|McArthur's Bar (standard:drama, 891 words)|
|Author: Davef1965||Added: Mar 24 2003||Views/Reads: 2030/1061||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A moment in a Scottish bar|
McArthur's Bar The door to McArthur's bar opens and a heavily built man wearing a suit enters. He stands in the doorway and stares for a while, as if uncertain. His grey hair cropped short and his clean-shaven face displaying a sickly pallor. The ill-fitting pin striped cloth moves loosely with him as he walks to the bar. A scar on his square chin giving evidence of some past troubles. He raises his eyes from the floor and surveys the beers on offer, scratching his chin as if unfamiliar with their names. “Pint o' of lager chief” the man in the suit says. “Nae problem mate” The barman tilts the glass and lets the cool liquid fill it. Prison for sure he thinks as he does so. “That's one eighty mate.” “Fucking hell! Is it gold am drinking son?” The man in the suit carefully counts out the one pound eighty in small change, pushing the coins across the bar. Then he retreats to a quiet corner, looking lost in his own thoughts. Mc Arthur's bar is quiet, not unusual for a Wednesday night. The barman looks around, checking to see if any of the other two patrons need a drink. Old Moira sits at the end of the bar, sipping her glass of vodka and irn bru. This is her usual nightly position and poison. In one hours time she will be so drunk that the barman will have to pour her into a taxi. The only other person in the bar is a young lad the barman hasn't seen before. He looks like a nasty piece of work. His head is shaved and a black spider's web tattoo clings to his neck. He has the kind of face trouble finds. The pint he's been nursing for the last hour, sits on the bar in front of him. His brows are furrowed as he stares at the suited man in the corner. “Geese another voddy there Willy” Moira slurs, dropping her purse on the floor, then rattling her head on the stool as she picks it up. “Easy there auld yin” says the barman, as he tops up her glass. She rubs her head and starts feeding loose change into the fruit machine. The flashing lights and electronic bleeps are an intrusion on the normal. The man in the suit sits rubbing his hands together, staring into his untouched pint. His face lost in troubles. He shows no interest in the others, keeping his head down and occasionally giving little nods of his head, as if agreeing with himself. He takes a sip from his pint, places it carefully on a beer mat and heads for the toilets. The barman leans over the bar and whispers in Moira's ear, she chuckles and takes a swig of vodka from her glass. The barman catches a movement at the edge of his vision; he turns just in time to see the young lad finish the abandoned pint. The man in the suit re enters the bar and stops dead. His eyes move between the young lad, the empty glass and the barman. There is a noticeable tension in the air. The bar is silent. Even Moira stops feeding the machine for a moment. “Who drank ma pint?” “Ah fuckin drank it! If ye want tae make something of it am yer man” the young man picks up the empty glass and thrusts it out in front of him. “Any takers?” The man in the suit lowers his eyes, sighs and lets his shoulder's slump. He takes a moment to reply. “ It's ok son, it's ok, look I'll buy ye a pint its nae problem” The young lad winks at the bar man and smiles “Good answer ma man” The barman gives the man in the suit a contemptuous stare, wondering Click here to read the rest of this story (29 more lines)
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