I’ll Bring The Ketchup

The balls drifted in and out of focus as James gripped the edge of the table. The cushion sticky under his fingers from years of spilled beer. He took a few deep breaths and bent forward steadying his hand on the baize, the cue tip wobbling in time with his breathing as he tried to work out which of the pairs of balls was the right one to aim for. Blinking quickly the balls merged into a single blurry shape and he took the shot. The white ball jumped as the cue tip slipped underneath, leaving a long stripe of blue chalk along the scuffed green felt.

“Oops,” he belched, standing quickly to avoid the next burp spilling his last pint onto the table. The bar swam again with the sudden movement. James grabbed for the edge of the table, missed and toppled slowly sideways. He hit the mismatched sticky tiles with a thud and lay there staring up at the stained ceiling while spilled beer soaked into his Atari tee-shirt.

“Dude you’re hammered,” Andrew said as he lurched from where he’d been leaning against the wall. He downed the last of his beer, putting the empty glass unsteadily down on the edge of the pool table. “Haven’t seen you this shitfaced since…well, last night.

“Black in the corner pocket.”

“Never make that, you’re crap at this game,” said James still lying in his puddle. The spilled beer had started to warm up and felt less clammy the longer he lay there.

“Well, I’ll bring the ketchup, and you can—”

“Yeah, yeah,” said James, his eyes closed, cutting out the harsh fluorescent light beating down on him. “Jus’ take the shot.”

There was a crack, then the mechanical rattling sound of a ball rolling through the table, lining it up in the little glass window ready for the next game.

Andrew’s head appeared over the corner, casting a shadow over James, who blinked trying to focus on his friend’s face.

“Your round, piss-head.”

“Double or nothing,” said James without moving.

“No way, you lost, your round, them’s the rules. Same as always.”

“Trick shot,” James said still lying on the floor, “I call trick shot.”

“Ahh, balls… Okay, but something aerial after that last effort.”

“No problemo. How many still on the table?” said James closing his eyes again.

“Five. Now wake up.”

“’m thinkin’ not sleepin’.” His eyes snapped open, “Got it.” He reached up gripping the corner pocket and dragging himself upright.

Stumbling his way across the bar, he weaved in and out of the other regulars, nodding at those he recognised, smiling at those he didn’t. James clung to the juke box bolted to the wall, as he fed change into the slot. The music started, soft vocals at first, then the beat kicked in. He closed his eyes, nodding his head in time with the heavy baseline. The sounds of the packed bar faded into the background as the beat flowed through him. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck and down his arms. He smiled as the fluttering feeling settled in his gut, stillness spreading out across his body. His breathing steadied and he opened his eyes, the fuzz around the edges of his vision pulling back, leaving the bar in sharp focus. He walked slowly back through the packed room, more heads now turned to watch him. A few people got up from their tables and followed.

He paused at a table, there were four young women tucked into the booth. Their makeup and hair done, tight low-cut tops and skinny black dresses. “Good evening, ladies,” James said, and bowed theatrically, the effect marred slightly by clipping his head on the edge of their table.

They looked at him, like he was a huge cockroach dropping into their girls night out. The two nearest to him gave him a slow up and down stare, from his battered muddy work boots to his torn jeans. They weren’t fashionable ripped jeans, just old enough to be worn through in one knee. As he followed their disapproving looks, he hoped that the torn seat of the jeans would hold up the rest of the night and his arse wouldn’t be hanging out before last orders. Their gaze lingered on his tee-shirt, he was proud of the retro logo, as he looked down, he realised that he had perhaps been wearing it for too long and the kebab stains did little for his image.

None of that really mattered, he was only after one thing, “Might I trouble you for an empty wine glass?”

Without waiting for an answer; he lifted one of their empties and headed back to the pool table. When he glanced back, they were all watching him, looks of relief that this drunken idiot had left them alone.

“You’re such a dick. You really shouldn’t bother the normal people, you know,” said Andrew.

“I didn’t I just needed a wine glass, this is O’Flannigan’s. You see anyone else drinking wine? That white wine vinegar, those giggling girls are drinking, has been open behind the bar for the last three weeks.”

He looked around, from the bar flies drooping over their stools at the counter, to the slightly orange lit area of cracked wood flooring in the corner, jokingly called the dance floor, a trendy wine bar it was not. The music from the juke box faded, the beat slipping from his mind. In the quiet that followed the fuzz started to return to the edges of his vision, his feet grew heavy and he leaned against the pool table. The next tune started loud and fast, clarity snapped back with the familiar beat, flooding through him, his fingertips tingling.

A small crowd was now gathering around the table, he looked around at the familiar faces and small glow of pride pricked within him. He was crap at pool but his trick shots were legendary, a small break in everyone’s otherwise unremarkable Saturday night in the pub. As always there were a few new faces in the crowd, drawn by the pack of people, eager to see what happened next. His gaze caught on two people at the back, dark grey hoods drawn up, their faces in shadow. They were motionless in the jostling crowd. He couldn’t see their features but he could feel their eyes boring into him.

As he set the shot up, four balls in a square on the black spot, his eyes kept flicking back to the two dark figures in the crowd. He flipped an empty pint glass, placing it in the centre of the table, the wineglass balanced upside down on the top, the final yellow ball was laid carefully on top of the stack. As he lined up the white behind the baulk line, he could see the dregs of beer forming a wet ring on the baize. Sandra, the landlady, would have his ass for this, again.

As he straightened and looked around, he smiled at the four ladies who had come to see the drunken cockroach make a dick of himself in front of everyone. They didn’t smile back. The two dark figures in the crowd had disappeared, vanishing as if they had never really been there.

“Four yellow balls, four pockets. And the rest, well you’ll just have to see,” he added with a wink. As he lined up the shot the cue came into sharp focus, the grain of the wood tight under his fingertips, he could almost feel how it used to be alive. The twisting lines in the wood marking the growth of the tree, a hidden record of its life, snaking together towards the tip. He looked up at Andrew who was standing at the far end of the table. “I’ll bring the ketchup.”

“Yeah, yeah, and I’ll eat my hat.”

Without looking he took the shot, the small white ball lifted from the table. It arced gracefully through the air clipping the base of the wineglass. The glass toppled forward and there was an audible gasp from the watching crowd, it flipped, landing perfectly behind the pint glass, the white dropping neatly inside with a ding. The yellow ball, knocked from its aerial perch, landed in the middle of the remaining balls sending them scurrying for the pockets. There was a hush as they slowed, the only sound the pounding beat of the music, his trick shot track. Then as one they dropped into the four pockets. There was a pause as the last remaining yellow continued to spin lazily on the black spot. The music ended, someone clapped and then the crowd was cheering. As he felt the beat leave him, he staggered sideways, sagging against the pool table. The yellow ball spun to a stop and the wine glass shattered behind him, the white dropping into the broken shards.

Within moments the crowd ebbed away, their evening’s free entertainment over. Andrew reluctantly nodded and headed to the bar, leaving him unsteadily picking bits of glass from the table, dropping them into an empty pint.

James felt someone move up close behind as he bent over the table. He hoped it was the blonde one, with the tight white top and the blue eyes. Had he seen a change in her expression after he made the shot? He tried to drag the memory forward, those last few seconds of clarity before the music ended. No, she had still been looking at him like he was a cockroach, a performing cockroach, but a cockroach none the less.

A hand landed on his shoulder, dragging him upright, then one gripped the other side. He felt two people close up against him, his arms were gripped tightly. It felt like a steel vice was clamping down on them.

“James Hale,” said a deep gravelly voice, “we’ve been looking for you for a while.”

James twisted in their grip trying to look over his shoulder at the two shadowy figures, their hoods still pulled low over their faces. No-one in the bar was reacting, the noise and bustle continuing as if nothing was happening. He could see Andrew leaning over the bar, flirting with Amy, the barmaid he’d been seeing for a few weeks. His attention was fixed on her, not so much as a glance over his shoulder. James opened his mouth to shout, earning him a headbutt to the temple. It made the world swim even more than the pints of Guinness he'd downed earlier.

“Enough of that lad, I don’t want to hurt you. But don’t test me.” The grip on his arms tightened, bending his wrists forward. He tried to push up on his toes to ease the pressure, but the hands on his shoulders prevented him moving.

“Okay,” James blurted out, his voice high and squeaky. The pressure eased and he sagged in their grip.

“That was a very impressive shot, Mr Hale. Would you like to know how you’re able to do that? And perhaps how much more you may be able to achieve? There could be so much more to your life than trick shots in some shithole bar.”

“Maybe,” James said, his heart now beating faster as the cold feeling of panic spread through him. This was making no sense, why could no-one see these apes trying to break his arms. Only a few moments before. the eyes of the whole pub had been on him.

“That’s good, Mr Hale. It makes no difference either way; you will be leaving with us now.” The grip on his arms and shoulders increased lifting his scruffy boots off the floor, they started dragging him towards the toilets.

The fear now grew into blind panic as adrenaline coursed through his system, momentarily overcoming the excess alcohol he’d drunk. James lashed out with his work boots, the muddy steel toecaps connecting hard with their legs as he thrashed about. The hands let go. As he slumped to the floor a fist flashed out hitting him hard across the jaw. The world spun as he lay on the tiles. Then a boot hit him in the ribs with an audible crack. Pain, like fire, lanced down his side.

The shadowy figures bent over him again, their loose grey smocks concealing any features. “Mr Hale, I told you not to test me,” came the gravelly voice again, “Don’t do this the hard way. It’s not worth the pain.”

They took an arm each and dragged him through the door to the toilets, the chipped white wood swinging closed behind him, cutting off the sounds of the busy pub. His precious Atari tee-shirt caught and ripped on a cracked beige tile as he slithered across the filthy toilet floor. The fire door beyond the urinals banged open, the cold night air flooding the reeking space. In the orange glare of a street lamp, James caught a glimpse of a white van, the side door wide open, he thought he saw more shadowy shapes inside. They dragged him headfirst down the steps and dumped him onto the cold metal floor. As the door slid closed, cutting him off from the world, a bag dropped over his head, he heard zipping as his hands and feet were bound tight.

The van pulled away. Through the hood, James could hear harsh breathing beside him, he tried to shuffle away, his bound feet kicking at the floor. His head hit something soft.

“Watch it dickhead,” came a muffled female voice.

“Sorry,” he mumbled in a half whisper and lay still. The adrenaline was now fading, the hot tight hood across his face, made him want to throw up.

The van eventually came to a halt, the back doors thrown open. Harsh white light seeped in through the tight weave of the bag making him blink after what seemed like hours in the dark.

“Wakey, wakey, ladies and gents,” came the gravelly voice once again. “Your new life is about to begin.”