I remember thinking that the Barge Man was brave. The last time he’d been in the pub he’d been thrown out – physically. He’d intruded, sat at our table, insisting on performing magic tricks (which consisted of getting too close to the women and intimidating them). I did not think he was not much of a magician.
That’s why, when I saw him in there again, I thought, that’s brave.
It takes a brave man to go back into a pub he’s been thrown out of
I was in the back room, playing darts with myself – it was something to do – when a man walked in, oldish, lean and wearing a flat cap.
A traveller. He offered me a game of 301 and I accepted. And a few minutes into the game I was winning. That’s when the Barge Man, broad and dirty entered. He was the traveller’s friend. They must have known each other from the canal.
The Barge Man shuffled over to the table upon which I’d left my belongings: my phone, my wallet, my house keys, jacket and beer.
Suspicious, I moved over to the table and for a moment I thought I was going to have to concede – maybe he was a decent magician:
My pint had disappeared; glass and all.
It was a lucky coincidence that at that moment the barman, let’s call him Wayne, entered the room. He heard me ask the Barge Man if he’d seen my beer; if he’d taken it.
Wayne pulled the Barge Man’s long jacket open.
Hey presto!
There it was.
My beer! In his hand. Not hidden under his jacket any more.
Slight of hand?
Shite of hand.
It takes a brave man to go back to a pub he’s been thrown out of, but to steal on his return must be something else.
Again, he was barred.
My thoughts, when walking home, were of revenge. Not for me to exact; rather, I was wondering what he might do.
Burn down my house, maybe.
In bed I thought of him.
I saw him in the shadows of a starless night. I saw him with petrol, forcing it through my letterbox. I saw the spark, heard the hiss of a match struck. I saw the petrol burn. The carpets melt. The walls char.
I saw the smoke rise, curling, strangling the light fittings. And I saw the flames rage orange.
I saw the smoke crawl under my bedroom door and felt the heat on the other side. I choked on thick fumes, wheezing and desperate. Drowning. I felt the panic, the terror of death.
And then I wrote it down.
Unmadeup contributor and children’s book author Nik Perring lives in the north west of England. He writes short stories and poems and is a workshop leader. His blog is here… and he also wrote this story.