Fire

Red neon sizzled in a puddle. Could have been a fire reflected there, way it rippled around the raindrops and the stones poking up, way the colour sawed back and forth with the blinking words, girls, all nite, girls.

Stevie pulled his collar up against the rain and set off across the industrial estate. He was badly in need of a drink. There was a bar on the edge of the estate, next to the drive-in Macdonalds. A real bar, not a Disneyland pornworld with a half naked woman for every man and a price list like a car showroom.

Fifteen minutes later he stepped into a big and bright and almost empty room. An old man was playing fruit machines in the corner and a group of teenage boys were hunched around a table. Someone's greatest hits were blaring on the stereo. He crossed to the bar and ordered a beer and a double whisky.

"Late shift tonight?" asked the barmaid as she poured his pint.

"You could say that."

He tried not to smirk, but the barmaid seemed to stiffen and she said no more until she handed him the drinks and asked for the money.

He took his jacket off and stayed at the bar. Didn't seem much point sitting anywhere else.

"That old boy," he said, after a few swigs, "Does he come here a lot?"

"Sometimes, aye."

"Does he always play the puggies?"

She shrugged.

Stevie turned and looked at the old man and turned back.

"Think he'd have learned by now. At his age, think he'd have fucking learned."

The barmaid said nothing.

Stevie took another swig of beer. He'd been planning to save the whisky for after, to have as a chaser, but he changed his mind and downed it in one go and went back to the beer.

"What about they lads at the table?" he asked.

"What about them?"

"I suppose they're regular customers as well."

"What do you mean?"

Stevie laughed.

"They're about as much eighteen as I am."

The barmaid started wiping glasses and putting them away.

"Come on to fuck," said Stevie, in a louder voice than before, "they arenay even shaving. Skinny wee pricks with hooded tops and bumfluff tashes."

There were a lot of glasses to put away.

Fuck's sake, it wasn't like he wanted to tell her his life story. It was just… he didn't know what the fuck it was. Just the cold outside and the warmth in here. Just the way the world was so full of shit sometimes, so full of shit.

You're so vain came on the stereo. Stevie had always liked that song, the moody intro, the way the verse swelled into the chorus without breaking the story, it was the story he liked most of all. Right then, with the beer and whisky mixing inside him, the smell of the girl still on his skin, the little movies replaying in his head, skirt coming off, lips opening to take him in, right then it felt like it was him swaggering into that party with the apricot scarf on and the hat down over one eye; like it was him with the hips and shoulders going and all the lassies turning his way, dreaming they'd be his partner, they'd be his partner, and he started to smile as the chorus belted out, thinking how he'd walk right by them, all those beautiful girls, wouldn't even look at them, walk on by.

Soon his beer was finished and he was smiling at the web of foam on the bottom of the glass.

Ah well, he thought, all good things must come to an end. He wouldn't have minded a few more pints but he didn't want to get pissed, not tonight, not in a dump like this. It was time to go home and have a shower and climb in bed beside his wife.

"Want another?" asked the barmaid as she picked up his glass.

She must have been about forty five – almost Stevie's age. He looked at her mouth, her thin lips that he hadn't seen smile.

"Aye," he said.

After she'd fixed his drink she disappeared into the back room. He swivelled on his stool to take in the rest of the bar. The old man was still at it, thumbing twenty pences into the void. The boys were nursing the same drinks they'd had when he came in. He looked at their faces, shaded under hoods and caps, and saw that their eyes were red from smoking dope.

He could do with a smoke. Finish off the night, off into la-la land. Fall asleep like sinking into your own grave and Jesus and Mary and the whole shiny crew shovelling in the dirt.

He thought about asking them, seeing if they had a bit to sell. But he felt like a prick walking up to a bunch of kids like that, haggling for a bit of hash like a sleazy old cunt. So he stayed were he was, sitting on the stool with his pint in his hand and his big long legs sprawled apart. He enjoyed the way they avoided his stare, minnows shimmying from a big fish.

"See that Grant," one of them was saying, "He's lucky he's no eating through a fucking straw. Telling you, if I ever see that cunt again I'll put him in a fucking coma."

"You should fucking chib him Tommy," said one of the others, "Get two stanley blades with a coin in the middle, like that in the middle, and cut a strip out his fucking face. That way it'll never heal."

Stevie almost laughed out loud. He wondered if it was time to start something, time to show up those wee pricks for the bullshitters they were, when another boy who had his back to him said, "Relax guys. We don't want any aggro tonight."

Now Stevie really did laugh. That one's balls hadn't even dropped yet, he sounded like a wee girl. And the way he spoke, like the queen of fucking England.

At the sound of his laughter the boy with the high voice turned and Stevie saw that she was a girl. Her hair was hidden in a stripy hat and her face was wide and soft. Her eyes danced away from him and pretended to study the menu chalked on the blackboard behind the bar.

He looked at her a while longer then turned back to the bar.

"Want a drink?" he asked the barmaid when she returned, "I'm paying."

"I never drink when I'm working," she said.

"Sensible girl. I never work when I'm drinking."

She didn't smile, not exactly.

"What work do you do?" she asked.

He paused.

"Too much. I do too much fucking work."

"I know that feeling."

He sipped his beer and let his eyes wander around her neck and shoulders.

"What time do you close like?" he asked.

"Two."

"Every night?"

"Aye."

"When do you get home?"

"Back of three usually."

"Jesus, you must be knackered."

"You get used to it."

"Aye well, you get used to anything. Fucking anything."

The light above the bar caught in one of her eyes, wet yellow gleam in her eye.

"So what time do you get out of bed?" he asked.

"Depends," she said, busying yourself with the till, "Depends."

He drained the rest of his beer and ordered another whisky.

After a while the boys got up, scraping back chairs and slinging on jackets. Stevie turned to watch them leave; his mind's eye followed them out. Out into the carpark, one last joint while they waited in the bus shelter, flash, flash of the lighter with the sparks zipping off, rain streaming down the side of the shelter. That was all it was at that age, flash in the pissing rain, then you were home, tucked up in bed, room spinning to fuck around you.

He wondered which of them would snog the girl.

The barmaid went to clear their table. This place is too bright, he thought, as she wiped the ashtray and stacked the pint glasses. He felt like he was at work, at the giant supermarket outside town, striplights blazing down on his lime green uniform while he pushed a metal trolley.

He watched her cross the bar with the tower of brothy glasses in her hand.

"Does your husband no mind you coming home so late?" he said when she was back.

"I'm not married."

"Sensible girl. Free and single eh, free and single?"

The barmaid glanced at the ring on his finger.

"That's one way of looking at it," she said.

"Aye and here's another. Let's go back to your place and get it on all night."

He knew that look. The same blank look the whore had given him, like she didn't even see him, he wasn't even there, sweating on top of her.

"Or maybe you're holding out for Mr. Right?" he said. "Cause you've left it a bit late if you are."

Skinny wee thing she was. Came from Albania, or was it Romania? One of those countries that used to be in Russia.

The barmaid planted her hands on the bar.

"Any more lip from you and you're out. Understand?"

He always chose the skinny ones. The ones who look like they might break, if you fucked them too hard they might break.

"Take it easy love. Take it easy. I'm not meaning to cause offence. I'm just surprised a good looking woman like yourself isn't married, that's all."

Afterwards he asked her where she was from. He didn't really give a fuck, he just wanted to say something. Anything.

"I used to be married," said the barmaid, "If it's any of your business."

But it was like talking to a fucking stone. Like there was nothing under that soft tan skin and that sleek black hair but a lump of fucking stone.

"Aye well," said Stevie, "We all used to be something."

"Ya beauty!" shouted the old man, as the fruit machine discharged wave after wave of coins, metallic waterfall of coins, "Ya fucking beauty!"

Stevie and the barmaid watched him fill his pockets and come over to the bar.

"Who's gonnay help me celebrate?" he said, holding out a fistful of coins.

Stevie knocked back the rest of his whisky, set the glass on the bar.

"What about you hen?" asked the old man.

"She doesnay drink when she's working," said Stevie.

"Come on doll, humour an old man. At my age it's no like I'm trying to get you drunk."

The barmaid smiled.

She took a bottle of Ballantine's off the shelf and poured three glasses. They chinked them together and began to chat. Or at least the old man did; words flowed out of him like the coins from the machine.

"…so she's up on her feet, shouting blue murder, and he's shouting back, and she gives me that look, ken, that look like, did you hear what he just said?, so I says to her, dinny mind me, I'm no here, dinny mind me…"

Stevie swirled his whisky around the glass. He wasn't really listening to what the old man said. He glanced at the barmaid, at her sharp profile, and decided she wasn't either.

"…now they're no even talking to each other, I was round the other day, it was like a fucking cemetery, a fucking crematorium, she says to me would you like a cup of tea, I says yes please, would you like milk and sugar, yes, and that was that, end of fucking conversation, so I just switched off, ken, zoned out, watched the tv…

A few more sips, a few more songs, and the patter turned philosophical. Stevie thought, we're all fucking philosophers in the end. When we're old and washed up and there's fuck all left for us, we're all philosophers then.

"…the world's full of folk, ken, folk that are happy and dinny even know it, they think they've got problems but they havenay, there's fuck all wrong with them, it's all in their heads…"

When the whisky was done the old man stood and raised his hand in a half salute.

"Good night to you, one and all."

"No planning to continue your winning streak?" asked Stevie.

"Leave on a winner. That's what I always say. Leave on a winner."

As soon as he was gone the barmaid vanished round the back again. Stevie knew she was waiting for him to leave. He got up and put his jacket on and walked towards the exit; then he doubled back around the bar. The door marked Staff Only led to a corridor with a few closed rooms leading off it. When he heard a chair scuff back in one of them he walked over and opened the door. The barmaid was standing next to an old wooden table where a line of smoke was rising from an ashtray.

"Can you no read?" she said, "It's staff only in here."

"Aye," said Stevie, "I can read. I was just wanting to say goodbye before I left."

"Well you've said it now. So leave."

"No need to be like that."

He stepped towards her with his hands up in front of him, open, unthreatening.

She watched him advance for a few moments, gauging the situation, then snatched a small canister from the purse hanging off the chair.

"Ken what this is?"

Stevie grinned, stopped walking.

"I don't smell that bad do I?"

"It's called pepper spray. If it gets anywhere near your eyes you'll wish you were fucking blind."

"Take it easy love. Take it easy."

She took a step forwards, Stevie took a step back. He was swaying slightly on his feet.

"Time of the month is it?" he said.

She raised the canister towards him, held it at arms length.

Stevie grinned.

"No wonder your husband left you," he said, on his way out the room.

He settled his jacket on his shoulders as he crossed the empty bar. He opened the door, saw the rain stripe down in the electric light. He knew the barmaid was watching him.

He stepped out into the carpark, booze playing pinball with the sides of his head. The pub was on a slight rise and he could see partway across the estate. Streetlights and illuminated signs floated in the darkness. He sometimes wondered what the world must of looked like long ago, before all that shite got dropped on top of it, all the cars and buildings and roads. Folk didn't live in houses then, they lived in caves and they dressed in skins and fuck knows, maybe they wore antlers on their heads as well. They didn't have lights or heaters either. They kept warm around the fire. Whole family huddled round the fire. He left the carpark and turned down the street towards the bus shelter with the rain pitt-patting off his jacket. A car came past and his shadow split and wheeled around him. Before he reached the shelter he stopped for a piss beside a skip. He must have been drunker than he thought 'cause when he closed his eyes he could see a fire with a ring of wee shadows dancing round it. And two longer shadows climbing up the wall. The shadow of a woman and the shadow of a man, a brave strong man.