Live to Regret it

“Don't do it.”

“What?” I bark at the old man, who stands between me and the exit of Beran’s bar.

“Don't do it. You'll regret it.” He stares at me. I can see his hands tremble. Old age, or fear? I felt a shiver myself. Why this, why now? I push past him, head starting to spin.

“I’ve no idea who you are, or what you're talking about. Out my way, please.” It's not true, there's something familiar about him, making this whole encounter more unnerving.

“I know you. I know what this plan is. It's not a good idea. Don't do it.”

I keep walking, concentrating on keeping a cocky stride, to keep up appearances. Not letting on how much this had shaken me. Surely it’s just coincidence? How could he know?

###

“Come on Jay, one last job, enough to pay everything off, that's all I'm asking.”

Rewind back an hour. I'm in Beran's with the lads, in a dimly-lit booth, dusty brick walls on two sides and a flimsy wood screen on the third, perfect for privacy. These lads I've known since school, we've played together, fought together, been on and off work sites with each other, and yeah, done a few jobs of our own together. Never got caught, it paid cover for a couple of months between work, the perfect crime. A couple of pints in, the conversation has turned serious again. I know Sam’s been out of work for a while now, money shortages starting to bite closer to the bone again. 

“Look, we got away with that once, but that's how you get busted, going back a second time.” I reply, a low whisper just above the background of clinking glasses, beer-soaked arguments and football commentary. I've landed a more steady job over the last year, it might be moving to a permanent contract for once. This time, I believe it, too. 

“Look, Jay,” pleads Ewan, always the smooth one, always building bridges, “they didn't have a clue who did the last one, or how we did it. Lovely clean hit. Besides, for five mill, it's worth the chance, isn't it?”

He has a point. There'd never need to be another. Sam's helped me out before as well, put his neck on the line. I take a deep pull on my pint, try to drown out the nagging doubt with the bitter kick of lukewarm lager. Absently, I trace out a figure-8 on the sticky table with a drop of condensation from my glass. I look up, look him in the eye, give him a nod.

“Tell you what,” Sam continues, “this isn't the place to go over details. You all know the equipment to bring, meet me the usual place, half past midnight.” He tosses his pint back, bangs the empty glass down. “See you all later!” With that he walks out the bar.

###

What did that old man know? How could he have overheard us? The thoughts chip away at me as I walk back to the flat, my feet splashing in puddles, stepping around empty cans, plastic bags and takeaway wrappers. Could he just have been an old weirdo, trying to scare me for no reason? Did he say that to everyone, for a sick thrill? On the other hand, if he did know something, was he trying to tip me off? Should I call Sam up and tell him? Would they really believe I got spooked out by some old man?

I unlock the front door, a spider web traced in the wired glass from someone's kick, climb the stairs under a flickering fluorescent tube, let myself in to the flat. Marissa hasn't stayed, I didn't expect her to, with the early shift tomorrow, but I'm realising right now I want her here, anyone here. I don't know if I could tell her - she never knew about the other jobs, and I don't want her to find out - but to have someone to talk to might just centre me a bit. Let me talk about something else, hope my brain can unpick my problems in the background. I flick the TV on, just to have some mindless chatter while I think. Some cooking show. That'll do.

Maybe I could just… not turn up? A bit of a cowardly way out, but really it's just the vibes from tonight. Yeah, that's it. That man can't have known anything, I'm just off my game. I'd not be much use like this, a bundle of nerves. They'll be disappointed, but won't stay mad with me for long. The decision lifts a weight off my shoulders I hadn't realised I was carrying. I turn the TV off again. It's been a long day. I turn on the anaemic bedroom light, turn off the kitchen lights, shrug off my clothes and get into bed.

###

It's in the car, driving to work, when everything changes. The rain's eased, but there's roadworks jamming the traffic into a single lane. Typical. No, not getting angry today. It's not a help. I flick the radio on for a distraction.

“... explosion in the vault of Boyd’s Bank last night. Police say three men were killed at the scene, they may have been attempting a burglary…”

The world pulls away from me at that moment. Sounds turn to background noise. My arms seem like they're someone else's. I hit the brake, stop the car. My heart hammers in my throat. It can't be. But Boyd’s was the plan? It can't be? Sound trickles reluctantly back in to my ears. Car horns. Angry yelling. I watch myself start the car back up, pull away again, as if I'm sat in the passenger seat. Somehow I make it to a parking space, pull in, stop. I've no idea how long I sat there. 

Eventually I try to call Sam, Ewan, anyone. Nothing. Straight to answerphone. I feel sick. I can't carry on. I've got to find somewhere quiet, call the boss, say I'm too ill to come in. Stumble back up the stairs to lie on the bed, stare at the ceiling.

###

Marissa calls me around three, the news has started to creep out. 

“Are you ok?” she asks.

“Woke up feeling awful, taken a sickie,” I reply. I can't tell her why. I shouldn't have known who it was in the bank vault. Another twist of my stomach. Could I have stopped them?

“Oh… I just was talking to Lisa… there's no easy way to tell you this…”

She tells me everything I suspected, that Sam and Ewan have been found dead by the vault, while I try my best to feign surprise. The cold knife of guilt stabs me again. Why didn't I call them last night? I knew something was off. The walls seem to get closer. I can't speak.

“What do you need? I can come over, whatever you want,” she blurts.

“Right now, I think I just need to be alone,” I reply. It's the last thing I want, but she'll come over and see I'm not ill. She'll work out I was mixed up in this, and worse, I left them to their deaths.

Who was that man? What did he know?

###

Outside the police station, I force myself to walk on a couple of streets before I stop and my legs give way. I push my back against the rough brick wall, my feet slide out into a stack of damp cardboard boxes. It's over. I've walked out, still a free man, at least for now. I'm sure they suspect me, they always suspect our type, but they can't have anything to charge me with. What stings the most is denying my own friends. Saying I had nothing to do with them, just to save my skin. A phrase pops to my head, back from my school days:

“before the cock crows, you shall deny me thrice.” 

My memory's hazy where this fits. Did Jesus get arrested and ditched by his mates? Did he plan a bank heist? I'm a pool of misery. Living a lie. The only thing that stops me sinking to the bottom of a bottle is I can't face seeing the bar again.

###

The past few months have really stretched me close to breaking, I've kept my job and Marissa but only by the skin of my teeth and if I'm honest, a lot of patience and good grace on the part of both. I can feel it coming but I feel powerless to stop that well of anger bubbling to the surface. I'm not really angry at anyone else. Just myself. I keep reliving that evening, thinking about what would have happened if I'd told the lads. My darker thoughts turned to actions, hanging around outside Beran's with a knife hidden under my coat, trying to catch that old man again, squeeze the truth from him. Was he involved? Did he kill them? Never any sign of him, though. Marissa suspects I've turned to drink and is keeping a subtle eye on me; I’d almost rather it was that. I can't seem to stop tearing my life apart.

It's a Saturday, I've taken a walk down the high street to try and shake a few demons loose. It's there I see her; shrunken, frail, a ghostly shadow of the hard-talking, no-nonsense peroxide blonde she was. Lisa, Sam's girlfriend. She seems lost, uncertain, stood in front of the café nestled into the grimy brick railway arch.

“Lise,” I reach out to her, no idea what to say next. She looks back with eyes that look drained of all her tears. “Look, if you need anything… I'm here… Would you like a cup of tea?” I gesture to the café. Lisa smiles weakly.

“I'd like that,” she replies.

###

“The thing is, I had no idea Sam was even capable of that,” she blurts out over the gentle steam from her polystyrene cup, “when they called and said he'd been found in the vault I was convinced they'd called the wrong person! I didn't even know he'd lost his job! Did you?” Her deep brown eyes bore into me with a sudden sharp focus. I try not to flinch.

“He did tell me about the job, yes, he said he'd get something soon and not to worry you about it though.” I can feel my hair stand up. “Sorry.” Lisa sighs. 

“I just don't know how to move on. I feel like I don't know who he was at all.” I pat her hand.

“He was more than that. You know it, I know it. He was my mate, and a decent one. Remember that about him, too.”

###

I think that's when I really started to appreciate what Marissa had been doing for me. Just putting up with me, for a start. I just went for broke and told her. I think it meant more to her than I realised. 

I accepted why I was angry with myself, started to forgive myself. Sure, I could have done more, but they made their own decision. Even when I didn't show up, they went on, I never made them. I stopped hanging around Beran's, stopped obsessing about the man, even forgot his face.

I started putting in a few extra shifts a week, to save up. I bought a ring, not extravagant but just fancy enough that its meaning was clear. I'll never forget, Marissa gave me a slap on the arm and a ‘stop your messing!’ before she realised I was serious.

“You silly sod, you saved up for months for this? I'd marry you for nothing!” She pulled me back up off my knees and gave me a deep kiss. It was like water to a man rescued from the desert.

###

Sometimes, when I'm alone at night, I think back to that man and whether he was a force for good, my guardian angel perhaps. My life certainly took a different track after I met him. At times, the loss of the lads rises back to the surface, as sharp as that day in the car, as deep as the memory of the last time I held Marissa’s hand. Then I think of young Sam, my son who's not so young these days, and his children. Proof of a life well lived, a warm and comfortable legacy.

I see Lisa again for the first time in years, another chance meeting by the arches. The café has changed hands maybe a dozen times since, but we go in for a cuppa anyway. The shocking white of her hair these days suits her better than the dye of her youth ever did. Laughter lines gently highlight her smile.

“Lisa, I need to tell you something,” I stumble. She quizzes me with the same brown eyes, peering over her rimless glasses. “I knew about Sam, I didn't go with him, but I didn't try and stop him either.”

“Of course you did,” she snaps back, “you four always were tight together, always knew each others’ secrets. He'd not do that without you knowing.” She leans back, places a hand on mine, her tone softens. “I also know you'd never have talked him out of it. You were always the one with sense, they should've known. I've known, I've never held you responsible for it, if that's what you're wondering.” I exhale, it seems like an invisible band that's been hloding my ribcage tight has relaxed, finally.  I squeeze her hand back.

###

“...and then we made a pumpkin lantern, only Dad dropped it on the floor!” gabbles my youngest granddaughter. The tinkling of childish delight is like a gentle brook, and warms my old heart.

“Ok, kids, say bye to Grandad, we need to go out for football practice!”

“Bye, grandad!” they chorus. I bid my goodbyes to them and to Sam, disconnect the call. It's quiet here, a place to be alone with my thoughts. My thoughts must have rocked me to sleep; I wake to the day's dying purple sky. I feel like a walk, to move the joints around, stop them getting too stiff. Getting up with a creak and a pop, I put on my coat and head out the door.

I wander nowhere in particular, end up back on the main street, bathed in the yellow of the streetlights, feet drawn to old haunts. Relics of a misspent youth. I'm on the corner of where Beran's bar once stood, a new bar here now. But… they've renamed it Beran's, even using the old sign. A nice touch. I have all evening, I might just go and see how they've done it up inside.

Squeezing through the narrow hallway into the bar, I see a silhouette coming towards me. A young fella, on his way out. Walking with exaggerated confidence, the hubris of youth. He gets closer, and I feel my age hit me like a brick. My fingers shake. It's me.

“Don't do it,” I splutter.