The nags were against me. Six races.
Six bets. All blown out before the finishing line. I’m
going to change bars, I told myself, this place is bad fucking luck
for me. Superstition and gambling become more impassioned bed fellows
the worse your luck is –and mine, mine hadn’t seen anything to show for it in
months.
I sat at the
bar in the Front Page cursing my luck, cursing the Racing Post, cursing the
barman who had talked through the back page of form listings and most probably
caused me to rush to a decision when time and a clear head was required.
As the stranger pulled up a seat beside me I cursed him too. Wednesday
afternoon, quite possibly the quietest time in a bar’s week and in a room full
of empty, cold seats this prick parks up alongside me.
‘Scotch and
water and whatever this guy is having.’
My good friend
–the stranger.
The drinks
arrive. I tear up my docket, push the Racing Post to one side and cradle
my spiced rum like it’s a new born. I toss it back as he nips at his, I
order up including my new amigo’s tastes in my request. He looks the
grifter type. He’s a well-worn face, a pair of shoes that have passed too
many miles under them and a smile that just doesn’t go with his overall
presence.
I take a
moment. Savouring how awkward the silence is.
‘You got any
tips for the next one?’ he asks, throwing a glance towards the television set
and the list of pun-based names and racing colours.
‘Believe me
buddy, you don’t want my tips.’
‘But if you had
to choose.’
I consider him,
what the fuck’s his problem?
‘If I had to
choose… I’d play Glengarry, with maybe Dirty Uncle to place.’
‘Ok.’ the
stranger replies ‘thanks.’ Tossing back his drink he gets to his feet, dusts
himself down, pushes in his bar stool and leaves. I turn back towards the
TV, towards the bartender and a minute later the creak of the door triggers a
ray of light to dance across the tavern before it sighs shut again and there he
is. Parked up alongside me again, unlit cigarette tucked behind the ear,
racing docket in his hand.
‘Two more.’
The bartender
pours. We drink. The race runs. He loses.
‘I told you
so,’ I say ‘I’m going through a slump.’
The stranger
nods, gets to his feet and leaves. This time I watch the door. The
bookmaker’s is across the street and I can all but see him in my mind’s eye
casually looking left then right before crossing over and going inside.
Inside for what? Did the prick win? Can’t have, he’s left the
docket behind. I look around for support but nobody else seems remotely
interested in what’s going on. Maybe this is why I want to be a writer
while most other people in this city just want to be left alone.
The door opens,
and he’s returned. With two hands bursting with bank notes of all
denominations; he smiles the smile of a first-prize wanker before he slips back
up on to his stool and counts his take. I look on in awe, and now so does
everyone else. So there are still some things that can get the attention
of the perpetually sauced.
‘A round of drinks
for all my friends!’ the words are met with an uncoordinated chorus of cheers
from the little pockets of high functioning alcoholics that litter the floor on
this –one of society's optimum slaving days.
My rum appears
but the stomach has fallen out of me and I tentatively nip at it, all the while
offering up some side-eye. He plays at pretending like he hasn’t clocked
me but he has, I know he has, and he knows that I know he has. The games
we play.
I go to speak.
He beats me to
it.
‘Harvey,’ he
says extending his hand, spinning on his stool ‘Harvey Neary.’
‘Doug Morgan.’
I shake.
‘What do you do
for a living, Doug? That’s the sort of questions people ask when they
meet new folk and fain interest, right?’
‘That’s one of
them, Harvey. I’m sitting in a bar in the middle of the week. I’m a
Captain of Industry. I’m a CEO. I’m the Venue Events Manager of one
of those fucking entertainment complexes down by the river. What about
you? And kids, that’s another one of those questions. You got any
fucking kids Harvey?’
He laughs.
‘Exactly.
No Doug. No fucking kids. Based on how rough your fingertips look
and the fact that you’re six litres of piss on a Wednesday I’d say musician.’
‘Writer, and
I’m only four litres of piss. What about you? You back a better
pony than the one I picked or…’
‘Actually I
just walked in and took this money Doug.’ his voice was cold, low and
sincere. It gave me a shiver.
‘From…’ my eyes
chart their way to the door.
Harvey nods,
then orders two more drinks, much to the disgruntled disappointment of the rest
of the booze house who now sit dry. I switch to beer. His eyes are
dead and I know for sure I no longer have the stomach for spiced rum.
‘So let me get
this straight,’ the beer is cool on my lip ‘you just walked over to Sean Graham
and took all that money.’
‘There was one
or two more steps to it but… yeah.’
‘And now you
sit here.’
‘And now I sit
here.’
‘Aren’t you
worried about the police?’ As I ask the question I look around at all my fellow
drunks. All of Harvey’s potential meat-shields should he decide to
take them hostage when the pigs roll up all lights flashing, ready for big
business. The drink has sapped a lot of my strength. I’m not the
man my frame suggests. If Harvey was to get serious in here,
could I stop him? Could I do anything other than watch and know that the
fear of the moment would be nothing compared to the emasculation that would
follow should I make it through the ordeal alive?
‘There’s
nothing to worry about. I don’t envision the police…’
‘Why?’ I lean
in, almost trying to sniff the answer from him. ‘Why don’t you envision the
police…’
‘Because
everyone in the betting shop is dead.’
Emasculation
suddenly looks a lot more appealing and even though I don’t want to ask, I have
to.
‘What do you mean
dead? Did… did you kill them?’
Leaning
in Harvey maintains my eye ‘Sort of. I mean it’s complicated
Doug. I didn’t take my hand to any of them, and I didn’t shoot, or stab,
or strangle any of them or kill them in what would be deemed a conventional way
but yes it was my decision to stop their clocks.’
‘What did you
do?’
The questions
just keep coming.
‘You wouldn’t
believe me Doug, and you wouldn’t really want to know.
You think you want to know but believe me. You’re much better out of it.’
I look around.
So many pre-corpses.
‘So what, you
walk in here, strike up a conversation, kill a betting shop full of people,
tell me about it and then what? Just walk away?’
‘Well, no
Doug.’
I’m next.
‘I’ve still got
a good two-thirds of a drink in front of me.’
‘And when
that’s done?’
‘Depends… is
this place any good for lunch?’
‘How’d you kill
them?’
‘Leave it
alone.’
‘How’d you kill
them?’
‘You really
want to know?’ his heckles were up.
I nod, even
though I’m no longer sure I do want to know. Maybe it’s more a
need. His eyes wander in their sockets as he picks over his words.
Reaching into his pocket he pulls out his phone and starts typing.
Setting it on the bar he pushes it over to me. It reads: Cinderella
Rockefella.
‘What is this?’
I ask.
‘Asked and
answered.’ his grin knowing.
‘I don’t
understand, what does this even fucking mean?’
With a sigh of
exasperation and a roll of the eye he collects his phone, tucks it away and
considers me… again.
‘You asked how
I killed all those people, I’ve just shown you.’
‘No,’ now my
heckles are rising ‘no. All you’ve done is type some shit into your phone
and piss me off.’
‘In 1967 Esther
and Abi Ofarim recorded a song written by Mason Williams and Nancy Ames.
That song was Cinderella Rockefella. Now, when it’s sung or when you
watch a recording of it… like that on the Eamon Andrews Show it’s harmless,
annoying but harmless, but when you whistle it…’
‘Whistle?’ I
laugh. ‘Fuck Harvey, fuck. Fuck you really had me
going there. Shit.’ Turning to the bartender I tell him
‘Pour Harvey another drink, I’ll have one too.’
The sound is
almost a squawk and as Harvey whistles do, do, do-do, do, do
doo-do, do-do-do my eyes take a turn around the bar. At first
nothing happens. At first the old salts, and drunks, and burnouts carry
on carrying on but then there’s a moment. A moment when they realize that
something inside them has stopped. Clutching their throats, chests,
hearts they turn one-by-one to face Harvey, to look to me; to plead for
help. But there’s no help to be given.
They’re dead
before they touchdown on the cold, sticky, floor tiles.
I turn
to Harvey, breaking away eye contact with a bum I’ve grown particularly
fond of during my time at the Front Page. He used to be a writer
too. A newspaper man. Harvey is smiling, more of a smirk
really. A real dickhead smirk, a “I told you so” know it all kinda
deal. The type you couldn’t ever get tired of hitting. I don’t
though. The booze has left me weak and the shock has all but painted a
yellow line down my back.
‘See?’ he says.
I nod.
‘Now you know
what it is, so the good news is that it can never take you.’
I’m still
nodding. I’ve nothing to say until a question pops into my head; so
cautiously I open my mouth and ask it.
‘And what’s the
bad news?’
‘Well Doug,’ he
takes a sip of a fresh pint abandoned on the bar ‘the bad news is you’re going
to need to be real careful about when you relax because one way or another you
will end up whistling it and when you do…’ another sip from the pint that was
destined to go room temperature and flat passes his lips ‘when you do god help
whoever you’re around. It’ll strip everyone you’ve ever loved right out
of your life.’
The click of
his fingers snaps me out of my head, back into the room, back into the Front
Page surrounded by almost a dozen slowly cooling corpses. Downing the
pint Harvey climbs from his stool, fixes his shirt collar and walks
to the exit. I follow suit.
Outside the
city is warm, humming with life and the first bar almost passes my lips simply
because I’m trying so hard not to whistle it.
A Fast City teen-mom
passes by dressed in her best going-out onesie, pushing a twin-seater stroller
and smoking a Berkley Blue. Harvey smiles my way and with an
expanse of the eyes and a double nod of the head all but dares me to do
it. Go on, do it.
The street is
busier than normal. Commuters and curious alike line the other side of
the road along a strip of yellow tape as the police (shit! The Police!)
chalk up, and photograph, and dust the multiple crime scene that was once a
busy Sean Graham’s bookmaker shop. Walking head-on into the middle of
it Harvey yells to the police, daring their attention maybe? Or
maybe he’s up to something else?
‘Officer!
Officer! Excuse-fuckin-me officer!!’
‘Sir, watch
your tongue.’ the beat cop advises.
I don’t hear
much of what’s next due to the hurly-burly that seems to be making its way
through the crowd of nosey-parkers but I do recognize the finger of suspicion
and it’s being pointed my way. Harvey winks as he lowers his
hand, the police officer’s face is stern –serious and the locals are all
clucking away dead-eyeing me and making sure to get all the facts right in
their heads for the forthcoming days of gossiping. With his radio
clutched under his helmet strapped chin the cop calls through something.
Soon the betting shop is empty of boys in blue as they all advance towards me
with Harvey bringing up the rear.
‘Yup, that’s
the guy officer. I saw him kill every single one of them. If you
ask in that bar you’ll probably find someone who could corroborate the fact
that he left with enough time to do all of this.’
I knew he was a
prick the moment I saw him, and now this. A betting shop full of
necro-fuck-sleeves, a bar populated with more of the same and this charismatic
motherfucker with the unflinching finger pointed my direction. As the
police surround me I pray. I pray that I’m fifteen again and sleeping off
a particularly unpleasant side-effect of some cheap soap-bar. That one of
the police officers would break stoic stride, smirk and let me in on the fact
that all this was some elaborate trick played on me for the
entertainment of the masses on some hidden camera show. That maybe I was
mad and I haven’t lived a real day in twenty years but the circle kept closing,
the officer’s eyes got bigger and closer and fixed while their hands rest on
their sidearms. Without realizing I’m whistling it, I’m whistling
it. Unsure of what’ll happen I blow out do, do, do-do, do, do
doo-do, do-do-do. The boys in blue turn purple from the neck up,
grasp at thin air as though they could pluck and swallow it to stave off the
on-coming death.
When they’re
all dead Harvey gives me a round of applause and leaves.
I return to my stool in the
Front Page in an effort to get an idea of what’s next for me while life at New
Market races on.
--------------------------------
For anyone who doesn't know the song, which is admirable, why not check out Cinderella Rockafella below. Please remember to use whistling responsibly.The Front Page is part of Short Stories That All Definitely Happened, due for release in 2015 through Venice Books and first published with the author's consent on Literally Stories.
