Blood On The Bar
Lucas the Atoner book 1
Iain Rob Wright
SalGad Publishing Group
Contents
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1. An Irishman walks into a bar…
2. Sobering Thoughts
3. Hair of the Dog
4. Happy Hour
5. Bitter Spirits
6. Next Round
7. Last Call
8. Lock In
9. Blackout
10. Second Wind
11. Last shot
12. Passing Out
13. The Morning After
14. Same Again
Plea From the Author
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FULL DETAILS AT END OF BOOK.
An Irishman walks into a bar…
“Ah, would yer ever piss off, ya wee gobshite! Yer giving a fella headache!” Lucas threw his hands up and blew a raspberry as he leapt from his bar stool. The bald-headed youth stood three inches taller than him and sported a nasty-looking battle scar on his scalp, but the most intimidating thing about him was his aftershave—which smelled like a crate-full of cats. He was also as high as a kite and had been making a nuisance of himself for more than twenty minutes now. No one in the pub could hear themselves think. Lucas had finally taken offence when the lad proclaimed he’d lost his job because of ‘all the Poles coming over.’
The feckin eejit!
Of all the many things to get on Lucas’s wick, racism was among the worst. If people could just embrace their different coloured armpits and funny ways of speaking, the world would be a better place. Tribalism had lost its use the moment the first caveman learned he could hunt more food than he needed and trade it with the funny-looking fella down by the cut for that lovely looking stick he had.
“Watch your mouth, Paddy,” said the lad, unsteady on his feet but brimming with testosterone. “You ain’t in Belfast now.”
Lucas’s accent derived from Dublin, but there seemed little to gain by informing the lad. He did make a point, however, of standing toe to toe with the him. “Is there a group of folk you don’t loathe, lad? Peculiar, because you’re quite the mongrel yourself.”
“The hell you talkin’ about, Mick?”
“Name’s Lucas. Mick must be drinking down another pub with Paddy.”
“Come on now, gentlemen!” The landlord leaned over the bar, a red-headed familiar sort of chap about a foot shorter than any man ought to be. With dusky skin and plump oval cheeks, he oddly resembled a mole. Small round spectacles perched on a long nose completed the look. He wagged a chubby finger at them now like a disapproving aunt. “Put the aggro to bed or take it outside. People are trying to relax.”
Lucas waved a hand dismissively and told the man not to fret. “The lad and I are just having a wee discourse, guv’na. Did you know his ancestors include Germanic nomads, Romani travelers, and ironically, Polish settlers?”
The lad spat, partly down his own shirt. His pupils rolled about angrily, all over the place. “You want me to plant you right here, mate? I-I ain’t no sodding Pole.”
Lucas folded his arms and sighed dramatically. “You think genealogy is grounds for violence? Let me assure you, every single person drinking in this fine establishment tonight is a slopping cauldron of ingredients. Far too late in the game for ‘purity’ to still be a thing. And no, Polish people are not responsible for you losing your job, of that you can be sure.”
Despite his defiance—the clenching of his jaw and fists—the lad appeared unsettled. When he spoke again, his tone was less sure. “Y-Yeah? And what would you know about it?”
Lucas reached out and pinched the lad’s earlobe, so rapidly the lad stumbled and fingered his ear as if he feared he’d been cut. “Just taking a peek,” Lucas explained, holding up his hands innocently. “I can now confirm, with joyful alacrity, that you lost your job because you called in sick two Mondays out of every five, and on the ones you dragged yourself in for, you did so either drunk from the previous night’s session, or hungover so impressively that you were asleep on the job. Shame, because the gaffer thought you’d have made a good mechanic. That would have made your parents take notice, aye?”
“W-What? How do you…?”
Lucas shrugged and retrieved his beer from the bar. “I know it because you know it, lad, so stop kidding yourself that anyone else is to blame for your screw-ups. You’re an addict. I sympathise, truly, but unlike me, you have to hold down a job. Perhaps you should work on being less of a dryshite?”
The pub’s other drinkers were agog, and their chatting ceased. If a tumbleweed had been nearby, it would have rolled across the floorboards then. The mole-like landlord stood back from the bar as if ready to run for the phone, but Lucas remained unconcerned. He was in no mood to play nice. Not tonight.
The lad’s eyes darted left and right, as if searching for a way out—or hidden cameras. “Y-You ain’t right in the head, mate. I’d lay you out, but you ain’t worth the trouble.”
Lucas grunted. “Biggest understatement you’ll ever make. Now leave a man to his thinking.”
The lad showed he had at least some sense remaining—he stomped away.
A relieved whistle sounded behind the bar and the landlord stepped back up to the pumps. “You had a lucky escape there, pal. Jake don’t usually walk away.”
Lucas took a deep swig from his pint, then said, “One of us had a lucky escape, aye.”
“How did you know all that stuff anyway?” The landlord eyed him dubiously. “Felt like you were about to tell his fortune.”
“I like to take an interest. People aren’t so difficult to understand when you know what flaps to lift and where to sniff. I’ve been around long enough to smell a turd pretty quick.”
“Huh, fair enough. Want another?” He nodded at Lucas’s pint.
“Aye, keep her filled. Don’t want to see the bar through the bottom if I can help it.”
“Tough day?”
“Tough life, fella. It ain’t easy being me, let’s just leave it at that. But the thing is, I can’t much remember the last few days. There’s a black hole where my mind should be—and don’t you dare make an Irish joke.”
The landlord chuckled and placed a fresh glass beneath the taps, pulling the lever gently. The way he did it without looking showed his time behind the pumps had not been short. The cleanliness of the bar also testified to his tenure. “Well, you weren’t blacked-out here, pal, if it helps. I’ve never seen you until tonight, although you do seem familiar.”
“Aye, we drunks all look alike.” Lucas took the fresh pint and started on it right away. Crisp and cold. Heaven in a glass.
Ah, sweet beer. Mankind’s greatest creation.
He placed the glass back on the bar and glanced at Jake who was brooding over by the pool table with a pair of cronies. They each glared at Lucas with the same bloodshot eyes, but his desire for a scrap had passed, so he returned his attention back to the landlord. “You get much trouble from their ilk?”
The landlord thumbed his spectacles higher up his long nose and raised an eyebrow. “What d’you reckon?”
“I reckon people used to be friendlier. A tavern was a place for men to pat each other on the back after a hard day’s graft. Now the kicks don’t stop until your teeth are gone and your brains are leaking out through your lugholes.”
The landlord plucked another glass from beneath the bar and started
polishing it. “What are you? Early forties?”
“Sure,” said Lucas. “Let’s assume I am.”
“Well you talk like an old man. Cheer up and concentrate on your own worries. I know how to run a pub, and this is a nice place.” He peered over at Jake and his pals. “Mostly.”
And it was no lie. The lounge was poky and dated, with horse brasses hanging from the peeling walls, but it was cosy too—a refuge from the wind, rain, and worries of the world. Shadows danced on the walls, cast from fireplaces at either end, and old cushions and rickety stools radiated a sense of history—generations of drinkers coming and going with time.
“How long you had this place?” he asked.
“Five or six years now. Spent most my life drifting about so thought it was time to put down some roots. Let the drifters come to me.”
“Yer not wed?”
The landlord chuckled. “Me? No… Perhaps in another life, but I’ve never found a woman who will have me. How about you?”
“I’ve the opposite problem. Women want to have me, but I won’t be had.”
“A fine problem to have. Enjoy your drink. That’ll be three-twenty.”
Lucas tossed a blue note and a handful of silver shrapnel on the bar. “For the conversation,” he said.
The landlord thanked him and poured himself something red, then moved to serve a drinker at the opposite end of the bar. Lucas appreciated the return to silence, for when Jake had started performing, it had shunted away his thoughts until there’d been no choice but to confront the drugged-up fool. Truthfully, the interruption had done little damage—his mind was a grey sky without a cloud in sight. He’d never had a blackout before, even after a long lifetime of boozing. This was a new experience for him.
Something had happened.
But what?
His most recent memory was of waking up in a pile of rubbish behind this pub. As places went to awake confused, a pub was about the best-case scenario, but he’d prefer to know how he’d got there. He didn’t even know the name of this place—and that just seemed outright rude. He wasn’t used to feeling lost or confused. That wasn’t what he was about. If anybody said anything about Lucas, it would be that he was a fella what always knew the score. Not tonight though. Tonight, he was as lost as mouse tits on a whale.
“Hello, you okay?”
Lucas turned to find a young woman of early twenties standing beside him. She wore a bright smile beneath a small nose, and her crystalline-blue eyes were at odds with her inky-black hair—which her tawny eyebrows betrayed as a dye job. Lucas was an attractive man—when he deigned to be—but he wasn’t at his best tonight, so the girl’s approach was a mild surprise. He returned her smile, flashing his perfect teeth and enjoying the shiver he sent through the girl. “How are you this fine night, fair lass?”
“I am good, thank you.” She possessed an accent. Polish? No… something else. “My name is Kveta, but people call me Vetta.”
“And I'm guessing you're from the green and pleasant lands of… Slovakia? Am I right?”
“Yes! How did you know?”
“I’ve been there many times, a land of green pastures and ancient woodland, with a half-decent ice hockey team too. The women there possess the same natural beauty as the land, and you are no exception. If you were a landscape, you would be a gentle stream through a field of violets.”
The girl blushed, and it made her gentle eyes even more striking against the darkness of her hair. “Your words are very nice, and I also want to say thank you.” Her voice shaky and nervous. “Jake is always nasty about us, but you tell him he is wrong. My friends say you are welcome to come drink.”
Lucas glanced over at a group of burly men in the corner. Unlike Jake and co., they didn’t glare at him or sneer. Instead, they waved merrily and welcomed him over. “Cześć!”
It was difficult to refuse the company of a fine lady and jovial men, so Lucas didn’t even try. He told Vetta he’d be delighted to join her, and he went and took a seat with her friends, making fast acquaintances before delighting them all by reciting each of their names perfectly. They were a mix of Polish and Slovakian, with one Romanian for flavour. They spoke English well, though it would not have been a problem if they did not, and they refused to let Lucas buy his drinks all night. They treated him like an old friend, and he chatted with them merrily until turfing out time.
It was shortly after that when things turned nasty.
Lucas bade his drinking buddies farewell shortly after last call. Most of them lived together in a house within walking distance so they set off on foot, leaving via the pub’s front porch. Vetta and the Romanian—Gheorghe was his name—lived in flats elsewhere but were yet to leave, both wanting to stay behind and get another drink. The landlord was having none of it though. “I’m not losing sleep for the likes of you rabble,” he said brusquely, before diffusing any offence with a grin.
Lucas could have drunk another ten pints if allowed, still unsettled by his bizarre memory loss, but he didn’t argue with the fella. Instead, he reached over the bar and thanked him for his hospitality. “What’s the name of this place again, guv’na?”
“The Black Sheep.” The landlord wiped his hands off on his shirt and accepted the handshake, wringing Lucas’s hand vigorously with a smile.
Lucas was about to return the smile when he was jolted backwards. He snatched his hand away, head spinning.
Burning…
Screaming…
The landlord’s plump hand still hovered above the bar, and he seemed a little disorientated as well. “You catch a shock or something, pal?”
“Um, yeah. Got a case of the banshees for a second there. I’m having an odd night.”
The landlord frowned. “Maybe you should see a doctor.”
Vetta grabbed Lucas by the arm and startled him. “You come?” she said, nodding toward the door.
“We go find more drinking,” shouted Gheorgie, staggering about in all directions and colliding with chairs. “Da?”
Unsettled, Lucas nodded. “Aye, okay, aye, um yeah, let’s take this show on the road. Erm...” he turned to the landlord one last time, trying to make sense of that strange feeling he’d just experienced. “What’s your name, guv’na?”
The landlord swallowed and thumbed his glasses. “My name? Oh, it’s Julian, pleased to meet you...?”
“Name’s Lucas. May the road rise up to meet you, my friend. Um…” His mind spun for a moment, leaving him without words. Why did his head feel so hollow? “G-Good night, guv’na. Yeah. Okay then. Bye.”
Lucas stumbled towards the pub’s rear exit while Vetta clutched his elbow. Gheorghie had already made it outside, and he put his arm around both of them when they joined him in the alleyway. “Lucas, Lucas. You come to my uncle’s restaurant, yes? He make the most amazing meat rolls. Pork, yes? Beautiful. Mwah!” He kissed his fingers. “You come?”
“I shall do me very best, ya wee dote, but right now I think we should call it a night. Any more piss in you, and you’ll be pouring pints from your pecker!”
Gheorghie seemed to accept that his sobriety was no longer tenable, so he bid them farewell and proceeded to sing his way unintelligibly into the distance. The night was mild but wet, as it had been raining hard earlier, but that rain was now only a refreshing drizzle on their faces. A full moon pierced the oily-black sky like a shiny silver coin and gave everything an ethereal sheen. Lucas would have called it a fine night if not for the overflowing bins and the cheeky odour of piss. Not to mention he had gaps in his memory. While his jaunty personality was mostly put on, a way to keep people from knowing him truly, tonight it was at complete odds with how he was feeling inside. Despair clung to him, and his attempts to shed it only made it dig its claws deeper.
“I must get taxi,” said Vetta, blushing enough to make the subtext obvious, that he should come with her. Lucas could happily waste several hours in the girl’s company, but...
“I shall see you off, lass,” he said re
gretfully. There was no other way. Rumpy-pumpy was not what he needed right now. What he needed was answers.
Her face fell, innocent eyes wounded. “Oh. Are you sure?”
Lucas wished he could explain it to her, make her understand why sleeping with him would be such a colossally bad idea, but fairy tales would not salve the girl’s ego. All he could do was sugar-coat the truth. “I would love nothing more than to hop in a taxi and expand the boundaries of our relationship, lass. Heaven knows, shameful is my default setting…” He took a moment to steel himself, to double-down on the choice he was making. The way she was looking at him now, so beautiful and mortified at once, made him want to reconsider—but he could not. He couldn’t take the risk. He dropped his accent and spoke plainly. She deserved better than the theatrics. “You are too kind a soul to get entangled with the likes of me, Vetta, truly. And, quite honestly, I’m too old for you.”
Too old by far.
“Not so old,” she muttered. “You are handsome man.”
Lucas chuckled. “Aye, I am at that, aren’t I? But I’m also a thumbtack. I draw blood, no matter how delicately someone tries to handle me. Your innocence is not something I am willing to remove. I have enough to atone for already.”
A slight breeze lifted her inky hair around her face as she peered at him, adding a supernatural flair to her beauty. “My innocence?”
Lucas sighed and brushed a strand of that black hair from her face. The brief contact gave him a flash of who she was, and he wanted more. It was like having a mouthful of tender chicken while starving, before having the rest snatched cruelly away. And yet, if he touched her again, his resolve would crumble to dust, and he would fall down a well of poor decisions. He saw a sister in her life, uncovering worms in the soil. He saw a plump mother constantly cooking in a small cottage. He saw no father but felt her longing for one. Yet, there was no resentment or anger. Very little of the thorny brambles he found inside of most people’s hearts.
Blood on the Bar (Lucas the Atoner Book 1) Page 1