The day a stranger came.

Tom had sat in the Royal Cross bar for as long as he could remember.
He knew the people, and they in turn knew him. He knew that old Mrs
Louis clandestinely slipped gin in her lemonade when, in her own mind,
no one could see. He knew because he had seen her. Mrs Louis would
secretly pour the intoxicating tipple into any beverage she purchased,
and grew steadily more blunt with every sip. Her tongue would become
quick and sharp, and anyone with the tremendous misfortune of being
near her at that time could be sure of not only getting a piece of her
inebriated mind, but having their business hollered out to any
bystanders there on the off chance; she was a roaring drunk but a busy
gossip.
He knew Otto Newman, and that Otto came in at 5 o'clock on the dot
everyday, after his shift at the factory. Otto was around 50 years old,
Tom did not know his exact age and did not care to ask - there was no
real importance in the answer, so the question never arose. Otto would
sit on his stool, the same wooden stool he had sat in ever since he
began going to the Royal Cross. Another man hardly ever touched the
stool - it was Otto's after all. In his absence, it awaited his
arrival. He would walk through the wooden door, 5 0'clock on the dot,
mumble some inaudible greeting and sit precariously on his little
stool; the stool was ancient as Otto's visits, and had became weary
over time.
He would drink whiskey and smoke a homemade cigar. He would talk
generally and generously, then, with a tip of his hat, leave around 6
o'clock. That was the Otto Tom knew, the Otto he was at ease with. Tom
knew Otto 6 hours a week. Of the mans home and work life, Tom knew
nothing - there was no need to know, so the inquiry was never
made.
Tom knew Leroy Jones - the best, and therefore only mechanic in the
town. Leroy could fix anything, from tractors to tanks. The latter he
had never been challenged with, but it was common knowledge that if
required, he could conduct its renovation. He was a simple man with a
grand repute. He took a scotch and at times whiskey.

Yes, Tom knew the people well, and they in turn knew him. Under the
sanctuary of the bar, all trouble ceased to exist, or at least was
forgotten for a while. The bar was procrastination. It was a place
where the taxing things could be avoided. It was time to be at ease,
time to be relaxed, time to laugh. The people were one, assembled
together in familiarity. This was how it was, how it had always been,
until the stranger came.
One cannot really describe how he was, the way he behaved, with much
clarity, for he himself was not at all clear. He was an enigma, an
ambiguous puzzle of words, motives and manners, not manners relating to
etiquette or propriety, yet the manners of his character. The way he
walked, the way he spoke, except he didn't really do either. No, he
strode, gracefully and heavily, and his voice was song, powerful
cavernous song. You could not help but listen. The people could not
help but listen. His song spoke to them, and challenged them. His eyes
were fire.

Tom recalled the arrival of the stranger as easily as a father could
recall birth of his child. When asked what happened on that day, Tom,
with a mystical twinkle in his eyes, would become infinitely serious
and recite the odd story as though it were some poem long ago written.
His mouth became dangerously dry, his tongue clicking strongly against
the back of his teeth. His words were crisp.

In he walked, a giant of brown and gold. His eyes were penetrating, his
figure dominating.
His heavy presence called upon them, and so the people's eyes stood to
greeting. A thick lip of white smoke escaped easily from his mouth, and
the cigar fell back to his thigh. His head and hat cocked to the side,
body leaning nonchalantly against the doorway. He spoke. "Any of you
seen Laurie?" His voice was dark and boomed.
Many mouths offered eager replies. They came together and hummed in
harmony.
"I saw her about 1 hour ago, by Ms Wilkins' shop, looked like she'd
been cryin'". Mrs Louis called out.
"Well when I saw her the girl looked fine, I think she'd been shoppin'
or something, had a big brown paper bag with her". Lisa Evans couldn't
help but volunteer her conjecture.
The stranger extracted what information he could from the barely
audible droning that was their voices. He looked accusingly at the
people, threateningly. His indifferent deportment collided with his
wild stare; it darted severely from person to person. It alienated the
people from each other, made individuals of their comfortable
collective. It implemented them in some vague way to an event they were
neither witness nor participant to. They were one and had always been
one. His segregating ogle made them feel rough; their roughness became
impatience; and their impatience impudence. People when attacked often
become defensive, whether in fault or not. It is a natural thing. The
people behaved accordingly.
"I don't know why you're starin' at us like that," The stranger did not
answer; he let his eyes do the talking. The people shifted awkwardly on
their stools. Their stools seemed as if to be made of clay. The clay
was soft and clingy.
The bar was silent, there was no laughter and no ease. Otto Newman
spoke. "Listen fella, I don't know who you are, and I don't think we
can help you so just leave".

The stranger had spoken but 5 words, and already the people had become
distrustful. Tom sat in uncertainty; he felt he too had to speak.
"Why you here looking for Laurie? She doesn't come by here" He tried to
make it clear whilst calming the mood.
"She told me she was heading this way. She wouldn't lie to me, she
hasn't a reason to lie to me"
" And I suppose that means we do, who the hell do you think you are
mister?" Mrs Louis had drunk many lemonades.
"Old Lady shut up, I am not talking to you right now, where the hell's
my Laurie!"
The strangers' exclamation nurtured the crowds' fume. It boiled inside
them till they could no longer keep it in. " Listen fool, we don't know
where the hell that crazy girl is, she's probably run off with someone
else if this is the way you talk to her. How dare you shout at Mrs
Louis like that, apologize then get out!" Leroy Jones bellowed. He was
a simple man with simple ways. In his mind a man did not talk to a lady
in that tone.

Now I must back away from this story for just a moment. I must explain
some things properly. I mean to describe the people as united, and I
mean to show them in their kinship and affinity. But to describe them
solely as good would be wrong. No one man has only intrinsic worth and
virtues; we are all flawed in our separate ways, just as the people
were. They too had their strengths and weaknesses.
The stranger encouraged the manifestation of these weakness, of their
bitterness, their coldness. They could be warm to each other for the
most part, but the whispers never waned. No, always in the background
were the whispers. They were daggers in the dark. The people would use
them to stab at each other, rarely in malevolence but in mutual
curiosity and judgment. They whispered about why Otto Newman never did
get married, they whispered about Leroy's incapacitating love for
gambling. What they had said about Tom, he did not know, nor did he
yearn to.
The people were indeed people.

The strangers' audacity was received with much vexation. The people had
buzzed in cordial converse prior to his arrival. They had sat amongst
each other, as they had always done, and rambled coolly about they
day's ins and outs. There had been no trouble, until he had come.
Now they sat in a cantankerous silence; he took a deep breath, and then
let it out, sounding almost exasperated. The bar sat on edge,
tentative. He was an actor, and they the audience. All eyes were on
him, his every movement, his breathing, his eyes, his hands. It was a
stand off. He erupted.

"GIVE ME LAURIE NOW!!!!!"

Suddenly, a meek looking girl burst through the doors of the Royal
Cross. The stranger turned to look at her and his face flaunted
recognition. The girl was small. Or maybe it was how small she looked
standing next to that giant of a man. Her breath was intermittent and
jumpy. In her hand was a large brown bag. She looked back at the
stranger in fear. Her eyes quickly turned to the people, who still sat
silent. He spoke.
"Laurie, what's the matter with you, and where have you been?" His
voice conveyed both anger and concern.

She peered back at him, as if he seeing him for the first time. She
looked into his eyes, then withdrew brusquely as if she had seen
something quite different to what she expected.
Her bewildered gaze once again turned to the people.
She brought new excitement to them; they accepted it, a gift. The
people waited in a state of budding anticipation. She was silent for a
second more than necessary, and subsequently was prompted by Linda
Evans to continue. "Go on girl, tell us what the matter is".
She glanced momentarily at Linda, then averted her gaze back to the
stranger. "How could you, what, I&;#8230;. how could you?" Her eyes
displayed a condemning wonder. Her head shook in disbelief. "I did it
for us Laurie, you know I did, you know why" He made no contact with
her but instead brushed her off as though she were some impertinent
school child.
"Don't you dare say you did this for me Mathew, don't you dare. I never
asked for, for this&;#8230;. I never wanted him to&;#8230;I
didn't want this" Her lips quivered and she could not finish. A tear
rolled freely down her cheek.
"What are you cryin' for Laurie? I did this for you us, for you" The
stranger grabbed Laurie and shook her violently. She spat at him and he
threw her brutally to the floor, her head thudding severely.

"LAURIE I'M NOT PLAYIN THIS GAME ANYMORE!"

Tom was a gentleman, always had been. The people knew, and had on
occasion praised him for his gallantry (they could at times be cruel,
but also had the candid ability to call a spade a spade). Tom himself
had always been modest about his courteous conduct, simply brushing it
off as "the way my mother raised me". Had it not been for his
chivalrous ways, he might have sat by and allowed what had passed to
pass, but Tom was set in his ways, his nature was his heart, much like
the people were his heart; actions against the will of ones heart can
result in much wretchedness. By way of this sentiment he became her
champion. He rushed to her side and helped lift her to her feet. She
brushed herself down ruefully and joined the people. Tom looked at her,
searched her eyes for some feeling. She looked back with much
gratitude.

Tom stood to the stranger. "YOU ARE NOT GOING TO DO THAT AGAIN". The
stranger towered in front of him, unfazed; there is comfort in numbers,
and although the people we many, the stranger was rather sizeable
himself. Tom was unafraid. "You are not to do that again, you will not
do that again". The stranger eased past him and stood in the middle of
the bar. He seemed oblivious to the disgusted glares of the people. He
went to Laurie and began to converse. She rejected him harshly; it was
plain. Her back curled acutely as he approached, and her thin arms
clung instinctively around her body. She grimaced when he touched her.
"Laurie, please, don't do this, what's that bag for?" His head nodded
at the brown paper bag she had brought with her. Laurie replied. "I, I
am going to my mothers, I'm leaving. Don't follow me, please".
"No, Laurie, you can't leave me. You wont. You wont"
Her words became vicious weapons, stabbing at the stranger. She spoke
cleanly and clearly, without error.
"Don't you dare Mathew. Don't you dare. You, you killed him. I cannot
stay with you. Murderer."
She taunted him. "You're a killer, a cold blooded killer, a
murderer".

The stranger looked at the people, guilty, ashamed. They became his
jury. His culpability on vivid display, the stranger stood
silent.
The people mumbled anxiously to each other, their bar had arbitrarily
become setting to this daunting drama. They were fearful but intrigued.
They wanted to know more.

"You killed him, he, he hardly did that&;#8230; he hardly did
anything"
" He tried to hurt you us, I couldn't let him get away with it, I
couldn't".

He spoke with the words of a man gone mad, but his eyes presented cruel
cold sanity. A look of sheer horror had long arisen in the face of
Laurie, and the strangers' self-justifying words would not quell it. At
that precise moment, he stood alone in the world, alien to the people,
and alien to his Laurie.
Silence seemed the most appropriate sound at the time, but Lisa Evans
never did have a taste for the apt. "Who, who&;#8230;was it?" The
question was posed at the stranger, but shame blocked his voice. Laurie
looked at him, too waiting for a reply.

"You cant even answer it can you Mathew. You can't even shape the words
in your mouth. Well, I'll answer it for you. It, it was Nathan".

The town they habited was small enough for everyone to be accredited on
simply a first name basis. No reference to a person's line of work or
surname was needed. First names could conjure up the designated
individual's visage, his family, his home, everything. So when the news
hit that, 'Nathan', the meek 18yr old butchers' son, 'Nathan', the
fantastic baseball player, 'Nathan', that brown-eyed, content boy was
no more, it served as a personal tragedy to all who were there.

When it hit that Nathan, Nathan James was dead, a wave of sombre
feeling collapsed into the Royal Cross.
The stranger instantly recognised this shift of mood, and demanded the
attention of the people. His regretful disposition and momentary
meekness vanished. " I did it for us Laurie, that son of a bitch was
gonna tell, he was gonna tell. I, I couldn't let him. I tried to talk
to him, explain, but he wouldn't hear it, so I said either he would
shut up or I would make him shut up. He died real easy, didn't
struggle, just let death take him in. I don't think it really, hurt
him".

Nathan's demise warranted retribution. The reasoning behind it was not
required; a killer is a killer at any rate. And the people took it upon
themselves to enact vengeance unto the stranger. They became a mob,
their anger, their stools, their glasses all weapons. Both man and
woman played their parts in what was to happen next. Nathan's soul
would journey scorned until justice was done: the stranger had to
pay.

It started with them pushing him, then progressed to more horrendous
acts of brutality. It was repulsive. His screams of anguish rang as
clear in Tom's ears now as they had 20 years ago. He had wanted to stop
it, he really had, but those people, those awful ugly people were no
longer his. They were servants of rage and hate. He had longed so badly
to run and aid the man he did not know, the murderer, the colossal
giant who had cascaded himself into their lives 20 minutes ago, but
despite what every muscle and urge inside told him to do, he could do
nothing but stand and watch in revulsion.

They hit him, savaged him until they bloodied their knuckles, until the
stranger lay unconscious. Moments were passed in silence. Realisation
that Mathew, the once vast figure that had towered above and intruded
on them was dead, sunk in.

Not too long ago, he had been a vulgar stranger to them, a murderer;
the people could isolate themselves from him. Now he was all too
familiar, they remembered his hazel eyes and clean voice with much
panic and consternation.

Laurie gasped in horror; death was filling the room. It was sickening
and unrelenting. Blood poured on the floor of the bar as drink had once
poured from the bottles on its counter.

The people backed away slowly and repentantly, their shoes sodden with
humid, heady liquid. They did not try to avoid it, but instead allowed
it stream freely across the floor, staining not only their shoes but
their souls as well. Realisation of their horrendous action settled,
and was marked by the sounding of a sharp scream, the origins of which
were Mrs Louis. Otto Newman, a man not known greatly for his expression
of emotion let out a cat like whimper, feel to his knees and wept
remorsefully. Blood soaked through his trousers and was warm against
his skin. But he did not care, for a man had died that day, a man had
died in his bar, at his hands. He screamed, angry at his own guilt. The
rest followed his lead and made such like motions of regret. A
heartbreaking pandemonium hit, all were participating. Except for
Laurie and except for Tom. They glanced at each other, into each
other's eyes. They shared mutual disbelief, but only a moment because
almost at once, Laurie's eyes sank free of emotion. He marvelled at her
rapid change of demeanour, continuing to watch as she picked up the
brown paper bag, straightened out her dress and indifferently headed
for the door.

She went with a bang, just as she had entered, leaving behind her a
world wrought with shame, tears and anguish.

Tom gazed over the people, crying, shaking. There had been a time when
they were his people, his beautiful, familiar, wonderful people. That
time was gone and he prayed for their redemption.