayed in the city too long. I knew it was a risk. I’ve found us somewhere safer.’
They matched gazes for a moment, a full argument blazing wordlessly in the hot air between them. Roy, finally, bowed his head. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Wherever you lead, I follow. The world has changed that much, I see.’
Roy hefted his bulk off the stool, and allowed himself to be led away. ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘You forgot something.’ I lifted his paper bag. The contents weighed a ton.
’Keep it,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t fit me anymore.’
And that’s everything. Like I said, he was here six days ago, I haven’t seen him since. I’m amazed it took you that long to get here, from the way motley-boy was panicking. So you can tell your thug in the armour there to lower the gun, princess. I don’t have anything else to say.
Oh, actually, I do. The bag’s over at the end of the bar. I guess you have more right to it than me. Don’t look so surprised. I knew who you were from the second you walked in, all fur-coat and spite and fury, flipping tables and barking orders. You’ve got his eyes. That same blue. Another herald to the storm. You know what we call the war down here? The War Of The Three Sisters. Which one are you? Pretty sure you’re not the nice one.
Hey, you know, I’ve just figured it out. Your pa was telling me who he was all along. I thought it was Roy-with-a-Y. It’s Roi-with-an-I, isn’t it? He was a lot smarter than he made out. Just tired and sad and sick of it all. I hope he’s far away from all this, in a place he can forget about you and the plots and the betrayal.
Yeah, sure, whatever. That gun’s not holstered, is it? I knew how this would end. You don’t march into a bar in full battle order and not intend to leave a mess behind. One last thing. Take what’s in the bag when you’re done. Just know this. He didn’t think it fitted him anymore. I’m damn sure it won’t sit on your brow any easier.
Let’s Outro with Tin Crown Kings by The Manic Shine. Seems appropriate.
See you next Saturday.
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 