The Fleadh

thethemeis: Reunions

theauthoris: LiamD

Jack pushes open the vaguely familiar heavy wooden doors and trudges slowly towards the unfamiliar man standing behind a counter on the right hand side of the room. He feels the man’s eyes bore further into him with each step he takes, and quickly grows tired of his expression that does all but scream, What are you doing back here?! You have no place here anymore; we all know what you did, we all know what you are and you won’t get away with it! But, Jack knows, for this unknown face in front of him to actually be forming such thoughts would be impossible; nobody knows what he is. For that matter, there would be very few people remaining who even know who he is. Nobody knows what he did; he’s already gotten away with it. So instead of succumbing to his fear, turning there and then, and bolting back through the heavy doors he’s not long entered, Jack completes his inevitable journey to this man who cannot know him and, in a voice that betrays all of the weight of the world that is piled heavily upon his shoulders, states:

“I’ll have a Foster’s.”

The unfamiliar man nods silently and begins to pour a pint of bubbling orange piss into a clear glass marked with a circled white ‘F’, and by the time the man says

“That’ll be £3.50,”

any real fears Jack might have had have been alleviated.

The cold sip of the beer makes Jack realise just how hot he is in his suit and tie, so he unravels the cheap black polyester from around his neck, unfastens his top button, and removes the suit jacket for good measure. The funeral had been an all-round unpleasant affair, as most funerals are, but this was more so than others. Jack’s brother Nick had always been very open with his close friends when he was alive, and those who had arranged and attended the funeral had known exactly what type of a role model Jack had been to his younger, belated brother.

He had not given a speech; in what he thought of as an honourable gesture that would most likely never be appreciated, Jack had kept out of the funeral arrangements, leaving it to those who had known and loved Nick most. Initially he believed they’d recognise his distance as a mark of respect, a final dignity for his brother. But as he sat in the crematorium, watching the box containing what used to be his brother trundle inexorably towards the flames, he felt their glares all the same. In a room of people united by their grief, Jack had cried alone. It was all too much for him, and as soon as the service had ended, he caught the first train to Wembley Park with only one destination in mind. He had twenty-four hours until the 17:40 Easyjet left for Krakow; plenty of time to erase the day from his memory with his sweet amber nectar.

For the first time, Jack focuses on something other than the bottom of his beer glass or the barman, and surveys the room. The Fleadh is quite a small pub, and there are only a few patrons other than himself inside. A middle-aged, grey haired man sits on a stool a little further down the bar and eyes Jack suspiciously whilst dipping his bulbous nose into a pint of pale ale. To his left, on a small table in the far corner of the room, sit three younger men, each wearing t-shirts and stonewashed jeans. They laugh loudly and often, making inappropriate jokes about the reports of a celebrity accused of paedophilia being shown on the large LCD opposite them, and the lives he may or may not have ruined.

Behind him, a young couple sitting at a small table talk quietly and urgently, and Jack wonders if his ears are beginning to burn. He overhears snippets of ‘…at the bar, in a suit…’ and ‘…like he’s just been to a funeral…’ He does his best to ignore them and orders another drink. The barman makes no attempt at conversation, and Jack is beginning to think the room has conspired to loathe him without bothering to find an excuse first. This doesn’t surprise him, and neither does the loud giggle that bursts from the mouth of the young woman on the table behind him; he guesses he must look pretty funny, to the casual observer. He drinks some more. After three quick mouthfuls, he has already finished half the glass, and he quickly downs the rest. As he lowers the drink, he hears footsteps creeping quietly towards him from behind. In the bottom of his glass, he sees the reflection of a well-built, grinning man approaching him.

Jack turns around and his eyes widen slightly as his brain recognises the man now standing in front of him. It is the man who laughed; the man who pulled the trigger; the man who killed Lauren Healy in front of him one year ago today. Jack smiles a smile that he hopes doesn’t look anywhere near as forced as it feels, and greets his old acquaintance.

“Jesus Christ, alright Tom? I didn’t know you still lived ‘round here!”

*

Tom had seen Jack enter the pub about twenty minutes earlier. That is, he noticed a weather-beaten, defeated looking man trudging miserably towards the bar and remaining there to drown his heavy sorrows. Tom had probably even stood next to him as he got the first round in, but focusing, as he was, on how best to get Jess drunk, out of her tastefully plain office clothes, and back to his bed, he hadn’t thought much of the establishment’s other clientele. In fact, it was only when Jess had interrupted his detailed explanation of his current training regime (for, he knew, no woman can resist a well maintained six-pack) to comment on how sad and lonely the solitary figure at the bar looked, that he paid enough attention to recognise the face.

“Shit… I used to know him.” He muttered when the penny dropped. Never one to think for too long before speaking, Tom sent most of his thoughts on a live stream to his mouth. If he had stopped to think, he might have kept this one to himself.

“Didn’t you like him?” Against the backdrop of Tom’s thoughts about his and Jack’s dark past, Jess’s face was the portrait of innocence.

“Yeah I did… once… it’s complicated,” he told her, and after seeing the naked confusion on her face hastily added, “I’m not fucking bent, we were good mates who fell out!”

Jess giggled at this, and Tom realised she’d been winding him up. He quite liked this girl, he’d decided.

Not three hours ago, he hadn’t known she’d existed. The Spartan Singles speed dating event had been a complete waste of time, as far as Tom was concerned. The smoking hot lap dancer called Mindy that he was chatting to online hadn’t turned up and all of the other female attendees had proved to be ugly, boring or both. That was, until he’d sat at table four and got chatting to the slightly chubby office bird with the subtle, rimless glasses and mundanely bun-tied hair. Ok, she was no knock-out, he knew that, and sure, she looked like she might have had a stick up her arse. Yet, in spite of all of that, she was definitely the fittest girl in the room, as little an achievement as that may have been. Aside from the challenge of sexual conquest though (something that Tom knew he was more than up to), he had genuinely come to enjoy her company as the afternoon progressed. There was something familiar about her, something comfortable, and he liked how feisty she was.

“Why don’t you invite him over for a drink with us?” she suggested. “Maybe you can patch things up.” If Tom hadn’t already drank four pints of lager on an empty stomach, he might have thought this an odd thing for a girl he was (presumably) dating to ask. But since he was half-cut by this point, he welcomed the idea as if he’d thought of it himself.

“I’ll bring him over. Want another drink?”

“No, thanks.” Tom had known what her answer would be before he’d asked the question; her glass was still full from the previous round, but no one could say he hadn’t offered. Standing up, he made his way towards the bar.

*

Tom briefly wonders why the smile on Jack’s face looks so forced, before ignoring it entirely. He asks the barman for two pints of Fosters and two shots of vodka and has paid before Jack has had the chance to make an excuse to object.

“I don’t really,” says Tom. Jack gives him a puzzled look, so he elaborates: “Live around here, I mean. I moved to Romford a while back. I only came by today to see a man about a dog.” He laughs a laugh that might be infectious to an innocent bystander who has never heard it in the right context. Jack is not infected. He wonders about the type of men and the kind of dogs Tom might have had business with since becoming a murderer. Tom, meanwhile, thinks that there are some things you just don’t admit to your mates, and the fact you’ve been speed dating is one of them.

“What are you doing in these parts? I thought you’d left the country.”

“I did,” Jack replies. “I live in Poland, but my brother died last week; I’m back for his funeral.”

“Shit, sorry mate, I had no idea,” says Tom. He tries to think of something sympathetic to say, but comes up at a loss. In the end he goes with, “Come and sit with us.”

“Us?” Jack remembers as soon as he’s asked that Tom has been sitting with a young girl. “Your girlfriend?” he asks, hopefully.

“Well I haven’t had a chance to fuck her yet, but we’ll soon fix that,” he sneers.

“Heh, good one,” Jack laughs unenthusiastically. Tom, who had initially been excited about catching up with Jack, starts to recall why they’d grown apart in the first place, before concluding that Jack hasn’t changed a bit.

He’s still acting all fucking weird around me, he thinks.

“Are we doing these shots, or what?” he says.

They knock back their 35ml glasses of Smirnoff and walk over to the table, lagers in hand.

“Hi, Jack!” The girl greets him as he takes a seat. “I’m Jess.” Jack thinks it a bit creepy how she calls him by his name before he’s told her what it is, but then he remembers the way they were so obviously talking about him before Tom came over, and wonders just how much she’s been told about him. He smiles politely to her.

“Pleased to meet you,” There’s something homely about this girl, something familiar and comforting, and Jack can’t help but smile as he says it. It actually cheers him up a little, before he thinks of the danger she might be in with Tom around.

A slightly awkward silence ensues while Tom takes a generous mouthful of beer, and from the small speakers of the LCD, a newsreader can be heard.

“…no sign of high-street worker Lauren Healy, after twelve months of investigation. Police were optimistic about the case when a confessional suicide note was found by the body of Paul Wright in Harrow last October, but ten months on, and Detective Chief Inspector Samuel Porter admits that they are no closer to finding Lauren or the remaining perpetrators…”

If Jess notices the awkward movements Jack makes at the mention of Paul Wright, she doesn’t mention it. Jack listens to the news pensively, wondering what might have been, had Paul not felt the urge to take his own life. Tom looks at Jack enquiringly.

“So, out of all the countries you could have moved to,” he begins, “why the fuck did you choose Poland?”

“Dunno really, just fancied a change.” Jack talks sheepishly, as if in fear of ridicule.

“I’ve heard it’s a beautiful country,” Jess puts in cheerily. Jack gives her a grateful smile.

“Yeah, maybe,” Tom replies, “if you like your countries full of builders and fast food workers.” He sneers and takes another huge swig of his pint. He slams his glass down and assesses the amount of lager remaining in Jack’s glass.

“Are you gonna drink that, or just sit there nursing it?” Jack no longer thinks it a wise idea to stay in The Fleadh all night, but he isn’t about to tell Tom.  He takes a long enough gulp to satisfy him. Tom turns to Jess.

“Are you sure you don’t want another drink?” She declines with a smile, and Tom wonders how he’s ever going to get her drunk enough to bed. Perhaps I can spike her drink, he jokes to himself darkly.

Jack finds some small talk. “What do you do then, Jess?”

“Oh, I work for-” She begins to respond, but is interrupted by Tom.

“Fuckin’ hell – look who’s just walked in.” He stands up, shouting: “Rob, over ‘ere!”

*

Rob was three sheets to the wind, which was not unusual; his view on alcohol was that it was a useful coping aid for the guilt and sorrows of everyday life. What was unusual, was for Rob to be a happy drunk. Tonight, Rob wasn’t just happy – he was singing.

They had done it, and Rob was ecstatic. It had been a real nail-biter, and there were times Rob was sure that they weren’t going to make it, but somehow they had gotten through it, and they had done it.

Charlton Athletic had beaten Millwall.

The Championship playoff final had been a close, tough contest, with each team scoring three goals apiece over the course of the first eighty-eight minutes. In the eighty-sixth, Green had given away a penalty, and everyone at Wembley was convinced at that point that Charlton had thrown it away. But somehow, Hamer had managed to not only save the shot from Morison but he had actually held onto it, and sent it down the left wing to give life to a swift counter attack. It had all happened so quickly, and fifteen seconds later the Addicks fans erupted as Johnnie Jackson coolly placed the ball neatly past Forde in the Millwall goal, securing Charlton’s place in the Premiership next season.

Rob had been singing all the way to the pub, although somewhere along the way he’d lost the words, so that by the time he arrived outside The Fleadh, it sounded less like song and more like a sequence of drunken ‘whey’s and ‘ah’s.

He didn’t find it surprising that he’d ended up at The Fleadh. It was really the only pub he knew in the area. He pushed open the wooden doors, like another two men of a similar age had done previously that night, and marched to the bar.

“I’ll have a Fosters please!” he exclaimed merrily.

The barman seemed to be weighing up his options of serving him or not, as he asked, “How many have you had, mate?”

“One for every goal!” Rob told him. In his intoxicated state, he still musters enough self-control not to tell him about the additional shots he’d been doing for each foul. It was a derby, after all.

The barman looked like he was about to refuse service, until they were interrupted by a shout from a table opposite the bar.

“Rob, over ‘ere!”

*

Rob looks towards the table behind him and sees the grinning face that has haunted his darkest nightmares for the last nine months, when he’s been sober enough to dream. At some point in the confused trail of his drunken thoughts, a voice tells him to leave the pub now, to catch the next tube to Kings Cross and journey home to Sheffield while he still can, but the thought slips away from him, as his mind prioritises his concentration on the more important tasks of standing straight and acting sober. So, instead of shouting or crying or running, he sings,

“Wheyyyy, Tommy boy, Tommy boy, Tommy boy!”

as if it’s a well-known football chant.

“It’s alright mate, he’s with us,” Tom tells the barman, as if this is perfectly valid criteria for serving alcohol to someone who is clearly on the verge of hospitalisation. The barman mutters something inaudible that sounds a lot like “it’s his funeral”, but protests no further.

Rob buys a fresh round of drinks, much to Jack’s dismay, and joins them at the small table.

“Who’s the lady?” asks Rob. Swimming around somewhere in his head is the notion that he’s seen her somewhere before, but he can’t quite grasp it.

“Jess. Pleasure to meet you,” says Jess.

“Met her today,” Tom explains, before adding in a stage whisper “I think she likes me,” and giving Jess a wink. To her credit, Jess doesn’t bat an eyelid.

“Well, we’re having a right fucking reunion today!” he declares, before turning back to Rob. “Why are you back round this neck of the woods?”

“Playoff final, weren’t it.” He starts chanting we are going up and Jess giggles at his drunken behaviour.

“Fuck me, you won the lottery or something?” Tom asks. Rob was always the poor one in the group.

“Nah, I won the tickets in a competition.” He stumbles over the last word and then burps loudly. Jess continues to giggle.

“Wha’bout you two?”

“Funeral…” mutters Jack.

“This an’ that.” shrugs Tom. He decides to change the subject. “Enough of this small talk shit, let’s get these drinks down us.”

And so it comes to be that Jack (who stays reluctantly), Rob (who at this stage couldn’t decline another beer if his life depended on it) and Tom (who is just happy to be seeing his old friends again) spend their evening drinking more than is healthy for them until the late closing hours of The Fleadh.

*

Jess looks around the table at the three men she’s spent the evening with and marvels at how easy the chance meeting was to manufacture. She’d been anxious all evening about how the affair would pan out, but once Rob had walked through the door singing in that ridiculous inebriated fashion, she had barely been able to contain her feelings of accomplishment. It has become late and the drinking pace has slowed to a crawl. All three men are very drunk.

Tom stands up urgently and shouts “Gotta go toilet!” before sauntering off to the urinals.

Rob also arises as steadily as he can manage, which, given the circumstances, isn’t very steadily at all, and slurs “Going home… shouldn’t have stayed… he’s a bad man…” incoherently. He stumbles towards the pub’s entrance, but trips on a stray leg of furniture on the way and falls to the ground in a crash of tables and chairs.

The barman helps him up. “Come on mate, let’s get you in a cab,’ he says, and leads him out of the front door.

Jess giggles again, and looks over at Jack, who is probably the least trashed of the three men. She smiles at him sweetly. It makes Jack feel guilty. While he may have drank far too much over the course of the night, he has still been worrying about this innocent girl’s future with Tom. Waiting for the opportunity to warn her about him is the only reason he’s stayed as long as he has. At least, that’s what he’s been telling himself. There is a loud thump from the direction of the men’s toilet, and Jack decides to tell her before he loses the opportunity.

“There’s something you need to know, Jess. About Tom,” he begins.

“I always suspected you were the nice one, Jack. You were the wildcard, you know. I didn’t know if you’d come.” She’s still smiling as she says it, and this makes Jack all the more confused.

“Seriously Jess, listen to me. You can’t meet up with him again; he’s an evil man.” The alcohol hasn’t been making it easy to hold onto his thoughts, but he feels that if he can just convince her of this, it won’t matter. Behind them the barman has returned and is making his way to the toilets to investigate the noise.

“I mean, Tom was easy. He thinks with nothing but his cock. I send him one message from a fake account on a dating site and he’s begging to meet up.”

Jack hears what she is saying but finds it difficult to process. His head is starting to feel numb and a prickling pins and needles sensation is tickling the nape of his neck.

“Jess, please, I’m not joking.”

“Rob was harder, but I still knew he wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of seeing his beloved team at Wembley. I work for Sky Sports, you know. It was me who drew his name as the competition winner.” Jack thinks he understands what she is implying, but it still makes no sense to him. Why would she have brought them together?

“But then there was you, Jack. Nine hundred miles away on the cusp of Eastern Europe. I didn’t think I was going to be able to bring you back. But then I remembered your brother. I couldn’t be sure that you were close, not with your track record, but I didn’t have any other ideas.”

“What… who are you?” Jack has to really concentrate to force the words out. The numbness has been spreading the whole time she’s been talking, and his head is beginning to droop towards the table.

“My name is Jess, Jack. You know that. Jessica Healey.” She is still smiling at him, but what he previously thought of as sweet in the smile he now recognises as malice.

“Jessica… Healey?” He’s struggling intensely not to succumb to the anaesthesia tugging at his brain, beckoning him into a deep sleep. Before he follows its lead, a rush of connected thoughts informs him as to why he found this girl so familiar, why he’d felt the strong urge to protect her. He knows now that she has drugged him, knows that she is taking a form of twisted revenge. He uses his last ounce of strength to tell her the one thing that can save him.

“But it was Tom,” he manages, “Tom killed Lauren…”

“Maybe it was. Maybe he ended her life. But you all ensured that she was never found. You all ran away, and you all hid the truth. For that, I will never forgive you.”

The barman returns from the toilet, dragging an unconscious Tom out towards the heavy double doors.

“What do you want done with them?” he asks Jess.

“There’s a van in the car park. The rear doors are open, stick the three of them in there. Andy’s driving, he’ll give you a hand.” She looks at Jack’s head as it rests on the table in front of her and a uncontrollable rage shifts through her body as she remembers her sweet sister. She waits for it to subside and looks to the barman again “I really appreciate this, Pete.”

He clears Jack’s limp body from her view, and she sits at the table alone, finally drinking the vodka and orange juice Tom bought her two hours ago.