John’s late, a man usually so punctual.
What’s worse? That I realise or that I’ve already got his pint glass out under the tap.
Tipping Point drones on the television to an empty bar. Pick left you fool, I think. They always pick the center, mug’s game.
John appears at the door, head down, flat cap on. I start to pour. Number seven, a wet dog of an IPA.
I wait for an explanation, then shake my head. I’m his barman, not his keeper. God knows he gets enough of an earful at home.
‘Alright John? Not like you to be late.’
‘Oh, am I? Sorry about that mate.’ The words trail off.
‘No need to apologise.’ I say, handing him the drink.
He slides the pint back. ‘Actually, can I try something different?’
This is a turn up. If John was a footballer the number on his shirt would be seven, he’d get the number seven bus home, and if he played the lottery all six numbers would be seven.
‘What do you fancy?’
‘I don’t know, you choose.’ He looks up properly. The cheery portly middle aged man I know has disappeared, his face looks sunken, the red cheeks, dimmed.
‘You’ve nicked yourself, shaving mate.’ I point to a fleck of blood below his chin. Terrible job, stubble still casts a, probably, seven o’clock shadow.
He rubs at it, mumbles an apology. I turn to the taps, nervous. John is exact. Same seat, same snack, same drink. And now he’s flippantly asking me to pick?
It clicks. Dawn. Another row.
I nod to myself and pour number eleven. A double chocolate heavy stout, pours like cream, tastes like heaven. It’s the only drink I like here, because it doesn’t taste like beer.
He grabs at the pint before I’ve even let go, he’s eager. I notice a slight tremor in his fingers, and more blood from shaving.
He drinks, fish-like. John can make a pint last an hour. It’s almost all gone by the time he puts the glass back, a foamy moustache sits beneath watering eyes.
‘Steady on mate, it’s a Tuesday. Is everything alright?’
‘No, it isn’t.’ He shoves a tenner into my hands, clasping them tight. He stares, and I realise they’re tears in his eyes.
‘You’ve been a good man Ben. I don’t think I’ll be in tomorrow.’
I look at him perplexed, and then I see blue light from outside. Then I hear the whine of sirens. A police car pulls up and two officers get out.
‘She wouldn’t stop. I wanted to try something new before I leave, that was terrific. What’s it called?’
They read him his rights. Cuff him. All I can think is to answer the question.
‘Murder, John, Murder at the Taproom.’
The sound of someone winning big on Tipping Point snaps me back. The fucker picked centre.
Shows what I know.
By Louis Urbanowski – Inspired by the prompt: ‘Murder at the Taproom’
Stories by Louis Urbanowski 