The Strange Man

A car pulled into the parking lot of a small local highway bar on the side of the road. He walked inside, and the chime of the bell caused the nearby patrons to glance up for only a second before returning to their drinks and meals. He sat at the bar, the leather stool making a deflated sound as he lowered himself onto it beside a well-dressed man. The bartender came over and leaned against the counter.

“What’s your drink of choice?”

He paused for a moment, thinking of something to order.

“Just a beer.”

“Castle?”

“Do you have anything else?”

“No.”

“Then a Castle.”

The bartender took a Castle from the mini fridge beneath the bar, opened it, and placed it on a coaster. He then walked away, leaving the man to enjoy his drink while tending to the other customers. The well-dressed man beside him lifted a glass of amber liquid before letting out a sigh.

“A fine day to drink, Mr. Morgan.”

The man froze, his lips touching the rim of the beer before he took a sip and looked at the well-dressed man. The stranger did not look back, instead facing forward as though he were staring into the distance.

“Do I know you?”

“Barely, but we meet one way or another.”

Morgan’s eyes trailed over the man. His suit was clean, fine, and expensive-looking—a black suit with a red tie. On his lap rested a hat, a bowler hat, his hair a dark black like shoe polish that parted to the side. He had a Mustache, dark as his hair and just as thick, that barely touched the sides of his lips. “

Who are you?”

“How’s your wife? Is she well? Still in good spirits?”

“…She’s well. Well, enough.”

“And your kids? They’re good?”

“Same.”

There was a pause. No words were spoken. Morgan took a sip from his beer, studying the man and searching through his memories, trying to figure out where he had seen the strange man before.

“Who are you?”

“Someone who loves to observe and take into account.”

“Bullshit!”

“Are you a good man, Mr. Morgan?”

“What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t, but it also does. It’s your choice.”

Morgan took another sip from his beer and looked at the man again. The stranger was so familiar, yet Morgan couldn’t remember where he knew him from. Minutes of silence passed. The man never glanced at Morgan once, simply sipping his drink and staring at the bottles behind the bar. Eventually, the man called the bartender for the check. After paying, he got off the stool and wiped down his suit. He looked Morgan directly in the eyes this time, smoothing his Mustache with his fingers before speaking.

“Often, Mr Morgan, people run and they run for most of their lives, but, Mr Morgan, humans are not machines, they will tire and their legs will give out… and often the things we run from are faster.”

With that, the man left. The chime of the bell could be heard as Morgan watched the man’s figure disappear into the darkness. He turned back to the bar, downed the last of his beer, and called the bartender for the check. He paid with cash and left for his car.

The night was dark and frozen. It was August, winters were brutal, the mist from his breath could be seen as he walked to the car. His boots were thick, but the ever-piercing cold was stronger. Morgan opened the boot of his car and saw that the three bags were still inside. The smell was horrible, and flies could be seen moving beneath the bags. Morgan quickly shut the boot, looking around to see if anyone had noticed, but the parking lot was completely empty except for a few that were cars spaced apart. He got into his car and drove down the highway, keeping his eyes to the right in case he saw any signs or dirt roads leading away from the main road. Soon, he saw an opening ahead. It was a dirt road leading into the hills. He turned onto it, the sounds of gravel, stones, and debris hitting the front bumper as he drove. His headlights illuminated only the road ahead and the wire fences that lined either side, each attached to wooden poles. Eventually, he reached an opening—a simple, flat dirt clearing overlooking the slope that led down toward the beach, where waves thrashed against the rocky shore. The rocks were covered in seaweed, and pools of water emptied and filled with the tides. A few seagulls sat on top of seaweed covered rocks. The clearing was close enough to the shore, so that the headlights illuminated a few of the rocks ahead, painting them in a yellow tint. He turned the key and plunged the surroundings in moonlit darkness.

He put the car in park and sat there watching. He looked around for a while; the moon lighted a bit on the hilly surroundings and rocky coast making it just barely visible. Getting out of the car, he made his way to the boot, unlocked it, and opened it. The smell of rot and death hit him, but he showed no reaction. He simply stared at the bin bags. He took two of them, one in his left hand and one in his right and walked down toward the shore. He could hear shells and rocks crunching beneath his boots as he made his way over a large rock that overlooked the thrashing waves. The wind blew into his ears, muffling every sound except the crashing of the ocean. He set one bag down and, with all his strength, threw it as hard as he could into the water. A large splash echoed through the darkness. After a few seconds, the black bag floated back to the surface, bobbing up and down like a final goodbye—or a taunt at his expense. He threw the second bag in much the same way. This time, it landed a little short, but it still disappeared into the ocean before bobbing back up and floating among the waves.

He walked back toward the car. The moon aided his path like a dim torch. He took the last bag and began making his way back, but when he looked toward the water again, he could no longer see the other bags. He felt relieved. They must have sunk or drifted deep into the ocean, never to be seen again. He threw the final bag in the same fashion and direction before returning to his car and driving back down the path. He could see the opening in the distance. A car drove past as he reached the highway. Morgan turned onto the road and drove home. The road was long, dark, and quiet, with only a few semi-trucks and cars passing by. When he saw the iron mine in the distance, a smile fell upon his face. Seeing the reddish-orange dirt surrounding the mine made his smile turn into a smirk. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, and the smirk grew just a little wider. Then he saw the sign in the distance: Welcome to Saldanha. He was home.

Morgan pulled into his driveway and closed the garage door. The warmth of the house touched his face as he opened the side door leading into the kitchen. Inside were wooden countertops, beige cupboards, and a black oven with pots and pans still sitting on top. On the counter sat a beer—a Castle. He looked at it for a moment. It was still cold, condensation dripping down the bottle and onto the counter. He grabbed it and opened it against the countertop before taking a long sip and sitting down on the brown couch. The remote and a bottle of bleach were still sitting on the coffee table. He picked up the remote and turned on the TV, putting on a random show that looked interesting. He watched for a few minutes, taking occasional sips of his beer before standing up and going to the kitchen. He opened one of the cupboards and found a bag of Lays inside. He took the bag and ate a handful of chips before walking to the window and opening the blinds slightly, just enough for him to see the street. It was dark, with streetlights illuminating a park across the road and the pavement beyond the front yard. He saw a tricycle sitting there. His eyes widened slightly.

“Oh, yeah. The kids. They’re gone now, might sell that… Maybe it’s too faded to sell.”

Just then, he saw a figure walk up and sit down on a bench across the street beneath a streetlamp. He couldn’t see the figure’s face. The bowler hat cast a shadow-like veil over it. The red tie was visible, but only slightly.

“Did that fucker follow me?”

Morgan went to the bedroom and into the closet, where a safe sat. He entered the code 1509, opening it to reveal several wads of cash all green, red and blue, his CZ 75, an ammunition box, and two magazines. He took the gun and pulled back the slide, seeing that a bullet was still in the chamber. He pressed the magazine release behind the trigger guard and checked the magazine. Four bullets remained, he went to the bedroom window and peek through the blinds, seeing the strange man sitting there still as a board. He went back to the safe, opening the ammo box and putting bullets in the mag. He put the magazine back in and pulled the slide again, just enough to see the bullet, confirming that there was a bullet in the chamber. He returned to the living room, his finger resting along the trigger guard as he peered through the blinds. The figure was still sitting on the bench, now with a cigarette in his mouth. The burning ash illuminated a small part of his lip and nose as he puffed smoke into the cold night air. He was facing forward, but Morgan couldn’t tell where his eyes were looking. Still, Morgan could feel them staring directly at him. His grip tightened around the gun when the strange man finally stood. The cigarette remained burning between his lips as he walked to the left. Morgan watched until the stranger disappeared.

After several minutes of waiting, Morgan opened the door and stepped outside. He walked onto the pavement and looked to the left, down the street. He saw nothing—only a few cars parked in front of houses and a tent sitting against the counter of a now-closed tuck shop. He went back inside. He hadn’t even noticed how cold he had gotten until the warm air of the house enveloped him. He sat on the couch and placed the gun on the coffee table. He took another sip of his beer, watching the television without really paying attention. He drank the last of it before getting up and throwing the bottle into the bin. Sitting back down, he looked at the gun, then at a photograph of himself and his family sitting on a nearby table. He got up and threw the photograph into the bin. He then walked to the children’s room. Two empty beds sat there, still unkempt, with their belongings knocked over. A small bloodstain could be seen on the curtain. He didn’t bother cleaning it. He sat down and readjusted himself, unable to find a comfortable position. Eventually, he returned to the window and peeked through the blinds, looking along the street with strained ears.

“That fucker’s gonna go tell.”

Morgan went back to the bedroom, took out a suitcase, and packed as many clothes as he could, along with some thick blankets and the wads of cash from the safe. He placed the suitcase in the boot of the car. He grabbed two Woolworths bags and filled them with food—chips, sauces, eggs, and bread—before grabbing a cooler and throwing some meat inside. Finally, he grabbed some firewood from the backyard and loaded it into the car. He opened the garage and drove away.

He reached a stoplight near an intersection. A few cars stood beside him. It was a quiet night, and mist had already begun building on the windshield. The road was well lit for a night like this, but dark spots remained around the corners. Morgan scanned the road ahead when he saw the stranger in the distance, standing against a streetlamp. The stranger’s head wasn’t looking Morgan’s way, but his body was. Morgan stared at him while fumbling around the car for his gun. Just then, a blaring horn sounded behind him. He looked up and saw that the light had turned green. He drove forward, glancing back at the now-abandoned streetlamp.

Within a few minutes, he was on the highway, surrounded by road and nature. The trees crept up like bony fingers, seeming to reach for the car as he drove past. He passed warehouses before eventually reaching Grand West. He pulled into the parking lot. The mall stood there like a palace for the middle-class gambler or the family man to have some fun. Morgan walked toward the entrance, hearing the voices, dings, and bells of the mall growing louder as he approached. He entered and saw the casino. Slot machines lined the floor in circular patterns, with roulette tables scattered between them alongside blackjack tables. The black carpet and wall art gave it a rusty, traditionally Cape Town look. The neon lights and loud ringing of the different games made it look like an arcade for adults.

He walked to the counter and exchanged R400 for casino chips. He went to a blackjack table and sat down alone. Then a well-dressed man in a black suit and red tie sat beside him. He didn’t look at Morgan. He simply sat down and placed his bet. The dealer gave the stranger two jacks—one of spades and one of diamonds—and gave Morgan a six of spades and a seven of diamonds. The dealer had one card facing down and the other showing: a king of diamonds.

“How’s the kids, Mr. Morgan?” the stranger asked.

Morgan didn’t answer. He simply hunched over, staring at his cards.

“I have two boys too. One is six, the other is seven. The oldest recently learned to swim. Good, isn’t it? Took him to the beach a couple nights ago. A nice, cold dip is good for my boys. The oldest is a very good swimmer… Unfortunately found lots of black bags in the water, 3 of them latched onto me and my boys, so we ended the trip early. You take your boys to the beach often, Mr. Morgan?”

Morgan stared at his cards before looking at the dealer. He took a few more chips from his pile and placed them on the table.

“Double down,” he said.

The dealer gave him a queen. A bust.

The dealer turned toward the strange man, who tapped his fingers against the table. The stranger fixed his tie before looking at his cards.

“Hit me.”

The dealer looked at him incredulously before drawing another card and placing it on the table. An ace of spades. The dealer took back the cards and shuffled them once again.

“So many people dump such valuable things in the ocean, Mr Morgan. What about you? You seem like a proper man, well-mannered and good… I highly doubt you would dump such things in the ocean.”

Morgan didn’t look, he simple crossed his arms on the table looking at everything except the stranger.

“Mr. Morgan, your silence is disconcerting. Your wife must be quite a woman if a man is willing to leave her to gamble his troubles away. Some men kill their wives, but I think it is healthy to take some space away from each other after a scandal such as yours.”

“Do I know you?” Morgan asked without looking at him. He seemed to lean away from the stranger, sitting on the edge of his seat.

“Such a common and strange question. I often wonder that myself. I seem to always be correct.”

Morgan tapped his cards, asking for another. The stranger put more chips forward and tapped his own cards.

“I never liked casinos. They’re very corrupting to the spirit. I would recommend you try your best to leave for better pastures, running away almost never works.” The strange man checked his watch. It was three in the morning. He looked up at the dealer. “You poor man, sir. To be working this late, I hope when you get back home, you give yourself some good sleep.”

The dealer nodded, handing the strange man his cards without looking up.

“If anyone deserves a good day’s rest, it should be you, my friend.”

The dealer smirked and shook his head before giving Morgan another card.

“Morgan, I recommend that after our game, you have a nice, long rest. Sleep in your car. Your wife wouldn’t want to see you again after what you did.”

The dealer gave Morgan his final card. A bust. He then gave the strange man another card. Twenty-one.

Morgan got up, took his remaining chips, and went to cash out. After exchanging the chips for cash, he made his way back to the car. He got inside and looked out at the now-quiet night. The faint sounds of bells and machines from the mall mixed with the silence outside. He pulled back his seat and lay down, facing upward toward the ceiling. After a while, he grabbed the gun and his thick blanket. He hid the gun behind the seat and lay back down. The seat was unpleasant and rough, but the blanket wrapped around him made it more bearable.

The thudding of rain could be heard against the car, creating a dull, rhythmic sound. He tossed and turned on the seat, his torso often hitting the armrests. Eventually, he opened his eyes and looked around.

The strange man was sitting in the passenger seat.

Morgan’s heart dropped. He immediately pulled his gun and pointed it at the man.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” Morgan shouted, pointing the gun at him while moving higher up on the seat.

“Nice weather,” the man said calmly. “Rain is sometimes needed for sunshine.”

“Who the fuck are you? Why are you following me?”

“Does it matter? Many have asked the same question as you, Mr. Morgan. But none seem to want the correct answer.”

“Who. The fuck. Are you?”

“Same song and dance, Mr. Morgan. You know me, and I know you.”

Morgan kept his gun trained on the man, his finger twitching near the trigger. The gun shook slightly in his hand.

“You know, Mr. Morgan, I find you interesting. Quite interesting. I’ve seen people run, and I’ve seen people hide, but ultimately, they don’t seem to realize what is following them. You, on the other hand, seem to be completely aware of what’s following you and why you feel this way, yet you still run. That’s very curious.”

In the distance, sirens could be heard. In the bushes and among the distant trees, security officers could be seen. Their black uniforms were barely visible as they crouched behind cars and trees. Puddles on the ground reflected the neon lights of the casino.

“Mr. Morgan?” said the strange man, looking down at his leather-and-silver watch. “You have a choice to make.”

“Did you fucking tell on me?”

“Fate is often a better judge than any legal system. I’m just here to keep account.”

Morgan pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash blinded him for a second the ringing in his ears pierced his brain, but his body didn’t move, when his vision returned, the strange man was still sitting there.

“Many have tried. Many have failed. You are one of many.”

Sirens surrounded the place, blue and red lights filling the parking lot and reflecting off Morgan’s face. He tried to shoot again, but the gun didn’t fire.

“I look forward to your choice, Mr. Morgan.”

With that, the man opened the door and walked away, the red and blue lights shining across his black suit. Morgan sat there, staring at the hole in the windshield. He pulled his seat upright, keeping the gun on his lap, and turned the key. The car came to life, but the exits were blocked by police vehicles. The sound of crackling could be heard, followed by a loud voice.

“DRIVER, GET OUT OF THE VEHICLE WITH YOUR HANDS UP!”

Morgan didn’t move. He sat there looking forward, barely able to see the rifles trained on him and the figures moving among the cars and trees. He put the gun into his belt, then slowly opened the door and stepped out. He didn’t put his hands up. He simply stood there in the rain, staring in the direction of the voice.

“HANDS UP AND GET ON THE GROUND!”

Morgan quickly reached toward his belt and tried to pull the gun.

A loud crack echoed through the parking lot.

Pain exploded through Morgan’s body. His legs gave out, and he fell hard onto the wet ground. He looked up at the sky, at the barely visible stars hidden behind the clouds. On the horizon, the greyness of morning was beginning to appear.

His eyes were heavy, his mouth was wet with blood, the smell of iron and wet asphalt invaded his nose, the coldness of the rain and wind caused his body to shiver while thoughts of his family and the stranger filled his mind. His eyes began to blur. So, he closed them.