Theater Macabre Read Free Page B

to bother me either. Never seemed to regret a single bad thing I did in my life until I gave up cocaine. That’s when it all came to get me. In those first few weeks I visited Hell and was roasted on a spit by every demon I’d ever invited in. Then I was sorry. So sorry I lost forty pounds, grew a beard, and developed a slight limp for no reason I could fathom unless I’d punched something loose while I was in detox.
    Home. And it wasn’t what I’d wished it to be. The romantic scribe in my brain threw his hands up in disgust, and I walked on, the sound of the sea beyond the town square less a soothing whisper than a request to keep my complaints to myself. Lighting up a cigarette and shuddering off a chill, I turned onto Mary Street, a narrow road flanked by the usual businesses on both sides: bookstore, travel agent, department store, lawyer and accountant and social services offices, and of course, more than its fair share of bars. At the second of these I stopped, stuck the cigarette in my mouth and shoved the door open.
    It swung wide, heat rushing out to greet me.
    I got the impression of empty space, nothing unusual on a weeknight in a small town, then a voice said, “Can’t smoke that in here.”
    I paused, frowned and looked at the speaker, a bulbous woman behind the bar whose glass polishing slowed as she peered at me, as if gauging my potential for resistance. Fucking anti-smoking laws. Yet another of the Irish government’s attempts to Americanize itself, crippling one of its most popular sources of income and stunting a way of life that preceded their grandfather’s grandfathers. Taking cops off the streets to supervise the bars to ensure no one lit up, while all over the town dealers were peddling coke to school kids. Brilliant. Made me wonder how many kids ever robbed and murdered their parents for cigarette money.
    I acquiesced, but made it clear I didn’t appreciate it by stubbing the cigarette out on the freshly swept floor rather than tossing it outside.
    The barmaid scowled.
    I found a stool at the short side of the bar nearest the door. Should trouble erupt, the small amber lamps on the walls would provide illumination enough for me to see a punch coming, but not who threw it. Without the omnipresent veil of smoke, the place seemed less cheery, less comforting, though I had to admit I didn’t miss having my eyes sting every time I blinked.
    The barmaid approached, still scowling. She looked like the kind of woman who scowled easily but a smile would require a warrant. “What’ll you have?” she asked.
    “Pint of Carlsberg.” If there was sole comfort to be found in my homecoming, it would be that the beer here, imported or not, wouldn’t taste like it had already been used as mouthwash and spat back into the glass. A few moments later, the white-topped amber pint was set brusquely before me. I didn’t care about the method of delivery; I only cared about the pint. My last good vice.
    “Well,” said a voice to my right and I frowned in irritation. I hadn’t even had a sup of the bloody drink yet and already I’d been interrupted. I looked at the man who’d spoken, quickly took him in.
    My age, maybe older.
    Soft blue eyes, hard face lined with tragic stories I suspected he was dying to relate.
    Thin, almost cadaverous, and dressed like he wasn’t the only one who wore his clothes. Old jeans frayed at the cuffs, boots half a season away from the dump, and a shirt that had once been white but now looked like a smoker’s handkerchief.
    I returned the causal drinker’s greeting. “Well.”
    “Join ya?”
    As he’d already parked his narrow arse on the stool next to me and set a bottle of Smithwicks and a half-pint glass on the bar, I didn’t see the sense in refusing him, so I shrugged and hurriedly took a deep pull on my pint out of fear that it might be my last chance before his intrusion soured it. Closed my eyes in appreciation as the ice-cold lager chilled my throat. “Jesus,