The Wrong Bar

The Dead Man’s Rest was a grubby little tavern but here at the docklands it fitted right in. The weathered and half rotted facade made no effort whatsoever to disguise itself from any that considered partaking of what it had to offer. It seemed as though no one had thought to do any maintenance to the old building since it had been built in the Georgian era if the date above the door was anything to go by. It was also doubtful that the glass had been cleaned either, the smoke staining so thick it was impossible to see anything more than silhouettes.

For all its lack of street appeal, Dead Man’s Rest was more than popular. Hamish frequently overheard his fellow dock workers rating its drinks and planning gatherings for after work. None of which he had been invited to but he was new here and he was a solitary man. He was grateful no one pushed. If he wanted to socialise he would do it in his own time. For now he had just come to drink alone and nothing else.

Opening the decrepit door, Hamish stepped into the smoke choked establishment. It was not as busy as he expected but it was late wednesday night. A time for solo drinkers with too many issues and no one to share them with. Not one of them seemed to notice him, bowed over their drinks as they were, and Hamish did them the courtesy of not noticing them either.

He had expected something a little more nautical themed given their proximity to the docks, however it seemed the owners had a penchant for what appeared to be taxidermied mythical monsters. Whoever had created them was to be commended on their creativity. The damned things looked so real. It all blended perfectly with the visual weight of all the heavy, grime-coated timbers that covered every surface. It was dark, it was dingy and the perfect mix of depressing. Just his kind of bar.

“What can I get for you tonight, lovely?” the bartender asked, her upbeat tone in stark contrast to her bland expression. She wore black clothes with heavy black makeup and had more holes in her face than Hamish had in his socks and enough metal piercings to make it look as though she had tried to stitch it back together.

Hamish slid himself onto a stool at the bar, trying to ignore the tackiness of the counter, and eyed the drinks list on the wall. They all appeared to be cocktails of some sort or other. Some he had heard off, most he had not. Where was the whiskey, where was the rum?

“Scotch double, neat,”

“Nah, love. Just what’s on the board,” she said, thrusting her chin toward it.

He studied the list again. Not once in his entire life had he ever drunk a cocktail. He was a simple man who liked simple spirits and couldn’t hazard a guess at any of the offered beverages.

“Tom Collins.”

She shook her head. “Sorry, Tom was a limited drink. We ran out of that one fairly quickly and haven’t been able to restock.”

“What’s an el diablo?”

“You like heat?” she asked

“How much heat?” he countered sceptically.

“Your mouth will be numb for a week. The other end…” She shrugged her shoulders.

Hamish’s face pulled into a concerned frown. Who would want a drink like that?

“Cara. Corpse Reviver, please,” a man called from down the bar. He turned to look at Hamish with the milky eyes of a blind man. He got the distinct feeling that the man wasn’t blind though his appearance would suggest that he was. The man’s clothes and skin were covered in grime, every saggy crevice of his sallow face caked with it, and the smell emanating from him churned Hamish’s gut. It reminded him of a rat that had died in his apartment wall.

Cara moved away to serve the man. He watched as she poured liquids from unmarked bottles into a shaker and, with her many metal earrings clanging, vigorously shook the mix. She poured it into a tin cup and dropped what looked like an earthworm into it.

Hamish cringed. He had heard of folks having a worm in their tequila bottles but that was a straight up, dirty earthworm and the damn thing had moved. On the upside, he knew not to ask for that.

“Have you decided yet?”

“Why is it called a black russian?” 

Cara smirked at him and lent forward, resting her forearms on the counter. “Well, you know what they say. Once you go black…”

Hamish ignored the comment. He was here to drink and drink only but he didn’t want to waste his money on something that tasted like dishwater or like ‘swamp water surprise’ as one of them was named.

“What do you recommend?”

“What’s your name, love?” she asked instead.

“Hamish.”

“Hmm, I was hoping it would be Tom.” She sounded disappointed. “I don’t really know your tastes well enough to recommend something. Just know that if scotch is your flavour, then nothing here will be remotely similar.”

Hairy navel, frog in a blender, hair of the dog, what on earth were these names?

“Cara,” a voice shouted from across the room. “Two more whores, please.”

“Coming right up, Jack,” she called back, leaving Hamish to wallow in his uncertainty. 

For all the talk about this place, no one had ever mentioned just how hard it would be to pick a drink. He could guarantee it wouldn’t be whatever Cara was now making. The contents were thick and lumpy, looking like congealed tomato soup, and she was serving it in pretty little tea cups with a strip of black lace placed between the cup and saucer.

Cara took the drinks to a man sitting against the wall. He seemed oddly dressed in a high collared coat and top hat. The man was also sitting alone. The beverage must be good if he ordered two just for himself and Hamish was briefly tempted to order one but remembering the consistency of it, he couldn’t bring himself to put such a thing in his mouth.

Hamish’s face must have spoken volumes.

“Still can’t decide?” Cara asked, picking up a cloth and polishing a glass.

“What would you have?”

She tilted her head to the side as though amused by the question. “Personally I like the bloody mary.”

A bloody mary. It was a familiar sounding name. It couldn’t be too bad if it was popular and Cara, for all her unusual attire, seemed like a nice enough girl so he decided to agree to her suggestion.

“Very well then, Cara. One bloody mary please.”

She grinned at him with a smile that seemed a little too happy and began making his drink. She pulled out a martini glass which made Hamish feel as though he had chosen correctly. No weird tin or porcelain cups for him. Cara poured the red liquid into the glass, finished it off with a stick of celery and slid it onto the counter before him.

Hamish eyed the glass. From his small knowledge of the drink, it seemed to look as though it should. It was red, though darker than he had expected, and had the customary bit of plant in it. He pulled the celery out and left it on the sticky counter. Cara seemed to be watching him expectantly and with nothing left to do but drink it, Hamish lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip. The oddly warm liquid had a strong coppery taste to it and not the faintest hint of an alcoholic burn.

“What’s in this?” Hamish asked, confused and a little disgusted by the taste.

“Bloody Mary,” Cara replied, an excited light in her eyes. “Not to your tastes?”

“No, not really. What are the ingredients?”

Cara took the glass from him and took a sip, the red liquid clinging to her lips. She closed her eyes, savouring the  taste as her tongue peaked out to lick it away.

“Is it some sort of secret?” he pressed.

A wicked grin from Cara had Hamish suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

“It’s Mary,” she said again and moved to a door at the end of the bar. She cracked it open for Hamish to look beyond and what he saw there churned his stomach. A young woman lay upon a counter, her arm hanging off the side. A needle was buried in the crook of her arm and the tube below was flush with blood that slowly filled a clear bag. The woman’s head rolled to him, the look of the soon to be dead in her eyes, and with what little spirit she had left begged him to help her.

Hamish leapt from his stool, eyes wide and frightened, his heart thundering in his chest. 

“What’s going on here?” he yelled, his voice high pitched and unnatural sounding. His head whipped about and he noticed that all eyes had turned to him. All of them dark, hungry and wicked looking.

Cara smiled her biggest smile yet flashing her overly long canines. “I don’t think there’s a drink called ‘Hamish’ but perhaps we can make an exception.”

Hamish swallowed. This was definitely not his kind of bar.