One

Stormy music lilted through the room. A man, accompanied by a guitar, a violin and a piano, sung about a long-lost love. An argument in the corner had erupted and been escalating for the last few minutes and the tension in the room had built to match their volume.

The timber and stone room was lit from a single fireplace and a few candles that were attached to the walls. The slippery floor hid the layers of thick stickiness underneath and the whole place was brought to rowdy life by the constant smell of acrid smoke.

“You fucking cheated me you pissant!” These were the words that had started the fight, and the accuser had incessantly repeated the insult through the chaos as though he couldn’t think of anything else.

Tristan Fitzpatrick, a man in his late forties with a flat cap and dirty coat that covered his even grimier, white work clothes. Curly orange hair poked out from underneath his cap and muttonchop sideburns framed his rough face. He had just lost forty pounds in a game of poker, all the money he had left.

His rock-hard fist mashed the nose of his intended target. Red blood burst forth and the man fell like a sack of potatoes.

The man on the ground was Jimmy Byrne. He was a runt of a man in his late twenties. Thick, shaggy black hair and a pencil moustache did little to hide his juvenile face. His brown pants and white shirt were faded and much too big for his frame. The brown suspenders did little to help. He had just won forty pounds.

Though the screaming match had been considered an entertainment by some and a nuisance by others, the hit was enough for the owner to step in. The music stopped.

“Tristan, that’s enough. Any more of that and you won’t be welcome back here for a long time.” The owner was an older balding man, and he looked like the type of person you didn’t want to cross in a back alley.

“Trevor, this man cheated me. I’m telling ya. I’m the best poker player around here, and this guy fucked me over.” Tristan removed his hat and ran his hand through the curly mop of orange hair.

“Help him off the floor, will ya?” Trevor instructed two of the locals to lift the skinny man up.

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“First off, you can’t just blame someone for cheating just coz they beat you in poker. As good as you may be, someone better will come along. Second, you know I don’t tolerate that kinda bullshit in here. You alright kid?” Trevor pointed a fat, chafed finger at Jimmy.

“Yeah, I am. Bit sore though.”

“Ah, of course you are. I been on the receiving end of a few of them punches myself. Hurt like hell. Fancy a pint?”

“Yes, thank you. A Guinness would be great.”

“Get this kid a pint and a rag.” Trevor walked over to Jimmy. “You can give him an apology.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Jimmy walked toward Tristan with his hand out. Trevor gave him a hearty slap on the back and a few cards fell to the floor.

“Hold on.” Trevor picked the cards up and looked at Jimmy with a vicious snarl. “I suggest you give the money back to Tristan, and you leave this place for good. Cheaters are not tolerated in my fine establishment.” He spat the last few words with such fire that Jimmy felt himself quake in his boots.

Jimmy gave Tristan the money and walked out of the pub without looking at anyone.

The putrid cold and hammering rain made the pulsing pain in his nose feel like razorblades.

Jimmy pulled the collar of his coat and saw two shadowy figures standing across the street from him.

Jimmy started to walk toward his rusted out buggy and noticed the shadowy figures started to move along the street with him. He picked up his pace and so did they.

Just as Jimmy flung the door open to his car, a pair of hands wrapped around his throat and tossed him into the road.

“Hello Jimmy.” The scratchy voice heightened a spike of panic in Jimmy.

“Tell Mr. Walsh I will have the first part of the money by the end of the week,” Jimmy stammered.

“Well, isn’t that nice?” The first shadowy figure looked at his silent partner. “The problem is, you’re really far behind on payments.”

“Please. Tell him.”

“That’s fine, I can pass on the message for you. But I have one I need to pass on to you. You see, Mr. Walsh is being a generous man. He’s okay with allowing you to pay him in instalments, if you make them on time. But, you now owe an extra forty percent on what you already owe.”

“That’s ridiculous. There’s no fucking way I can pay that back.”

“Well then, it seems to me like your life is going to get very complicated. Very painful indeed, if you don’t pay Mr. Walsh back.”

“But I’ve got nothing.” Jimmy slowly pulled himself up from the road.

“That’s hardly mine or Mr. Walsh’s problem, Jimmy. That’s just something you’re going to have to work out.”

“Alright, okay. Friday.”

“Oh, and Jimmy, one more thing. From Mr. Walsh.” He nodded at his compatriot and before Jimmy could react, a meaty fist slammed into his nose. Jimmy screamed and dropped to the road, huddled in a ball.

“Don’t fuck up again Jimmy.”

After ten minutes, Jimmy finally pulled himself up and managed to claw his way into his car. His head pounded like a knocking brick, and he could barely see. He pulled his clothes tighter in around him and fell asleep leaning against his window.