by Mark Newman
Garrett watches her go. Seconds later, she’s out of sight, swallowed by the mass of cars.
Now it’s just him, on his Jack Jones, against the world.
Chapter 5
Garrett takes another look at his phone, he has two missed calls. The Caller ID confirms it’s the office. He presses 1 for the answerphone and hangs up half way through after recognising Tina’s nasal whine. Whatever it is, it can wait. He can guess from the tone of his PA that Williams, the Senior Account Director, is lurking nearby, dictating the message verbatim.
He knows he’s in for a bollocking. A few weeks ago, he would have been stressing over it. Not now, the death notice absurd and liberating in equal measure.
Williams is on the warpath and out for blood. One of Garrett’s accounts has imploded, and now the client wants compensating. The old adage shit flows downstream ringing true. Williams is looking to pin it all on Garrett. The emerging Kazakhstan market place not as stable as the original intel suggested. Garrett told them to hold off, but Williams overruled him, deciding he knew better.
Garrett decides to phone in, but the truth can wait. First, he needs to weigh up the options. He’s thirty-nine years of age. Game Over, not quite. There are things to sort before he bows out. He needs to put his house in order.
He makes the call, Tina picks up on the fourth ring, her voice is urgent, ‘Where have you been? You’ve missed your nine fifteen appointment, William’s is doing his nut over this. Roscoe & Ballingers were expecting a presentation on the viability of the Moldova project.’
Garrett closes his eyes, letting the line go silent, same old shit. ‘I’ve been puking up most of the night, think I’ve picked up some kind of bug. I slept through the alarm this morning, never got a chance to cancel any of my appointments. Sorry, should have checked the phone earlier.’
Her voice is distant, preoccupied. ‘Oh... Shit. That doesn’t sound good.’
‘Listen, can you make my excuses and cancel the rest of my appointments for the day?’
Garrett stands in the car park, the phone pressed hard to his ear, straining to decipher the incomprehensible mix of background office noise and the whirring sound of traffic going past behind him.
‘Tina I said can you...’
‘I heard you...’ She pauses, completing her Instagram update, ‘Okay, but you owe me big time for this.’
‘I know, what can I say? You’re a diamond. Costa Coffee all round,’ he hangs up before she can protest.
Twelve feet out, he disengages the alarm on the arctic white Audi R8. Sweating, despite the autumn chill, his breathing is laboured, he can’t feel his legs. Sharp pins and needles strike down his left side causing a numbing, tingling sensation throughout. He makes it to the roadster, his arms splayed, resting on the roof. He tries to steady himself, then swallows hard, shaking his head, the voice of Aziz playing on a loop Stage 3a.
Out of nowhere, he pukes. All his good work undone as the healthy contents of his Fruit and Fibre breakfast steam on to the tarmac.
A thirty-something, fake-tanned bottle-blonde sneers in disgust as she ushers her young daughter out of the line of sight, shielded by the top spec, midnight blue Range Rover Sport.
Garrett wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, giving her a look that says what the hell you looking at? He guesses the wannabe has never driven it anywhere near the countryside, let alone got so much as a whiff of cow shit.
Breathing deep and slow, he gathers his thoughts. The bitter after-taste of puke and bile forcing him to expel the remnants to the floor. His stomach twisting and turning in protest. Six months sober and he’s desperate for a drink. He should call his sponsor, what the hell, it’s not like it’s going to make a difference now. He tells himself, one drink—just to settle the stomach.
Garrett looks to the sky, Jesus can this week get any worse. Yesterday, he awoke to a Dear John from his wife. He thought it was junk mail and almost binned it. He’d gone so far as opening the lid, then he happened to glance down and saw his own name. Recognising the handwriting, he opened it and scanned the contents. At first, he thought it was a joke. Then it hit him straight between the eyes.
He read it again just to be sure, we’re not the same people we once were, we’re like polar opposites. You’re always angry or pissed off at someone or something, and I get the brunt of it. Most days, you don’t even see me—lost in your own world. I’m just convenient. I want more from this life, and I deserve more. I can’t handle your moods or violent outbursts. I’m Leaving. It’s over Garrett.
Sure they’d had their arguments, you don’t stay married for eight and a half years without the odd Barney along the way. Garrett had a stressful job, come to think of it, so did Maria, but deep down he knew the crux of it, she wanted kids and he didn’t, and that’s where it all stemmed from.
Garrett kept turning it over in his head, there was something, a fragment, a sliver, but each time it failed to present itself fully formed.
Leaning on the roof of the car, he scanned the area trying to get his bearings. It had been a while, but the place hadn’t changed that much, save for a couple of new skyscrapers and shopping mall come multi-plex cinema.
He pulled his collar tight against the biting wind and headed out of the car park. Walking across the bridge straddling the busy A road beneath, he stopped and looked over, mesmerised by the rhythmic beat of the traffic. For a second, he let his mind wander, contemplating what it would be like to climb up over the railing and just let go, his body in freefall.
Chapter 6
Two hoodies approach, mid to late teens. Over playing their bad man swagger, no doubt copied from the endless Hip Hop videos that they idolise. Loud and animated, they near, cussing, with their arms flailing. Garrett has the urge to take out the nearest one with a punch to the throat, irritating little bastard that he is. A few years back, he would have done so, but those days are long gone. Today he’s the picture of respectability, a white collar professional. Garrett resists the urge, and they pass without incident. He gives them the dead man stare. Cowed, they drop their eyes respectfully to ground level.
He takes the corner and turns left, greeted by the austere and uninviting Victorian building. He stands for a moment, staring, letting it goad him from the other side of the road. The place hasn’t changed much in the last twenty or so years, save for the gaudy, lime green exterior paint job. It’s still the same, a local hang out for the dregs, the waifs and strays. He lets the memories wash over him, a time he’s long since chosen to forget.
A change of name and a lick of paint can’t erase that. Its history etched deep in to his soul, cemented together like bricks and mortar. He glances down at his watch, 10:27am. On any other day, he’d consider it to be a little early to take a drink, but today he’ll make an exception. He waits for a break in the traffic before crossing the road, heading for the realm of the lost and dispossessed. The sanctuary of Brannigans inviting the wanderers, the loners, and those without options or anywhere else to turn. Just his kind of place.
Standing outside, he hesitates, takes a deep intake of breath, and pushes on through to the inner door.
Garrett enters the main bar and scans the room. It’s empty. He makes his approach. Twenty-one years melt into the haze, as if he’s never been away. He can’t say he’s missed the place much.
This was the realm of his father, the notorious Stan Garrett. He doesn’t belong, an imposter in a foreign land. Yet here he is, standing in the main bar.
No sign of life, he turns to go. He’s made a mistake, a bad judgement call. No harm done. He can still get out quick.
There’s a voice from the back of the room. ‘The lass’s down there.’ It catches him off guard, his eyes dart left and right, half-expecting to get beat down upon. He identifies the owner and focuses on the stabbing motion of the pork chop fingers. He turns back to the bar, tracing the implied invisible line, his eyes settling on the cellar hatch door located to the right behind the beaten, cherry red rustic b
ar.
‘Barrel’s gone dry, she’ll be up in a sec.’
Garrett remains silent and nods his thanks, content to wait for the girl to return. He composes himself, taking in the surroundings. Not so much shabby chic, more shabby shit. A makeover well overdue.
‘Karen...Kar,’ bellows the voice.
A petite, auburn haired twenty-something appears from below, she looks harassed. Garrett gives her the once over, not his usual type, but playful green eyes draw him in. What the hell, condemned man and all that.
The gruff Geordie voice kicks in again, preventing Garrett’s mind from wandering further. ‘Customer’s been waiting on you, girl. And same again—when you’re ready,’ he says, the sarcasm seeping in to his tone as he waves his empty glass above his head.
She ignores the comment and focuses on Garrett. ‘What can I get you?’
He eyes the selection of draught beers. The usual provincial favourites, Carling Black Label, Stella, Fosters. Being more of a dark ale man, his eyes drift towards the Doom Bar and Seafarers. His stomach’s still doing butterflies, he decides to play safe.
‘Just a Guinness... A half, no wait, make it a pint.’ The barmaid smiles and sets about fulfilling the order. ‘You’re sure now?’
Garrett nods his agreement as he watches her work, his eyes drawn to the pert bum and firm breasts. Maybe it wouldn’t turn out to be such a bad day. She takes her time creating a perfect Shamrock in the white froth. Garrett notes the attention to detail. They lock eyes, she smiles, her manner flirtatious. It’s fleeting, but a welcome distraction from reality.
He takes a long sip, allowing the thick, malty blackness to saturate his taste buds, been too long, old friend. The bar door opens, as the cold, autumn chilled air sweeps in. Her face changes, the smile becoming fixed and strained.
Garrett looks over his right shoulder. Two figures stand in the doorway but make no attempt to enter. They just stand and stare. One has a mobile phone pressed to his ear, the other can’t remain still, jigging from side to side, white earphones planted in situ, his body jerking to some impulsive, hypnotic beat. Garrett recognises them as the hoodies he passed earlier, maybe they’ve followed him looking for easy pickings. Bad mistake. He balls his fists, then relaxes, telling himself not today.
Garrett’s eyes focus on the old-timer in the corner of the room, he’s turned to face the door, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, his jaw clenched tight.
‘Out... Now,’ he barks.
Garrett watches, but says nothing. It’s not his fight. He knows better than to get involved in local community politics. He’s no more than a tourist on a day pass, yet part of him feels compelled to intervene.
The two figures ignore his instruction. The one with the mobile phone whispers something to the other. The recipient sniggers. He takes two steps forward and eyes Karen, his intent is clear. Garrett’s heartbeat quickens, no longer a bystander—like it or not he’s part of this. He stands his ground, tilts his head forward and widens his stance.
Instinct kicking in, he hasn’t thrown a punch in more than twenty years, but something inside him can’t let this pass. The hoodie approaches, he looks through Garrett as if he’s invisible. His hands reaching for his crotch, eyes locked on to Karen. He begins to speak, a mixture of local slang and street patois. Incomprehensible to most but Garrett knows these streets.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you, the lady doesn’t like it.’
‘The fuck you saying, bitch?’
‘And I don’t like it.’
The hoodie approaches Garrett, stopping three paces short of his face. His back up follows, remaining farther back, his eyes scanning the room, alert to any possible moves. Garrett keeps his stare fixed on the immediate threat.
Up close, he’s even uglier than he thought, dark eyes sunk deep in to the back of his head, hollow cheeks, and acne scars around the mouth. He’s no more than five feet ten inches tall, skinny with it. The kind of emaciated look of a user. It’s fleeting, but Garrett catches it in his eyes, the recognition. He’s made a mistake, it’s written all over his face, but he can’t back down, can’t afford to lose face, not when he’s got a witness videoing it on his phone.
Garrett mentally assess the situation, if the hoodie pulls a knife, he still needs to lunge forward, putting him off balance, leaving enough time to step forward and disarm him. Not that he’s experienced in such matters but the theory works well enough.
‘It’s your call, big man, you can walk away, or you can choose not to.’
‘Yeah, maybe I’ll just fuck you up.’
The adrenaline flowing, Garrett’s whole body feels light. He’s ready, he hasn’t felt this pumped in years, the diagnosis giving him a new found freedom, a licence for destruction.
‘My friend told you to leave; you should go now—be smart, take the advice.’
The hoodie turns to his compatriot, he’s about to retort the offer.
Garrett takes his chance, throws a left, it connects with the right hand side of the youth’s jaw, and he drops to the ground. Dazed but not out. His back up stands, slack jawed, fear in his eyes, fixed to the spot like glue.
‘Get out of here... Go on. I won’t say it twice.’
The back up flees the scene, leaving his partner splayed out on the bar room floor.
Garrett looms, grabbing him by his hoodie cord, pulling him to his feet then dragging him back to the bar towards Karen.
‘You owe the lady an apology, now what do you say?’
His eyes are glazed, or maybe they’re tears welling up, either way, Garrett’s not letting go. He twists the youth’s arm up high in to the middle of his back, applying pressure to his wrist. ‘She’s waiting.’
‘Sor... Sorry okay, just get the fuck off me, man. Your breaking my fucking arm.’
Garrett releases his grip, part of him wanting to go further, to snap the arm, to make a statement, but it’ll have to wait for another day. He watches as the hoodie scuttles away, out towards the door, to the safety of the street.
Out of harms way, he’s standing half in half out of the doorway, he shouts back toward the bar. ‘You’re a fucking dead man, you know that’ He raises his right arm, his index finger and thumb forming the shape of a mock pistol. ‘I’m coming for you, big man. Count on it, I’ll be back.’
Garrett turns back to the bar, taking a sip of his Guinness. Curiosity getting the better of him. ‘Friend of yours?’
‘Hardly.’
Garrett looks toward the back of the room, the old boy nods his thanks.
‘You get a lot of that in here?’
Karen eyes him suspiciously, ‘what are you, the police or something?’
‘No, nothing like that, forget it, doesn’t matter.’
‘Look, I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just, I’ve never seen you before, and yet here you are punching out the local scumbag, and its not even turned eleven o’clock.’
‘I don’t know, what can I say? I just couldn’t stand and watch.’
Garrett turns, taking another look at the old-timer. ‘He seems okay now.’ The old boy returns Garrett’s quizzical look.
Karen interrupts Garrett’s thought process. ‘He doesn’t like undesirables coming in off the street,’ she says, raising her eyebrows, the playful emphasis aimed at Garrett.
‘Better watch myself then.’
‘Aye, you had that.’
The old boy grumbles incoherently, interrupting their banter, but clear enough to demand his drink. ‘What about that drink of mine?’
‘Best keep his Lordship happy. It’s coming, hold on a minute, you old gadgie.’ She reaches for a fresh pint glass. Garrett’s eyes tracking her every movement as she pours a fresh pint of mild bitter
She leans over the bar towards him, conspiratorially, ‘Grouchy old sod he is, would you do the honours?’ Before he can answer, she slides the drink towards him.
They lock eyes, Garrett pauses. How can he refuse?
‘Sure, why not.’
> He makes his way over to the old boy. He’s aged around sixty, give or take a few years. A lived in pockmarked, crumpled face, he wears it like an old, leather boot. Garrett’s eye is drawn to the faded scar running the length of his face. Not wanting to stare or cause offence, he places the pint down in front of the old-timer.
‘There you go, chap.’
‘Thanks, this weather... Plays havoc with my asthma. Everything’s an effort,’ he says, taking a puff on his blue inhaler.
Garrett nods his agreement.
He turns to make his way back to the bar. The old-timer reaches out, grabbing at his wrist with surprising strength.
Garrett frowns. ‘Something I can help you with?’
The old boy stares back, his eyes black as coal. He smiles, revealing a gold tooth and three black cavities, his teeth long forgotten.
‘Sit with me, lad.’ It’s more of an instruction than a request.
Garrett looks around. The cute barmaid’s nowhere to be seen.
‘Sure, why not, I’ll grab my drink.’ He makes his way back to the bar.
Chapter 7
Karen reappears from the adjoining room. Garrett points towards the Napoleon brandy. ‘Best take him one of those as well, medicinal—for his chest.’
He returns to the corner table and places the drinks down, taking a seat next to the old-timer.
‘Not there... want to get a good look at you,’ he points towards the stool on the other side of the table.
Garrett smiles, then nods, bemused by the request, but decides to go with it.
The old-timer’s eyes cast downward towards the brandy. ‘That for me?’
‘Thought you might like it—Napoleon.’
‘Prefer the Martel, but I suppose it’ll do for now.’
Garrett raises his Guinness, knocking it against the old-timers drink. ‘Your health.’
He takes a hit of Guinness, his thirst taking him beyond the halfway point.
The old boy nods approvingly, his black eyes burning into Garrett. ‘Something on your mind, lad? Whatever it is—looks like thirsty work.’
