The Old Vic

Eddie Finch’s hands, gnarled like branches, trembled as he lit a cigarette, the flame flickering on the scars that etched his face—lines of a hard life. The mirror held a man older than his years. His slumped shoulders and dimmed eyes spoke of applause fading in distant dives. A battered fedora perched atop thinning grey hair, a silent witness to dreams dissolving in whiskey fumes. His fingers, once coaxing magic from strings, now cradled a half-empty beer, a bitter echo of a melodic life turned sour.

The ’Old Vic’ leant against the cobblestones, its facade a tapestry of chipped paint and grime. Inside, the air clung to the scent of stale beer and aged wood. Sunlight, filtered through dust-caked windows, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards, revealing a labyrinth of nooks and crannies where regulars nursed pints and muttered secrets. A mismatched collection of misted mirrors and brass lamps illuminated weather-beaten faces scarred with the stories of a rough neighbourhood. Despite the grit, a warmth radiated from the crackling fireplace, fuelled by generations of laughter and shared sorrows. This is no polished palace, but a haven for the weary souls who called this corner of town home.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Eddie… No smoking, get your sorry arse in the beer garden,” Pete bellowed from behind the bar.

Eddie exhaled a plume of smoke that danced towards the grimy ceiling before flicking the cigarette onto the floor, grinding it out with a ragged sole and a grimace. “Sorry, landlord, old habits and all that.”

Pete sighed, polishing a glass with weary acceptance. He knew this dance, knew it wouldn’t be long before the smoke returned. Same old Eddie, same old routine, but somehow, the pub wouldn’t be the same without him.

The bar buzzed with chatter and the click of dominoes. Anyone could’ve walked in unnoticed. But Vinnie? No. He burst through the stained-glass doors with swagger, a shark in a goldfish bowl. His smile—too big, teeth too white—and his gravity-defying hair screamed for attention. His cologne, a weird mix of cheap aftershave and fake coconut, announced him before he spoke. He oozed arrogance, but it felt forced. A flicker of something else, loneliness, crossed his face as he saw a couple laughing. Even his smile for Eddie, the lone beer drinker, seemed genuine.

Vinnie paused, a wave of doubt replacing the usual spark of adventure in his eyes. His pub app helpfully labelled the bar as ’rough around the edges’, but maybe ’molten lava pit’ would be more accurate. Vinnie’s wingman, Jack, shuffled along a few paces behind, phone held aloft like a divining rod, searching for love (or at least something vaguely resembling it) in the murky depths of Tinder. A clumsy collision with Vinnie propelled him headlong into the boisterous heart of the pub. Any fleeting notion of escape vanished like smoke as Pete’s gravelly voice wafted over, lassoing him into the fray.

“With you in a minute, sir.” Pete, a practised veteran of head-related complaints, was deftly topping up the pint of a moaning regular.

“Two pints of lager and a packet of crisps, please,” Vinnie said as he reached the bar.

“No problem, feller, with you in a tick.”

Undeterred, Vinnie repeated, “Two pints of lager and a packet of crisps, please.”

“Don’t push your luck, pal,” Pete warned him.

On a roll and thinking he was the king of comedy, Vinnie added, “I’ll have some pickled onions—and a little bit of cheese, please. Thank you.”

“You takin’ the piss, son?” Pete’s question, a loaded one, bounced harmlessly off Vinnie but not Jack, who, with a nervous glance around, scurried off to a secluded nook, seeking the comfort of anonymity. This was Pete’s kingdom. Forty years in the trade had scored lines on his face deeper than any scar earned in a bar brawl (though there had been a few of those, too). He wasn’t one for idle chatter, preferring a curt nod or a pointed silence to convey his message. Troublemakers knew better than to linger under his steely gaze—they could practically feel the weight of his unspoken warning: ’One strike, you’re out.’ Yet, beneath the gruff exterior lay a grudging respect for those who played by the rules and a quiet understanding for the disparate souls who sought solace within his four walls.

“OK, forget the crisps. How about the two pints of lager?” Vinnie said, his voice tinged with impatience. His eyes followed the clinking glasses as Pete poured the lager and placed them on the counter. Vinnie raised a questioning eyebrow and said, “What’s this?”

“What’s it look like?”

“Well,” Vinnie started, then blurted out without thinking, “If I’m being honest, it looks like a pint of piss.”

Pete’s response was curt; “ID.”

“Do what?”

“Let’s see some ID.”

“ID… Do I look like a friggin’ kid?”

Pete shook his head. “Nope, but you’re certainly acting like one. ID or fuck off.”

A treasure trove of faded receipts and forgotten loyalty cards spilled forth as Vinnie wrestled open his wallet, searching for his driving licence. Finally, he located it and tossed it onto the counter with a nonchalant flick.

Pete’s extended inspection of the licence was a subtle power play, its message understood even without spoken words. “Thank you, Vincent, it is Vincent, isn’t it? Now let’s start again, shall we? Welcome to the ’Old Vic’. I’m the landlord and you may call me ’Landlord’ and what I say goes. It’s not up for discussion; it’s not up for debate. You don’t insult my pub, you don’t insult my beer, you don’t insult my patrons, and when you leave, you thank me for allowing you the pleasure of drinking in my establishment. Now, is there any part of that you don’t understand?”

“OK… Chill out, dude, just having a laugh,” Vinnie said, finally getting the message.

“I don’t do laughing. Now, give me six pounds eighty, take your two pints of lager, go sit down with your boyfriend, and don’t speak to me again unless it’s to order more beer.”

Vinnie’s mouth opened, words poised to escape, but the retort died on his tongue, choked by the unspoken message conveyed by Pete’s raised finger. He retrieved his drinks and made a beeline for Jack, whose table choice spoke volumes; it was strategically positioned near the exit, as if expecting a hasty departure.