“Fill her up John,” said a tall man in his early sixties, leaning against the bar, shaking the empty glass.

“Sure, you expecting anyone, Richard?” asks the barman, noticing Richard looking out the window.

“Yeah,” Richard smirked, “just some gimp, reckons I owe him some money.”

“Really?”

“No one of any importance,” smirked Richard, watching his fresh pint being pulled.

The barman sniggered, “not a friend then? Here you go, Richard.”

 

“Tar. Remember I was telling you about that bloke…” The barman’s eyes alerted Richard to look round. “…And here it is,” declared Richard. Both watched in silent amusement as a short, overweight man, in his late fifties, shuffles in. He awkwardly glanced around, clearly nervous, until he noticed Richard, “Hi mate,” the short man smiles, brushing his thick grey hair backwords.

“Pete!” declares Richard, briefly sharing a smile with the barman.

Pete shuffles over to the bar, “How are you mate? Your son playing today?”

“Yeah, he is, want a drink?”

“No, I don’t drink… remember?”

“No,” shrugged Richard.

“Just an orange juice then.”

“Really?” asks the barman, openly offended.

“Sorry, yes please, just an orange juice, please.”

“Oh,” declared the barman, finding the dirtiest glass he can.

“You reffing tomorrow?” enquires Richard, amused by the barman’s behaviour.

“There you go,” grunted the barman, handing a dirty glass, half full.

“Thanks,” replies Pete, aware the barman has taken a dislike to him.

“So, you reffing?” smiles Richard.

“Nah, my leg’s still giving me jip.” Pete looks around for a seat away from the bar, “Want to sit down with the drinks?”

“No. Here’s fine.” retorts Richard, smiling at the barman.

“Oh,” stumbles Pete.

“Here’s fine. What you want anyway?”

Aware the barman is probably listening, as he wipes a glass, Pete whispers, “The money for the last month.”

“Hey?” asks Richard, with a facetious smile.

“The money for the over-time…?”

“What money for what?”

“We had a deal…”

“Then I left,” Richard states firmly, briefly sharing a smile with the barman.

Pete’s eyes dart around as he starts to sweat, unsure how angry he can get with such a large man, “The truth is we had a deal…”

“No, we didn’t,” laughs Richard, belligerently.

“You promised me, you would pay me the cash if I…”

“…Shut up. I promised nothing to you.” Declared Richard.

“At least I’m telling the truth…” hesitated Pete, looking at the barman clean the same glass.

Richard swallowed the last of his pint before turning his antagonistic smile on Pete, “If what you tell me is the truth, how can I have forgotten it?”

Peter was too scared to show how insulted he really was by the older, fitter Richard, “I’ve driven a long way to a place I…” Pete caught the now interested eye of the barman and stopped, aware he was looking at the untouched orange juice, so took a swig.

“I don’t remember promising you anything,” added Richard. Pete was too scared to do more than quickly throw a stare of anger at Richard, who stared back, visibly broadening his insulting smirk while examining the dregs of his pint.

“How can… you... say...?”

“…If you’re gonna take that long to say it, might as well stay for one… Ha ha ha.”

“What’ll you have?” smirks the barman.

“No…I don’t…No thank you… I already have…”

“…Suit yourself,” mocked Richard, to the barman’s delight.

“Look,” hesitated Pete, who knew he could now only plead, “£1300, it’s a lot of money and we had a long standing...”

Richard – catching the bar man’s eye – laughed, “…Did we now?”

“You know we…” Pete looked at the barman, “…Can I have some privacy here?”

“If you buy a proper drink?” retorted the barman, to Richard’s amusement.

Pete sighed, “So, you’ve decided to take the full amount for yourself…? That’s not a surptise!”

“What amount of what, Pete?”

Pete shuffled from side to side, sweating in frustration while Richard seemed more comfortable in the silence, smiling quietly in anticipation.

“All the years I opened the warehouse when you were too drunk…”

“…Oh, give it a fucking rest,” insisted Richard, waving his hand dismissively.

Pete flinched at the hand gesture, then watched Richard show his empty glass to the barman.

In the silence, Pete sensed hopelessness, “After all those hours I gave last month…”

“…You stole your work mate’s over-time all the years I ran that warehouse, you little weasel.” Richard’s insult provoked a laugh from the barman, who looked back at Pete expectantly. Pete said nothing, sure now the barman knows more then he should.

“You got the nerve to moan about losing last month’s over-time?”

Richard locked eyes with Pete, who looked away. Richard pulled up his trousers a little as he stepped back from the bar, looking round briefly. The barman sniggered at Pete expectantly. Pete tried to block out the barman, but it was too much, “What do you want mate?”

“You to buy a proper drink!” demanded the barman.

“Good one,” laughed Richard.

“Well, I’m happy with the orange juice,” insisted Pete, taking another swig in defiance.

Richard and the barman sniggered openly, but soon Richard lost his humour, “You stole £1300 a month for years and now you belly ache…”

 “…Which you always got a cut of…”

“…You’re damn right! Anyone could have been my stool pigeon.”

“Anyone?”

“Yeah, anyone!” Richard took a swig of his fresh pint, and Pete shuffled from side to side, avoiding the stare of the barman. Richard looked Pete up and down, “You did a good job, but anyone could have been my poodle.”

“His what?” laughed the barman.

“How dare you!” barked Pete.

“Oh, lighten up,” demands Richard, turning to the barman, “Some bloke at his work calls him that.”

“Really?” smiles the barman, looking to Pete.

“Oh, go away…”

“Oh, buy a proper drink!” barked the barman. Richard giggled uncontrollably, while Pete stumbled back and forth, “might as well not be here!”

Richard comes to his sense enough to ask, “Well, you having a proper drink?”

The barman adds, “What’ll it be?” smirking at Pete.

“A lemonade for the lady,” jokes Richard, interrupted by his own cough.

The insult hurt Pete, flustering his rage, “you’re my… not boss… anymore, Richard… now.”

“You what?” demanded Richard, sharing an inquisitive glance with the barman.

Pete capitulated to catch his breath, “Never mind.”

Richard drank more, turned to the barman and started a conversation about football, isolating Pete. As uncomfortable seconds became insulting minutes, Pete reluctantly waited for a lull in the banter between the included two, and coughed, “You were the most unpopular warehouse man…”

“…What?” joked the barman.

“…Ha Ha Ha,” Interrupted Richard, “You were the most mistrusted little runt that brown nosed my arse!”

The barman seemed to like that insult, leaning on the counter to watch Pete’s response.

“Why, after all these years, did...?”

“Oh, shut the…” Richard stopped himself, took a few more gulps of his pint, before concluding, “Does he still call you poodle then?”

Pete felt he was answering both Richard and the barman, “Yes. I hate him.”

“Ha, I bet that little rat makes your life bloody difficult.”

Pete took a swig of orange juice, “It’s not fair that he gets away with talking to me the way…”

“It isn’t?” mocked Richard, delighting the barman.

“No, sometimes I sit in the car and can’t actually go in until the last minute. That’s how awful he is!”

“Ah, this is pay back, ha ha”

“No, it’s…”

“…You took all that over-time pay home…”

“Which I cut with you…”

“…For all those years, at least ten, all those years you took other people’s money, you little rat, you…”

“… why turn on me?” defended Pete, now a little scared.

“And you say him calling you what you are is unfair?”

“I was…”

“…My chief sneak. That’s what you were.” The Barman laughed at Richard summery.

“I did a good job…” The barman laughed some more.

“And ratted on people, stole their over-time hours and are m…” Richard stopped himself. Pete froze still. The barman looked intrigued.

“I bet he’s not the only one who hates you, anyway. Just get on with your life.”

Richard waves the empty glass to the barman, “another one John.”

“You gonna buy that real drink then?” inquires the barman, as though Pete is about to agree.

“Yes… I mean… No, I have a…”

“God, you’re an old woman; worrying about crap…”

“…About you and the company and about the work we…”

“…Oh, give it a fucking rest, will ya?” Richard waves his hand, smiling to the barman pulling the new pint. Encouraged, Richard kicks his leg out in mock violence. Pete pulls back unnecessarily, spilling his orange juice; Richard and barman laugh in unison.  

It was the mocking stare from the barman that provoked Peter, “So, do I leave now, or… or, are… are you my friend?” He instantly regretted asking his former boss.

“Of course not!” laughed Richard, “You’re two-faced, sneaky and bloody strange, if I do say so myself.”

“So, what about all those evenings in the warehouse together?”

Richard snaps, “We weren’t there to make friends. I often told you that.”  

Pete visibly shrinks from Richard’s words.

“You complained about Tom Dick and bloody Harry, even though you earned more money and had no skill, played, only your, music on that fucking radio…”

“…You didn’t seem to mind the music I…”

“… and you ratted on everyone around you, at least once.”

The barman lifts his brows before waiting for Pete’s retort.

“Why, speak to me this way, after…?”

Richard’s chuckle interrupted Pete, until Richard coughed and interrupted himself. The barman laughed loudly at both, irritating Pete further.  

Richard smiled, showing Pete the tell-tale signs of inebriation.

Pete blurts, “Well, at least I wasn’t the most unpopular…”

“…Who gives a shit about popularity? You are a little gimp.”

Pete shook his head, trying to think, but Richard continued, “It’s not a popularity contest, those that didn’t hate me, respected me, whereas you were just disrespected.”

A TV advert takes Richard’s interest, to Peter’s irritation, who shakes his head in silence.  

“You OK?” asks the barman, smiling at Richard.

Richard smiles, “Another pint and a lemonade for the lady.”

The barman sniggers in expectation, “Well?”

“Not for me, mate, I’m off then,” smiled Pete in fake contentment.

“Oh… nothing for the lady, looks like she’s had enough,” adds Richard.

The laughing barman provokes Pete, who goes to leave, then comes back, “I guess this is it. Goodbye Richard…”

“Oh, good luck to you Pete and all that, but don’t say anything to anyone mind.”

“Maybe…”

“You fucking won’t!” shouted Richard.

“Of course.”

“Anyway, the noose is closing in on you, and you know it, so I don’t really want to be associated with a…” Richard stopped himself and joined the barman in watching Pete’s face redden.  

“You said it was none of your business…”

“… And it is, but it’s also an insurance that you will keep your bloody mouth shut about me. Understood?”

Pete bowed his head, “OK, guess this is…”

“…You said all that,” joked the barman, to Richards delight. Pete wasn’t sure what they were talking about when he left, but he quietly left.

“Was that the guy?”

“Yeah.”

“You know he did it then?” asks the barman, watching Pete walk across the car park.

“Oh, yeah.”

“His own wife? Thirty years they were married?”

“Yeah, but he hated her for at least twenty-eight of them,” sniggered Richard, adding “Don’t look like much of a murderer, does he?”