As James sat in the pub having a beer, he couldn’t help but notice there were only two other people at the bar; one the barman, the other, a lonely middle aged woman.
‘Hey, how ya going?’ he asked the woman. She pretended not to hear him as she swirled her finger around the top of a wine glass.
‘Hey there – how ya going?’ he said a little louder.
‘Well how do I bloody-well look like I’m going?’ She hissed as she continued to stare into her almost empty glass.
‘Ah – okay I guess.’
‘Well I’m not bloody okay.’ She turned to face him, looked right through him. ‘My boy and husband are out there somewhere,’ she gestured with a slight nod toward the window behind James. ‘Don’t look like they're comin’ back. That fucking Chaos took ‘em. M-u-r-d-e-r-e-d ‘em it did.’
Her husky voice lingered heavy on the air like low hanging cigarette smoke in a dimly lit room. Murdered 'em it did, ran through James’s mind over and over, the mental weight of the four simple words sending his brain into a pulsating confused mess, a confetti of thoughts. He looked her over, wondered where she'd been, what she'd done. Was it karma for previous sins, fate, or just plain bad luck? She sat low on her stool, her tangled black hair curled down and rested upon the bar, her face drawn and grey in expression just like her posture. She turned to face him again. James sat back startled, half expecting her head to spin three hundred and sixty degrees. She opened her mouth again and said,
‘Murdered.’
James attempted to chat with her a while, but the conversation kept fading like a poorly fuelled fire. With each uncomfortable silence the flames would fail but James was ready with questions, more fuel. Eventually the shower of sorrow doused the fire until finally only smouldering ash remained. James was surprised that she managed to hold herself together; in fact, she didn't shed a single tear. Maybe all the years of living with an abusive alcoholic husband had somehow built up her defences against the sorrow within. Maybe she’s glad he’s gone, his disappearance finally putting an end to her torment, but on the other hand the loss of her son would be tearing her apart, the grief building inside her like a swelling gas bottle in a house fire, a ticking time bomb, tick-tick-tick...
Copyright,2010 J.WILSON
