Death row

death row

Purposely crossing the road, Sean would grow just tall enough to
discreetly peer over the small drawn curtain. Continuing back down on
his heels, a shaking head echoed an amused confirmation. Checking the
predictable scene within the confined room became an integral part of
his evening.

The moody amber light had softened as it struggled to pierce the wall
of sweating condensation before falling despondently upon the dismal
lonely street. Noticing the fully masked window a little resigned as he
approached the building, Sean resolved with an immediacy that shocked
and excited his quickening step, to leave the tortuous bite of the
sweeping winter air and finally discover the answer.

The sounds of the room escalate and escape through the emerging and
disappearing gap, as the door stubbornly refuses to open more than a
few inches. Sean's wrist buckled painfully under the strain. He
scrutinised the large gold chipped lettering fanned across the window
as his momentum carried him forward regardless. An abstract, hazy
dystopian scene of lost silhouettes, is framed perfectly by the O in
ALE HOUSE.

Placing an unsuspecting hand on the worn brass plate, a battle of will,
would commence between the uninitiated and the black glossed heavy
door. Not realising the required degree of strength necessary to gain
entrance, a wounded second attempt would invariably lead to a degree of
over compensation. Causing the entrant to launch themselves somewhat
ungainly into the room. The amplified groaning creak of the defeated
door would ensure both the attention and quiet amusement of the
regulars.

Feeling a little deflated Sean carefully placed both hands on the dull
brass plate and eased backward on the wet tiled floor of the tiny
porch. A resounding creak introduced a deluge of heat. Huge, immediate
and breathlessly overwhelming. Repressed, Sean tore at his clothes in
visible panic to ease the considerable burden. Disconcerting looks as
sharp as the encroaching wind watched Sean obstinately hover in the
doorway. The previously intolerable cold now seemed a distant refuge as
Sean approached the bar a little perturbed. The door retreated to
menacing cheers.

Re-gathering his composure, Sean cast an anxious gaze across the
perfectly square room. Contort faces within return to their garrulous
conversations. A wall of impenetrable bodies protect the bar.
Forgetting why he came, Sean considered leaving, before catching the
barman's eye amongst the twitching heads. The thick expired air took
great concentration to breathe. It seemed almost perverse Sean
considered looking over his shoulder. But there it was like a surreal
exhibit. He could see no reserved signs and no visible reason for it to
be empty.

Only a small percentage of the populace claimed a seat. Sean continued
to pan the room with a scrutinising stare, looking for an answer of
some kind. Either side of the open fire, two small tables were crowded
with bodies on large and smaller chairs seemingly immune to the
bellowing torridity beside. A crowd stood watching the revolutions of
the fruit machine berating and cheering animatedly, blocking the
passageway to the toilet where quieter conversations had spilled. All
along the short bar two or three people deep. The lucky high stool
relaxed few, clung to their seats and the bar like a hard fought prize.
Looking to his right, an over occupied small bench at least half the
size of it's aloof neighbour crept under the window from bar to door. A
huddled group leant forward freeing themselves to drink and then back
again, relinquishing the power of their arms in order to talk. Two
heaving tables housed spent and half-filled glasses. Further small
stools were engaged occasionally by two. It was sat here the ice-cold
wind from the opened door scorched the most. Back to the incongruous
empty bench that stretched under the two main windows. 'Well, I want to
sit down&;#8230;..' Sean determined whilst apologetically reaching
through a fiery debate to get his drink.

Watching Sean with interest stood a thin resolute man standing at the
bar near the fruit machine. A long dark grey overcoat graced a
perfectly tailored light grey suit, with a white shirt uncoupled at the
neck. A black tie relieved of its duty disobediently crept out of the
overcoat's pocket and pointed at polished black shoes. His tight curls
of grey hair suitably matched his attire and pale thin lipped
complexion.

Sean wiped the continual sweat from his forehead and turned to diminish
the mystery. The cumulative heat bounced slowly from wall to wall,
condensing in the objects that moved. He eyed the ceiling suspiciously
and checked the cushion on the bench for damp. Satisfied, Sean placed
his glass on the table and immediately noticed the room empty of all
noise but the crackling fire. He felt a hand gently rest on his
shoulder and turned, caught in a slumped position, to see who it was.
"You cannot sit there my friend, that, is death row!"

Sean recognised the well-dressed man but could not think how.
Straightening up he took a pace away from the bench. He wondered how it
was possible to bear such violent heat so heavily wrapped. "You see"
the man continued "there were six old fellows that used to sit along
there. Most every night they met up and sat in exactly the same place
as the previous night. You see they had all served in the army and
routine was very important to these fellows, in all aspects of life".
Sean noticed the words were well chosen and seemed a little rehearsed.
"Notice the fellow over there dressed in uniform and
colours&;#8230;.." Sean looked to where his eyes were directed to
the small table, left of the roaring fire. Indeed there was a joyous
looking elderly man dressed in a weathered army uniform, sat closer to
the bench than anyone in the room. The thin-lipped man continued "well
that's Bill Hayward, he was a senior officer".

Sean listened incredulously as each invisible soul was introduced name
by name along the bench as if holding out an open hand. Sean watched
the man look into the eyes of the men themselves, adjusting his gaze
accordingly. "You see my friend, they passed away one by one from left
to right. The last four drew good-humoured straws, ironically for a
position closest to the fire, so to speak". He paused as though waiting
for laughter. "The last three stopped drinking here. The last two
stopped drinking altogether. The last man of the row, inconsolable,
refused to leave his house. To no avail". He said shaking his head.
"The men survived the second-world-war with honours, but could not
survive our very own death row".

A face with a microphone appeared to Sean and he immediately remembered
where he knew the gentleman. He worked as a tour guide on the sluggish
open top busses during the spring and summer and into early autumn.
Every seat was taken on one of his tours Sean recalled. Something else
occurred to him. "So Bill Hayward was the seventh man?" Sean asked
rhetorically. "Well you said it my friend I don't know. All we do know
is that old Bill never sat along here. He has always sat right there in
that chair next to the fire". Prompting Sean with a firmer hand on his
shoulder he continued. "Talk to Bill and he will tell you he's 82, show
you some photo's in his wallet from his youthful glory and intone that
he has never lost the instinct to survive". He announced triumphantly
switching his attention from the old man to Sean in conclusion.

On cue, Bill Hayward lifted his glass of watered whiskey and nodded a
toothless confirmation toward Sean across the boisterous room, which
had regained it's indifferent voice as soon as they realised the seat
was not to be breached. Sean lifted his glass in dazed acknowledgement.
"So er&;#8230;..Why aren't the seats taken away or replaced or
something, there'd be more room". Sean asked as a distraction noticing
the thin-lipped man still smiling, rather clumsily he thought. "Well"
he responded stretching out his arms with his own liquefied whiskey,
taking in the room, "It's not harming business is it!"