A Gift in the Dark

One For the Road

One for the Road

The barman raised his eyes heavenwards as another glass shattered. The party was finally starting to slow down as groups of drunken men staggered around the large ground floor of The Harvester Inn trying to find a seat. He reached under the sticky surface of the bar and picked up the dustpan, shaking bits of the previous accident into the bin under the till.

Lifting the hatch, and skirting around several staggering couples en-route, he managed to get to the shards before anyone stepped on them, and retreated back behind his wooden defences.

It was a closed bar tonight, and being a private party with a free bar appeared to have had quite an effect. Several of the guests had passed out in quiet corners and a variety of inebriated states decorated the bar in front of him. Few people were asking for any more drink now, but some were still talking, including the intermittently verbose drunkard in front of him, who yet again tried to resume the lost thread of his one-sided conversation. As much for something to do as anything else, the barman resumed polishing the collection of glasses on the bar as the drunk carried on his miscellaneous ramblings. The shabby man reminded him of an American detective popular in the eighties, but the more the barman peered at him, the more elusive the detectives name seemed to become.

"... you see. Well you see this is the only time we all get together, so we have to have a party. One big club; all together, having fun. One night off a year, you know, gotta have a party. Some even dress up every year. Look, there's Mikey: he was Attila the Hun last year, and Hitler the year before."

He waved an arm in the vague direction of a shadowed corner where a tall hooded figure sat in a booth surrounded by inebriated colleagues. Death and his drunken buddies, which for some reason included Elvis, George Bush and Scooby Doo, although Death had nodded off, and someone had pinched his scythe.

The barman's attention was drawn back to the shambolic figure in front of him as the drunk's eyes glazed and he mumbled on in a barely audible whisper.

"One night off from the killings and the blood: one night of amnesty. No contracts, rivers of blood, one night...."

As the man slumped into a puddle of beer and started snoring, the barman wandered along the bar collecting up the empties. The dimmed lights of the pub cast his shadow in caricature: a tall man, thin and bald, with a collection of tattoos up each visible section of arm and the side of his neck. A scar on one cheek twisted a sardonic smile as he surveyed the carnage of another free company do.

"Oi. Oi barman! Any chance of a bit of service over here?"

He turned around and walked to the other end of the bar where an immensely muscled man loomed over the counter.

"And what can I get you sir?" he asked, placing his tea towel on the wooden surface.

"Bourbon on the rocks," said the man and turned his back on the barman to look around the Inn.

Ice clinked into the glass followed by a slug of Jim Beam. The man turned back to face the mirrors behind the bar as the glass was placed by his hand.

As he picked up his drink, the cuff of his jacket rode up exposing the base of his hand and the tattoo on the ball of his thumb. This seemed to jolt some thought in the man, and after his gaze had flicked across his tattoo he took a sip of drink and looked hard at the barman who stood facing him.

"Show me your hands."

At the command, the barman mutely raised his hands from the bar for inspection, revealing two jailbirds caught in mid flight between thumb and forefinger.

"The other side idiot," growled the man leaning closer to the barman.

Both hands were turned over and some of the tension went out of the bigger man as he noticed the tattoo matching his own on the barman's thumb.