by Shaun Allan
An alleyway, little more than a gasp between two buildings – a newsagents and a pizza shop – led off a little way ahead of them. The breeze that had waltzed with the newspaper drifted into the alley. It settled over a pair of sleeping cats, tattered remnants of the proud animals they might once have been. The cats opened their eyes and stretched. They padded to the shadows at the end of the alleyway, looking out onto the street, their yellow slits keen and watchful.
The larger one, a tabby with the tip of its left ear missing, lowered its head.
"Sshhh. You see them? Can you taste their scent? Does it make you hunger, desire... want? Can you feel their hearts beating? I can hear them from here - they're slightly out of sync. An almost romantic fraction of a second difference. Oh, how this feline form's senses are honed. It was a good choice, an excellent choice. For all our innate power, this creature's instincts are sensuously barbaric.
Ah, they are moving closer. You know, they are the dominant species here? Does that not strike terror into your heart? Ha! Oh, for a worthy adversary. You notice that they walk upright, that they cover themselves with the skins of other species? Such arrogance. It hints of sense of superiority over those around them. Perhaps they are, perhaps not. Perhaps, though, we should teach them that such arrogance only makes the lesson more sweetly significant. Should we, do you think, explain to them, as we dine, how erroneous their conceptions are - how their self-appointed sovereignty over their fellow creatures, only serves to prove that they are less than worthy to rule, more suited to be ornaments and food themselves. Perhaps not. They are not deserving of such benign justice.
Mmmm. They are almost upon us. Are you prepared, my friend? Excellent. Which would you prefer? The larger one? Ha! Greed was ever a virtue for you. Very well, then, if that is your choice. There is ample time for sampling other delights. The nights here are long, and we have a world of such meats to enjoy.
Come, let us feast."
Candle
I crouch to the candle,
my hands almost touching the flame,
but its heat washes past,
avoiding my sore, cold fingers.
I bear it no grudge.
Who am I to pass judgement
on a sprit as free as the fire.
The flame is company.
The flame is a friend.
Even though it denies my necessity,
the flame is a comfort yet.
The candle burns slowly.
I watch the melting wax
running down the side,
anxious to escape
the flickering feast.
I shudder.
I can see my breath.
At least I know I'm still alive,
unfortunately.
The wind howls beneath the door,
a thousand wolves fighting to gain entrance,
fighting to reach me.
I should open it.
I should give them what they want.
Me.
But, of course I don't.
As worthless as I feel,
as strong as the impulse is,
I don't.
I still, uselessly,
sit with my hands to the flame,
and wait.
I don't see the room about me,
it disappeared long ago.
Vanished along with my will.
My world is now the flame,
and my hands held before it.
I shudder again,
and I cough.
I can taste blood,
again.
The shadows whisper,
dark, sinister notions,
but I pay them no heed.
Their insights are no darker than my own.
I feel tired.
My eyes feel heavy.
I'd close them,
but I know that, in time,
I'll open them again,
to another morning,
to a dead candle.
The desire is too strong,
and I sleep,
but I was wrong.
I don't open them again.
Patient Solitude
Red Queen onto black King.
Red seven onto black eight, turn the card over.
Black two.
Deal three cards.
Red seven.
Nothing.
Deal three cards.
Black four.
Nothing.
The old man put the cards in his right and left hands together on the table and swept up the others from their separate piles into one. He picked them up, turning those were facing the wrong way so he had a neat pile once more. He drained the last of his half bitter, replaced the empty glass on the beer mat, and began to shuffle the deck.
A large man paused beside the table, picked up the empty and replaced it with a full half pint. He picked up a few coins from the collection next to the beer mat, and walked off without a word. He knew the score by now, he’d been manager of the Oak Tree pub for long enough to know old Albert hated to be disturbed whilst playing. Effectively, of course, it meant Albert (never Al or Bert) hated to be disturbed at all, seeing as all he did during the five hours each evening he spent in here was drink half-pints of bitter, one every hour and a half or so, and play Patience.
Occasionally the manager, Paul Fisher according to the sign above the entrance, tried walking away without taking any money for the drinks. Albert was so much a part of the furniture Paul felt a little guilty taking money all the time. He was never allowed, though. Albert would take hold of his arm and guide him back to the table. Without even looking up, he would pick up the money for the half bitter and hand it to Paul. At times the manager attempted to refuse the payment, but then Albert would look up, and Paul would see the sadness in the old man's eyes, and would take the money just to get away.
Paul hated looking into Albert's eyes. There was no cruelty, no hatred, no nastiness of any kind stirring in the depths. That was not what disturbed the big man. Rather, it was the desolation. Here was a man who had spent every evening sitting at this table, quietly playing Patience, for as long as Paul had been manager, and apparently a lot longer than that. Here was a man who never had any company, and hardly ever spoke apart from a nod goodnight when he left each night. Here was a man who had never won a single hand of the game he so religiously played. Not one. There was an emptiness inside this old man which Paul could feel whenever he looked into those eyes. He soon learned to just keep the drinks coming, and to keep taking the money.
Albert smiled briefly at the faded photograph of his wife which was set next to his beer mat. This was something he did before each game, as if for luck. The fact he had never won even after all these years of playing, and waiting, didn’t bother him - he barely noticed.
His hands shook ever so slightly as he began dealing once again. That and the tight, grey skin shrink-wrapped to the knuckles and fingers, were the only signs that these were an old man's hands. The movements were fluid and smooth, if a little shaky. The cards were dealt evenly across the polished table-top. This was about the only table in the pub which did not have someone professing their undying love, or hatred, for someone else; Paul kept it that way, but didn't have to try too hard, no-one else had sat at this table for years. Seven neat piles of face down cards, with the topmost face up, were laid out in unhurried strokes. Once this was done, and a cursory glance showed there were no immediate openings, Albert pushed three cards from his left hand over into his right, and began to play.
Again.
* * *
The rain lashed down, a torrent almost completely obscuring the road ahead. Chris Johnson cursed out loud, adding to an almost endless stream of obscenities aimed at both the weather and every other road user in this arse-end-of-nowhere-dead-end-compost-heap. He had hated growing up here years ago, and, now that he was all grown up, and decidedly too good for this dump of a town, he could see why. God, in all his infinite wisdom, only knew why a salesman of Chris'
s stature had agreed to come to this backwater.
He went to flick his windscreen wiper control up another notch, and swore again when he found it was already going full tilt, and may as well have not been going at all, what with the damned river pouring down his windscreen. Chris alternately squinted and opened his eyes wide in a vain effort to see past the torrent. He knew it was no use. God, what a night to be stuck in this weather, in this town, in this clapped-out-bone-shaking-joke some malicious idiot had thought would be a good laugh to assign to Mr. Johnson. The car, of course, was none of those things. It was a brand new BMW 850, complete with every bell, whistle and wotsit known to man, which was, much to his associates dislike, pretty much justified in being assigned to the regional salesperson of the year for the past four years running. Driving a car some people could buy a house for was no consolation though, not when the wiper blades may as well have been non-existent as they were tonight.
His wife would be at home, dressed just how she knew he liked, having cooked just what she knew he liked, waiting for him to arrive with his wedding anniversary present of a fortnight in Barbados. Except he wasn't going to turn up at all at this rate, and the travel agents had screwed up with the booking anyway, and instead of going to Barbados they were booked to spent a week in Benidorm, of all the flea-pits of the world! Jenyfer was really going to love him.
Well, tough. He was in just the right sort of mood to deal with her anger.
His heart jumped into his throat as a truck leapt out of the darkness, barely missing him, and giving him another excuse to stream curses at the world. He did, however, slow down a little, and decided to stop for a break at the next pub he passed.
Christ, he'd only been going for about fifteen eternal minutes, and he needed a drink already.
A half-memory surfaced briefly of a bar with a stupid name somewhere along the road he was crawling along. He smiled for the first time that night as the brightly lit sign declaring the Oak Tree drizzled into view. Chris turned slowly into the car park and pulled up as close to the doors as he could get. He was surprised at the fairly large number of cars in attendance on such a lousy night. He managed another couple of curses as he realised the closest he could get would still mean his getting drenched before hitting shelter. Sod it, he thought, and drove right up to the entrance, parking so he could almost step directly from his car into the pub. He jumped the short distance to the doors slamming his car door while he was in mid-air. It was only when he was safely inside that he poked his hand out and activated the central locking.
Chris could have sworn he had been in this place before, when he used to live around here, but the décor and even the arrangement of the bar, lounge and toilet doors rang no bells. He didn't bother dwelling on the subject, and hastened into the lounge.
Once at the bar, he shook off his coat and threw it over a stool at the bar. He didn’t notice that it was dripping everywhere, and wouldn't have cared anyway. Running his fingers through his hair, he wiped his forehead free of water, and sat down himself. With a sigh he rummaged through his coat pockets for his mobile phone, working on an excuse to tell Jan. When he finally dragged it out, his shoulders slumped. He couldn’t even curse anymore. The mobile was wet, and when he switched it on, a pale flicker was all that greeted him instead of the normally bright, luminous screen and buttons.
Jenyfer could wait. He had a more pressing engagement.
"'Scuse me," he called to the barman.
The barman walked slowly along the bar, casting an appraising look over Chris. Something Chris hated was appraising looks. Especially from some lard-ass in a poxy backstreet pub. If anyone should be appraising, it should be him. And he had. And he was not happy. Just let the barman open his mouth, thought Chris. I don't need this.
"Yes, sir?" asked Paul. His appraisal of Chris's mood had been pretty accurate. The man was pissed off. From the state of him, Paul was not surprised.
"Vodka, please. Make it a large one. A very large one."
While the barman was drawing the vodka, Chris worked out the price. He was in no mood for a conversation. He put the money on the bar, and nodded at it when the barman passed him his drink. Paul was well versed in the moods of customers. He took the money wordlessly and turned away.
Chris raised the glass to his lips, threw the alcohol down his throat and breathed in sharply as the warmth radiated through his tired body. He slammed the glass down on the bar, put another pile of change next to it and nodded to the barman, who took the hint and refilled the glass.
Chris disposed of this the same way he had the first. Again the glass was planted on the bar, and again it was refilled. Chris was beginning to calm down, more thanks to the drink than anything, and thought he might even start a conversation with the barman. He turned around to survey the room, not that he anticipated having much to look at.
His gaze fell on Albert. The old man was slowly and carefully gathering up his cards and dealing them out. Chris glanced at the barman, and then pushed himself away from the bar, ignoring Paul's brief shake of the head.
He walked over to the old man's table. Old grandads, sipping bitter and playing cards - badly from what Chris could see.
Typical.
He looked down at the game in hand. What was this old duffer doing? He was missing loads of chances!
"Black four on red five," Chris said, pointing.
Albert looked up slowly, and Chris immediately recognised what Paul already knew. He backed off. Returning to the bar, he swiftly downed his vodka, signalling, as he did so, for Paul to get him another.
"What's his problem?" Chris wanted to know, noticing that the old man had gone back to his card playing.
"No problem," Paul answered, taking Chris's offered money. He didn't like this bloke. A bit of money and a lot of attitude. The guy obviously did well, his arrogance being mistaken for confidence. "He's waiting for someone. He doesn't mind losing. He'll win one day. He just doesn't like to be bothered, that's all. Never has."
Chris noticed the tone in Paul's voice. And the same to you. "Only trying to help," he muttered. He threw back the vodka, banged the glass down, and stood up. The booze was having an effect on him now. He quite liked it. Fuzzy.
His bladder urged him on, so he walked, mostly straight, to the entrance. Once through, he stood swaying a moment while he figured out the door he should go through. He got it wrong and ended up back in the lounge, looking down at Albert's cards. He swore, almost to himself, and turned back through the door, catching sight, briefly, of the picture of Albert's wife. Something in the recesses of his alcohol-dulled mind called out to him, but his bladder called louder. He found the right door.
Once relieved, Chris leaned on the basin, taking deep breaths in an effort to clear his head. A couple of vodkas doesn’t have this effect. It's probably the bloody 'flu, or something, 'cos of this shitty weather. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. God, what a mess. He couldn't go home to Jenyfer looking like this. Thoughts of his wife prompted another urging from the back of his mind. Some, long buried, memory was trying to surface. Something to do with that old bloke's photo...
Chris couldn't be bothered to dwell on it. Who cares, anyway. He stood up, taking a long, deep breath through his nose. He let it out slowly through his mouth. Woah. He blinked, suddenly dizzy. Whatever it was that was struggling to be heard in his head took advantage of the drop in his defences. He looked into the mirror again and, abruptly, he knew. He'd seen that woman before somewhere. Where was it...?
Oh, God.
He doubled up over the sink, and vomited as images assaulted his senses. There was another reason he never drove when drinking. He remembered now. He'd tried to forget. He had forgotten, had buried the experience deep down. It had clawed its way out now, though. It was back, and with a vengeance.
He vomited again as he saw the car he'd stolen as a young teenager; at the torrential downpour that had obscured his sight, much like tonight. He saw the lorry which had come from nowhere, cau
sing him to swerve off the road, and remembered the woman who had not even seen him, had not even had a chance to move before...
He retched, his stomach empty as he recalled rushing to her, seeing her neck twisted at a strange angle, seeing the blood trickling from her nose and her ears and, oh, God, from her eyes.
But she was still breathing!
Maybe she'd be OK.
He gasped as he saw himself standing up, oblivious to the rain, and then running, running as if he'd the devil on his heels.
He'd forgotten it all. But now, that photograph. That woman. He'd killed that old man's wife, so many years ago. And the old man had been waiting for her all this time. He had to get out of here. He quickly splashed water on his face, and cupped his hands under the tap to swill his mouth out, spitting the water into the sink.
There was a commotion in the foyer, people running in and out of the lounge, someone pushing his car out of the way outside. He was about to yell at them when he saw the flashing blue light coming towards the doors. The ambulance stopped, and a gurney was dragged inside by a pair of rain-soaked paramedics. They pushed past him into the lounge, returning almost seconds later with Albert strapped to the gurney, an oxygen mask on his face.
His head whirled. He had to get out. He staggered into the lounge to retrieve his coat and phone. The room was empty, even the barman had gone outside. Chris could not help himself looking at the photograph of Albert's wife, but another sight stopped him in his tracks.
On the table next to the photo were four neat piles of cards, Kings uppermost. Albert had finally won a hand. His last hand.
Chris could feel his throat tightening again, and he grabbed his coat, backing out of the lounge. His eyes remained locked on the cards until the door closing in front of him snapped him back to his senses. He turned and ran out of the pub, pushing past the crowd of gathered around the ambulance and throwing himself into his car.
His hands shaking, he managed to push the key into the ignition and turn it. The engine sprang into life, and the car lurched forward as he stamped on the accelerator. He swerved out of the car park and onto the main road.