He glanced up from his seat as the front door opened and a man in his late fifties walked in. He wore a trench coat, the likes of which Jack hadn’t seen in a long time. It reminded him of something Elliot Ness might have worn – beige, with a belt and epaulettes on the shoulders. He took a seat at the opposite end of the bar and ordered a scotch, neat. He was dressed like he was someone of substance, yet he looked weathered, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Jack looked closer, taking a sip from his beer. It was the eyes. They seemed dead, cold, hopeless. Something – or someone – had stolen the light right out of them.
Jack turned his attention back to his beer. He felt a kinship with this man that had nothing to do with anything other than the fact that he could see himself in him. An invisible weight pushed down on him, too, forcing him lower and lower until some mornings it took all he had in him just to get out of bed.
He rolled his shoulders as if to alleviate the metaphorical weight that rested there. On this day, more than most, it was harder to ignore the voices of the demons in his head. He gently touched his shoulder, as if pressuring them into silence. He imagined he could feel the ink seeping into his bloodstream, as if the mark itself was merging with his soul and making itself one with the rest of him. He had branded himself so that he would never forget. He wanted the marks on his body to match the ones on his soul, so that everyone would know what he had done. The fact that his skin was covered was mere happenstance – he knew if he wanted to, he could rip off his shirt and expose his sins for all to see. The thought comforted him, as if giving credence to the voices.
A guy near the back of the bar argued with his girlfriend, getting louder and more agitated as the minutes passed. The girlfriend, a pretty blonde wearing far too much makeup, locked eyes with him across the bar and Jack could see fear within them. He turned away, distracted by his own problems.
A few moments later, the guy started in again and Jack turned back to see what was going on. The blonde shook her head and tried to calm him down, but he would not be placated. She got up to leave but he grabbed her, yanking her back down into the seat again. Jack could see tears in her eyes and his heart raced. He mentally sized up the guy she was with and waited. The guy was about his height, maybe a few years older, and he had clearly had too much to drink. His face was flushed and sweaty and Jack could see his girlfriend was wasting her time – he was too far gone now to be soothed. He turned back to his beer but kept an eye on them via the mirror behind the bar.
The spectacle continued. Suddenly, the girl got up and ran, stilettos echoing on the sticky wooden floor. She got as far as the front door before the guy caught up with her. He grabbed her by the arm as she reached for the door handle, roughly spinning her around to face him. He pushed her back into the wall next to the door and leant in close, hissing something at her that Jack couldn’t hear. His moral compass screamed at him. What gave this guy the right? She stared over his shoulder at Jack, begging silently for help, and he couldn’t stand it any longer.
Temper rising, he got off his bar stool and marched over to them, grabbing the guy by the arm that held her and twisting it up behind his back. The guy was momentarily dumbfounded as Jack powered him through the door and out onto the street.
“Hey!” the guy slurred, struggling finally.
Jack spun him around to face him and punched him clean in the nose, just once. He went down like a lead balloon. The blonde came hurtling out of the bar and took one look at them both, then ran off down the street, her coat flapping behind her.
The guy stayed down, to his credit, his hand covering his face, blood seeping through his fingers. Jack stood back and waited for him to come at him but it quickly became clear that he wasn’t capable of it. Turning around, Jack jammed his aching fist into the pocket of his jacket and walked away, his head reeling. He couldn’t remember the last time he had physically hit anyone.
It felt good.
“Your housekeeping’s improved,” Jack said, giving Callum’s living room a quick once-over. “This place is positively tidy.”
It had been Callum’s suggestion that he crash at his place for a couple of days, just in case. The deal had been crystal clear – answers to what was going on, in return for keeping the real reason for their little sleepover from Ally. Under the circumstances, a little white lie seemed to be the least of their worries. Ally thought Tom’s place had a gas leak that was being investigated. What was really going on was another story entirely. Whatever it was, it was enough for Jack to accept his help with little more than a token effort at refusal, and that was reason enough to worry.
“Yeah well,” Callum handed Jack a beer and they both sank down into opposite armchairs. “Ally can’t navigate through crap all over the floor, it’s dangerous.”
They both took a swig of beer, silently sizing each other up.
“What happened to your van?” Jack asked, making an attempt at casual conversation. “I haven’t seen it since I’ve been back.”
Callum humoured him, for now at least. “I sold it.”
“Really?”
“This guy offered me a good price and I took it.”