nothing.
Simon turned to see what the guy was walking toward and could see
that his target was Mr Rowling and Mr Rowling had spotted him.
Simon got the urgent feeling that something was wrong. It was the
same feeling you get when there is going to be a fight in the pub
or when your partner was about to fly off the handle at you for no
apparent reason. As much as he wanted to stay around and watch was
about to happen Simon really needed to piss, the seal was breaking
of its own accord and he opened the toilet door just as the drunk
man reached the table where he had been sat not two minutes before.
He heard the drunk man slur a hello to Mr Rowling but then the door
was closed and the conversation disappeared and was replaced with
the fuzzy white noise that all pub toilets are graced with. He made
his way to one of the three urinals and taking out his pink weapon,
he relieved himself against the rather clean white porcelain. It
was a sweet, welcomed release, and he exhaled as the hot urine
splashed against the yellow disinfectant block. The fluorescent
lights flickered slightly overhead and he heard a fan kick in from
somewhere behind one of the stalls.
Shaking his penis free of any drips he
zipped up and went over to the sink. Strangely, there was no mirror
above the three sinks. In its place, held in a thick dark wooden
frame and clear glass was a recent photo of the outside of the
Working Man’s Club. It was a good photo, Simon appreciated the
composition, the lighting and the way whomever had taken the photo
had managed to capture the essence of this old place. He washed his
hands admiring the picture and hoped to capture something of the
same with his own camera. Just as he turned the taps off Simone
heard a commotion. The white noise had gone and it was replaced
with just one voice and it was the voice of Mr Rowling. Simon
quickly scrubbed his hands dry on the blue paper towels and rushed
out of the toilet and into a scene he would never have imagined
seeing.
3
On the floor, next to the table Simon
had been sat at not 5 minutes before, was the drunk man. He was sat
on his backside, his right hand cradling his jaw, his left hand
held aloft in desperation. The man he was despairing too was Mr
Rowling who was stood over him like a victorious boxer. The other
men had remained in their seats, though they were all turned to see
the fracas.
‘ Who do yathink you
are, Stevie Johnson? What do yathink yer up to?’
‘ I’m s-s-sorry Mr
Rowling. Forget maplace, is all. Drunk too much, that’s maproblem.
Meant no disrespect.’
‘ Camon Stevie, don’t
try and pull wool over my eyes. Yaknow what yer uptah. You think
that now you got the big farm you is the big man around here. You
thought you’d come in here tonight…’
‘ No, Mr Rowling, it’s
not like that, it’s…’
Mr Rowling moved quickly and slapped
the young man around the face. There was a soft groan of
disapproval from the men in the club and Simon noticed the man who
sat in the shadows shake his head.
‘ Don’t interrupt me,
Stevie Johnson,’ Mr Rowling said calmly, ‘Yajust don’t learn do ya?
No matter what we try and teach you youngers, you just don’t learn.
You never learn. Maybe you need another lesson.’
‘ No, Mr Rowling. It
won’t happen again.’
Simon caught movement from the corner
of his eye. The man in the shadows had stood up and was appraising
the scene. Simon moved a little closer to the bar but then decided
it was probably best to stay where he was.
‘ Just shut up, Stevie,
for your mother’s sake, just shut up. Yagot the farm cos yer dad
was as stupid as you. And he paid the price for what he did, didn’t
he, eh? Strung him up from the sky and watched that poor old bastard swing for what he
did. We thought yawoulda learnt from that, Stevie, but no. Smug
bastards all of ya. If what we did to yer dad don’t take that smug
look from yer eyes then I’m sure he can.’ Mr Rowling looked over to the shadow man
Simon turned to see what the guy was walking toward and could see
that his target was Mr Rowling and Mr Rowling had spotted him.
Simon got the urgent feeling that something was wrong. It was the
same feeling you get when there is going to be a fight in the pub
or when your partner was about to fly off the handle at you for no
apparent reason. As much as he wanted to stay around and watch was
about to happen Simon really needed to piss, the seal was breaking
of its own accord and he opened the toilet door just as the drunk
man reached the table where he had been sat not two minutes before.
He heard the drunk man slur a hello to Mr Rowling but then the door
was closed and the conversation disappeared and was replaced with
the fuzzy white noise that all pub toilets are graced with. He made
his way to one of the three urinals and taking out his pink weapon,
he relieved himself against the rather clean white porcelain. It
was a sweet, welcomed release, and he exhaled as the hot urine
splashed against the yellow disinfectant block. The fluorescent
lights flickered slightly overhead and he heard a fan kick in from
somewhere behind one of the stalls.
Shaking his penis free of any drips he
zipped up and went over to the sink. Strangely, there was no mirror
above the three sinks. In its place, held in a thick dark wooden
frame and clear glass was a recent photo of the outside of the
Working Man’s Club. It was a good photo, Simon appreciated the
composition, the lighting and the way whomever had taken the photo
had managed to capture the essence of this old place. He washed his
hands admiring the picture and hoped to capture something of the
same with his own camera. Just as he turned the taps off Simone
heard a commotion. The white noise had gone and it was replaced
with just one voice and it was the voice of Mr Rowling. Simon
quickly scrubbed his hands dry on the blue paper towels and rushed
out of the toilet and into a scene he would never have imagined
seeing.
3
On the floor, next to the table Simon
had been sat at not 5 minutes before, was the drunk man. He was sat
on his backside, his right hand cradling his jaw, his left hand
held aloft in desperation. The man he was despairing too was Mr
Rowling who was stood over him like a victorious boxer. The other
men had remained in their seats, though they were all turned to see
the fracas.
‘ Who do yathink you
are, Stevie Johnson? What do yathink yer up to?’
‘ I’m s-s-sorry Mr
Rowling. Forget maplace, is all. Drunk too much, that’s maproblem.
Meant no disrespect.’
‘ Camon Stevie, don’t
try and pull wool over my eyes. Yaknow what yer uptah. You think
that now you got the big farm you is the big man around here. You
thought you’d come in here tonight…’
‘ No, Mr Rowling, it’s
not like that, it’s…’
Mr Rowling moved quickly and slapped
the young man around the face. There was a soft groan of
disapproval from the men in the club and Simon noticed the man who
sat in the shadows shake his head.
‘ Don’t interrupt me,
Stevie Johnson,’ Mr Rowling said calmly, ‘Yajust don’t learn do ya?
No matter what we try and teach you youngers, you just don’t learn.
You never learn. Maybe you need another lesson.’
‘ No, Mr Rowling. It
won’t happen again.’
Simon caught movement from the corner
of his eye. The man in the shadows had stood up and was appraising
the scene. Simon moved a little closer to the bar but then decided
it was probably best to stay where he was.
‘ Just shut up, Stevie,
for your mother’s sake, just shut up. Yagot the farm cos yer dad
was as stupid as you. And he paid the price for what he did, didn’t
he, eh? Strung him up from the sky and watched that poor old bastard swing for what he
did. We thought yawoulda learnt from that, Stevie, but no. Smug
bastards all of ya. If what we did to yer dad don’t take that smug
look from yer eyes then I’m sure he can.’ Mr Rowling looked over to the shadow man
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