Damien woke with a start, his living room swimming slowly into focus as his eyes adjusted to the grey half-light of dawn. For a moment, he thought he could still hear the pounding of a heavy hand against his door, but realized it was just an echo of his dream.
The house was silent, save for the tick of the hot water system and the smug hum of the fridge.
The smell of stale beer and pizza hung thick in the air, tinged by the dying embers of the fire. In the absence of its cheerful flames, the oppressive cold of a New England winter had already begun to ebb and creep into the room.
The TV was still on. Too cheerful, too pretty people emoted soundlessly about whatever bullshit they were trying to sell, their false enthusiasm for the morning only exacerbating the distaste Damien had for the day to come.
He’d fallen asleep in his armchair again, and his neck and back were none too happy about the situation. His mouth was dry and tasted like vomit, although, thankfully, none was in evidence.
Thank God for small mercies.
The tavern sat amidst a forest of empties atop a field of white butcher’s paper still greasy from the fish and chips it had held days earlier. Funny how something so small and insignificant had so thoroughly seized ownership of his dreams.
Maybe it was time he paid Sam a visit. Maybe the tavern, strange as it was, had been his old friend’s idea of an olive branch.
He flicked off the television, tossing the remote over onto the couch. His parents, both dead now, would have been unimpressed with the state of their living room. Beer cans – some crushed, some unopened, and some half-empty – were strewn about the room, as were pizza boxes, KFC containers, and a few half-finished bottles of water.
His bench and weights were doubling as a place for his laundry to dry, and he shuffled over to snatch up a clean pair of underpants and a work shirt that didn’t smell of beer and sweat. Despite being in front of the fire all night, they were still damp.
“Fuck this place,” Damien growled under his breath, lashing out at a nearby can and sending it clattering loudly into the kitchen. It skidded to a halt against the side of the fridge, ebbing warm beer out the linoleum.
Tugging on damp clothing, he checked the time, cursed again, and hurriedly grabbed an Up & Go protein shake from the fridge. It cut a lonely figure in there, kept company by a rapidly browning head of lettuce, three slices of shrink-wrapped cheese, and an unlabeled jar whose contents had been consumed by a carpet of white mold.
Chugging the banana-flavored shake, he picked up his car keys and was on his way to the door when he stepped in the spilled beer. He could immediately feel it through his thick winter socks – a slight that warranted another curse and another punt for the offending beer can.
“Fuck this place!”
Hard F. Fuck. This. Place.
-----
Damien’s morning set the tone for his day.
Last night’s rain had become this morning’s frost, and he was ten minutes late to work due to needing to wait for the ice on his windshield to defrost.
His boss, Robin, greeted him as he arrived. A ginger-headed kid who must have been only a year or two out of high school, he’d inherited his managerial position on account of his late father having owned the store. With a buck-toothed grin and a prominent Adam’s apple that practically danced with excitement, his face lit up upon seeing his newest employee.
Damien would have preferred a stern “You’re late,” or even a dressing down. Anything was less painful than the labrador enthusiasm of this kid.
“Damo, mate!” he shouted excitedly, excusing himself from a conversation with another employee, a forty-something mother of three named Holly. “How was your night, big fella? Big one?”
“It should be illegal to be this happy in the morning,” Damien replied. “Do you start your day’s with a bump of coke?”
Robin's smile grew so large it looked like it might split the boundaries of his head. His laugh was genuine, although Damien didn’t think the quip warranted it.
“You’re a mad bastard, Damo. Big night?”
Damien – he hated being called Damo – shook his head. “I don’t reckon they do big nights around here, mate. The scale goes all the way up to middling.”
Robin’s laugh continued. He’d now crossed the distance to Damien, and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot as if he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to stand this close.
Damien couldn’t decide which made him feel worse: the customers who came in and scowled at him for what he’d done, or the way Robin seemed genuinely overjoyed to be working with him. At least the people who called him a cheat or a liar made sense to him. He couldn’t fathom why a guy in his early twenties got all starry-eyed and fawned around a disgraced former football player.
You’re what passes for famous around here, he reminded himself. Get used to it.
“Quiet one.” he finally answered Robin’s question, “A couple of beers and a pizza. Fell asleep watching Simpsons reruns. Thrill a minute round my way.”
“Love it. Nothin’ like a lazy night in, especially when it’s this cold, eh?”
“It beats hanging myself.”
Damien flinched at his gallows humour, but Robin guffawed as if it had been the height of comedy.
“Classic, classic. Love it!” And then, “Oh, hey. Gonna need you to do stocktake today, mate. That okay?”
“You are quite literally the boss,” Damien replied, pasting a grin onto his face. “You don’t need to ask me, mate.”
“Oh, yeah, nah, I know. Just feels weird telling a guy I watched on telly what to do. Sorry about that.”
Robin apologized a lot. It was one of his many infuriatingly likeable traits. He also brought up Damien’s former fame a lot, which he found considerably less endearing.
“Right. I’d best get started.”
He shrugged on the apron that acted as the final part of his uniform and made his way down the nearest aisle. Stocktake was mind-numbingly boring work, but it did have the perk of not being customer-facing. They’d have to bother the front end or one of the walkers, leaving him to count hammers and nails.
----
Damien’s bad start to the day continued to bleed into the day proper, however, and he found himself being bothered by customers at regular intervals. No matter which aisle he was in, it seemed that every new customer just so happened to be there too.
He didn’t particularly care how much or little of the stocktake he completed by day’s end, but his hopes of being left alone were thwarted by muddling pensioners looking for gifts for son-in-laws they barely knew, determined single mothers out to prove they didn’t need their deadbeat exes, and taciturn farmers who asked questions and then insisted they’d known the answer all along.
These, at least, didn’t give a shit who he had been or who he was today.
It was the people around his age that made it awkward. It was a rare day where somebody didn’t come in for the sole purpose of seeing if it was true – the great Damien Byrne had gone from the front page to the lighting aisle. Some looked sad, but most seemed to take a sort of satisfaction from the confirmation that he was there. As if their own failure to get out of their shitty hometown was vindicated by the fact it had dragged Damien back even after he’d got away.
He could have stomached the questions and inane small talk, even the gawks and smirks.
But his shitty day had more in store for him than that, and it came in the form of Nathan Wells. The prototypical guy who peaked in high school, Nathan had been on Damien’s high school footy team, but that hadn’t made them friends. In fact, Nathan had seemed offended that somebody he deemed a loser had been allowed to play, and that bitterness had only been deepened by the fact Damien made it and he didn’t.
Nathan was a plumber or a carpenter now, not that it mattered. He could have been shoveling shit in ditches and he’d still have thought the sun shone out of his arse.
The worst experience of Damien’s life had evidently been one of the best experiences of Nathan Wells’ existence, as he seemed to make weekly pilgrimages to the hardware store for the apparent purpose of making sure Damien was still there and still unhappy about it.
He’d buy something – he always did – but Damien knew that the real purpose for his visits was to gloat. His shit-eating grin said, “I might not have made it out of here, but at least I didn’t fuck it up. At least I didn’t have to come crawling back to the town I said I hated on national TV.”
He’d been drunk when he’d given the interview. Drunk on a grand final victory, and quite literally drunk on a night and a half day of drinking.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
He should have just said the usual cliches, “Full credit to the boys,” “We gave 100%,” or something like that.
Instead, he’d taken the opportunity to send a message back to the town he’d hated so much. When the cute brunette interviewer had asked, “Do you have a message for people watching back in Loch Lomond?” he’d smiled, looked straight down the lens, and said, “Fuck ‘em. Worst place in the world.”
One of his teammates had then thrust a longneck of beer into his hands and dragged him back to the celebrations.
Less than a year later, he was driving into the worst place in the world, keenly aware that everybody there knew exactly how he felt about them.
“Hey mate,” Nathan said, having strolled up while Damien had been flinching through the remembrance, “could you point out the tartan paint?”
Damien sighed. Nathan barked a laugh and clapped his former teammate on the back. “Just joshing, mate!” he chuckled, “No need to get your panties in a bunch.”
Straightening, Damien did his best not to rise to the bait. He was taller and broader of shoulder than Nathan, and he’d taken better care of himself too. The former prop forward might still be playing for the local team, but he’d grown a beer belly and a modest set of man boobs, but he stood there, proud as a peacock, and fixed Damien with a toothy smile.
“What can I do for you?” Damien pressed on, eager to get the interaction over with before he did something he’d regret.
“Just looking for some witch’s hats for training. Got a big game this weekend against Inverell.”
Damien nodded and turned on the spot, heading towards where the safety equipment was kept.
For a moment, he felt relieved that Nathan merely followed along behind him, but that wasn’t the kind of day he was having.
“You should come have a run sometime,” Nathan eventually ventured, managing to sound sincere, even though Damien knew exactly what he was doing.
He knew full well that Damien’s ban from playing extended to all competitions – not just in Australia – but anywhere the game was played. In a relatively small sport, globally speaking, he had been completely shut out.
Nathan knew this, but Damien wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud. Instead, he spun on the spot, causing Nathan to bump into him. Expecting the impact, Damien had stiffened his body and set his stance, giving Nathan a wall of corded muscle and pent up anger to run into. The pudgy asshole dropped like he’d been shot.
“Hey! What the fuck?” he blustered, “I’ll fucking –“
But, of course, he wouldn’t do anything. He’d been a coward in high school, and he was a coward now.
Before things could escalate, however, Robin appeared at the far end of the aisle, a strangely dressed man at his side. Seeing the brewing altercation, he hurried to help Nathan up while Damien muttered a half-hearted apology.
“Sorry, mate. Just remembered we’ve got some on display out front. Surprised you didn’t see them on the way in.”
Dusting himself off, a beetroot-faced Nathan didn’t rise to the bait. He had an audience now, and he didn’t want to get dusted up in front of a crowd, even if it would mean Damien’s inevitable firing.
“I’ll help you with those,” Robin quickly offered, “and you can take care of this gentleman, Damo.”
The gentleman in question was dressed like a LARPer or one of the old farts who came into town every autumn for the Celtic Festival. A miasma of talcum powder and cloying cologne surrounded him.
Despite his comical get up – all lacy ruffles and too tight pantaloons – he didn’t look like the usual type to play dress up. Beneath the impractical outfit, Damien could see that the newcomer was every bit as physically toned as he was.
Probably more, he thought. He doesn’t tuck away a pizza and a six pack every night.
With an apologetic shake of his head, Robin shepherded Nathan away. Only Robin would apologize to his employee for barreling over a customer. The man was incorrigible.
Relieved to see the back of his old enemy, Damien turned his attention to the strange newcomer. His outfit was old-fashioned and out of place but, upon closer examination, it was of exceedingly high quality. He wasn’t an expert on clothing or fabric or even style, but he could tell that this guy’s costume hadn’t been cheap.
A fur-lined cape, heeled shoes of fine leather, a silk shirt, a feathered bicorne hat, and an intricately decorated surcoat were instantly recognizable to the reformed nerd as the trappings of a man of means. The fact that it looked to be real fur, leather, and silk also marked the man himself as a man with money to burn.
“Uh…” he said dumbly, trying and failing to come up with a witty icebreaker. The stranger smiled, and Damien would be damned if he didn’t think it lit up the room. He’d heard the phrase before, and teenage him had even used it in bad poetry written about girls who he hadn’t stood a chance with, but he’d never actually experienced it before. The guy smiled and Damien felt the unpleasantness of his interaction with his former teammate just wash away.
“You’re not going to knock me over too, are you?” the stranger joked. “I’m just here for some supplies, I promise.”
Another one of those smiles – all perfect teeth – and all awkwardness was diffused.
“You’re safe,” Damien replied. “I don’t mess with nobility.”
The man’s face brightened, as if he hadn’t expected a retail worker in a country town to recognize his get up.
“And I do not mess with men of your fearsome reputation, so we’re both safe.”
Was that a jibe? Or is he just referring to my football days?
It was hard to assume the worst of a guy with such a beaming smile. Another flash of those pearly whites and he’d all but forgotten his doubts.
Unable to think of a witty riposte, Damien decided to focus on the task at hand. “Right, what do you need?”
“An introduction to start.” The stranger said, offering his hand. “My name is Matthias. You need no introduction, of course. Sam has told me a great deal about you.”
It wasn’t the firmness of Matthias’ grip that caused Damien to flinch, but the mention of his forsaken friend.
“You, uh, know Sam?”
“Oh yes, we’re old friends. I dare say there’s nobody in the world I know better.”
Was it jealousy that caused Damien’s guts to roil? If so, what right did he have to feel envious of somebody else taking his place in a friendship he had abandoned?
“Sam’s a good guy.” Damien blurted out. “We’re old friends.”
“Were old friends, correct?” Matthias corrected him. “From what Sam said, the two of you had drifted apart after your success in the arena.”
Sam told him about that? The guy must think you’re an arsehole.
“Uh, yeah,” he admitted. “We, uh, drifted apart after high school. You know how it is.”
Matthias nodded and flashed another smile. “Indeed. Time dulls all things, after all. Rest assured; Sam speaks quite highly of you. His pride at your accomplishments is quite sweet, really.”
“Right.” Damien responded. “Well, I’m sure you’ve got more to do today than reminisce with me, eh? What can I get for you?”
A shadow passed over Matthias’ face for the briefest of moments, momentarily dimming the warmth of his smile. It was gone as soon as it had arrived, however, and it was driven from Damien’s mind when the oddly-dressed man clapped him on the back and set off down the aisle.
“Rope!” he announced grandly, “I need lots of rope!”
—--------
The rest of their encounter passed largely uneventfully, Matthias seemingly focused on his home improvement project as he bundled rope, an empty petrol can, some gardening shears, two bags of cement, and a handful of garden gnomes into a cart.
“Hilarious!” he’d said when he saw them, laughing as if he’d never seen a garden gnome before. “They look nothing like this, of course. But you know that.”
He’d shot Damien a wink at that. Was it an oblique reference to Sam and Damien’s childhood nerdiness? He did know that gnomes in Hand of Fate bore little resemblance to the comical little lawn ornaments, after all.
Even that was almost forgotten as Damien rang up Matthias’ purchases. Their encounter might have faded into the tapestry of unremarkable days that made up Damien’s life were it not for the last thing Matthias said to him before leaving.
“You really should reach out to Sam.” he remarked with genuine warmth. “You never know you might see somebody for the last time. You don’t want your last memory of a dear friend to be so far in the past.”
He took offense at the impropriety, of course, but Damien found it hard to be mad at the strange man. Instead, he found himself nodding along and promising to do that.
“Good man. See that you do.”
And then he’d gone out through the automatic doors, trolley rattling in front of him as he hummed a jaunty tune.
—----------
The rest of the day passed without remark or excitement. Stock was counted, he took his lunch break, and then more stock was counted. No more looky-loos or trouble-makers. No more oddly dressed men.
The dullness of the day would normally have lulled Damien into a kind of fugue, but Matthias’ parting words had taken root within him and now grew insistently.
Why was he avoiding Sam? The guilt he felt over abandoning his childhood friend was only compounded by his continued dissociation after all, and Matthias had said Sam spoke fondly of him. Surely, if anybody would be able to look past his sins and accept him for who he was, it was the same kid who had taken a scrawny, awkward new kid under his wing and indoctrinated him into the ways of all that was nerdy.
As his workday drew closer to its end, he found himself actually excited to swing by The Lair - Sam’s hybrid tobacconist, hobby shop, and video rental business. He hadn’t ever visited the store in its current form, but knew the interior well enough from when it had been just a tobacconist and video rental store when he’d been in high school.
Even then, memories of Sam were intrinsically linked to the place. Whether it was browsing the aisles looking for obscure fantasy or sci-fi titles to rent for a weekend sleepover or trying to sneak past the curtain to get a glimpse into the adults only section, there were memories worn into the store’s blue carpet and chipped, white shelving.
As he changed in the locker room and tucked his wallet and phone into his jeans, Damien even began imagining what Sam might have changed in the place. If his bedroom in school had been anything to go by, there’d be plenty of wizard and dragon imagery, a persistent smell of weed and incense, and no shortage of Lord of the Rings memorabilia.
And Hand of Fate stuff, he thought as he crossed the car park. You just know there’ll be Hand of Fate stuff everywhere.
The air was thick with smoke, which was odd. Most of the homes in town relied on woodfire heating to keep them warm, with many having been built more than a century ago when the area was first settled, but this was unusual, even for such a cold, wet day.
Looking towards town, Damien saw a pillar of dark smoke rising from somewhere near the main street. As if waiting for him to take notice, the wail of sirens suddenly rent the afternoon quiet.
As he slid into the driver’s seat, the town’s sole fire engine raced by. Call it pessimism or call it intuition, but he knew with grim certainty that it was The Lair that would be ablaze.
Hands fumbling with his keys, he frantically turned the ignition and reversed wildly out into the carpark. At this time of day, there were no customers around, thankfully, else he might have backed right into their cars.
Instead, he churned up bitumen as he gunned it out of the car park.
What are you doing? How are you going to be of any help, idiot? Can you put out a fire with a flick pass?
He was so preoccupied with an odd mixture of panic and self-loathing that he didn’t see the other car coming.
His only warning before it struck the driver-side door was honking, the screeching of brakes, and the smell of woodfire, beer, and fresh-baked bread.