He walks in: smart suit, straight backed, bit of a swagger if I’m not mistaken. The clean-cut type, short hair, baby-smooth chin, expensive white shirt and red silk tie. I’ve seen him in here before: confident, self-possessed, an athletic kind of guy.
Tonight he sits up at the bar. He’s on his own. Orders a double scotch. Drinks it down in an efficient sort of way. He’s an efficient sort of guy.
It’s quiet now. The post-work drinkers are just coming in, calling in for the usual stiffener on the way home. He nods me over and orders another. I figure he’s had a hard day. He doesn’t say anything. I flick a look at him as I set down the second double. There’s no expression. Still, I make a note. It’s early. He’s smart. I can’t read him yet, but there’s always a sign, a flicker of what’s to come.
You get all sorts in here; the low-life, the lads, the girls; they all come in late. The office types come in first, drink and smoke for a bit, get the day out of their systems with a couple of pints, and head home with a smile, a wave, and a bit of a weave. The local lads are a good crowd; they’re young and full of it, but nice kids in the main. A few pints while they’re watching the game, and a lot of noise and shoving. They laugh the whole time and give each other stick. They’re never a problem, wrapped up in their own nonsense.
They never notice the girls. They come wobbling in, with their ridiculous shoes, their tiny bags, and their tiny clothes. All strappy tops and jiggling cleavage. Some of them are alright but mostly they’re a load of lardbuckets, with too much flesh hanging over the top of their skirts, and thighs like great lumps of tripe. These lads don’t even notice the cute ones though. I do, but I never let it show.
I keep an eye on the cute ones. It hacks me off when the sad old divorced gits hang over the rail of the dance floor, staring. They’re the low-lifes. They never budge, just hang there, sullen, spilling over with senile lust. I’d throw them out if it was my place. As it is, I just keep an eye.
This guy here though, he’s got class. It’s in the way he walks, the way he sits, the way he hands me a crisp tenner. It’s polite. He asks for another double, and a Stella. He’s leaning on the bar now, bit of a faraway look. I give him his change and ask him how’s things but he just nods. He’s not meeting anyone, and he’s not talking.
Next thing there’s a real cutie next to him, all bright smile and dancing eyes. He doesn’t seem to notice her but everyone else does. She’s the colour of spring. Pretty pink lips and violet eyes. Those eyes shine into mine and she’s got me licked. I get her a glass of wine and set it down on the bar, allowing myself a swift appraisal of her smooth skin and perfect round breasts under a sweetly fitting purple top, but not so she notices. I smile at her. Is she meeting someone? No, she laughs, I’m with my friends, and waves to a group of girls who’ve gone into the corner. There’s no engagement ring, and I clock that before I’ve given her the rest of the drinks. She takes a tray, flashes me a grateful smile and walks away. No lardy-thighed screamer this one. She’s something special. From the back she’s just as good; her spine curves in just nicely, and her pretty little butt twitches her skirt as she walks.
I go over to give our smart but silent guy another Stella, and he wants another scotch. This time I say maybe he’s had enough. He’s keeping it together well, says he’s fine, he’s used to it. I don’t think so. The first few have caught up with him now, and I catch a trace of a slur. He’s fighting to keep control. His speech is careful and he looks at me straight, but his eyes are dull. His chin’s dropped forward and his collar’s tight. Just as I think this he reaches up and loosens his tie, undoes his top button, straightens up a bit, asks for another scotch. I’m not fooled. He can straighten up all he likes. He’s had enough.
I’m just about to say to him sorry mate, but it’s time for you to go home, when that little blonde sweetheart appears in front of me, flushed and laughing, she’s sorry but she’s forgotten somebody’s crisps, and she’s smiling, and I feel I’m lost as I look at her even, white teeth and her pink tongue. I am lost. She looks at me quizzically and I smile at her. I want her to know I’m staring now.
I open my mouth to speak. I reckon she likes me too. Before I can get it out, mister clean-cut next to her has followed my eyes, and swung himself round to look, he’s reached his arm out and grabbed her round the waist and pulled her in towards him. She yelps, and flinches, tries to pull away, but he’s crushing her into him so she’s hurting; his face is twisted so his eyes are all askew and his mouth is bent into something ugly as he forces his face into hers.
I’m over the top of the bar with my hands around his throat. There’s a crash of glass breaking and a girl’s scream, stools go over, and we’re lying on the floor in a mess of broken glass and beer, my hands are locked round his neck and I’m smacking his head on the floor like he’s a wooden toy. His legs jerk once but his arms are limp. Some guys grab my shoulders and pull me away from him. I feel like my head and face are going to burst. I’m wrestled backwards, my heart pounding fit to bust out of my chest.
They don’t let go of me for a bit and, when they do, I wrench free from them and look for the girl. She’s backed up against the wall, white, scared, staring at me, and then she runs. She’s gone.
And the guy on the floor doesn’t move.