Last Orders

1.

Jim Baines placed his usual pint of old ale onto the small wooden table and settled, with an audible sigh of relief, into his habitual high-backed chair to the side of the large stone fireplace. It was a cold night outside and the glowing warmth of the fire was very welcoming. He was staring absent-mindedly into the flickering orange flames when he heard a voice to the side of him.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Jim looked up to see a tall man, somewhat younger than himself, gesturing towards the similar chair opposite and removing his long dark, overcoat.

“No not at all.” Jim waved his hand towards the empty seat. He didn’t often have company these days, not since his wife had passed away, whilst his son and daughter - and most of his old friends too - had moved out of the village.

As the tall man sat down, Jim noted that he was lean, with dark wavy hair and a tanned complexion that had a hint of greying stubble. He was dressed smartly but without any ostentation. Jim reflexively ran his hand through his thinning grey hair, straightened his back and gathered his tweed jacket tight in front of him in a futile attempt to disguise the swell of his stomach.

“It’s lovely to sit by a real fire on a night like this, isn’t it?” said the tall man as he settled down on the cushioned seat and stretched out his long legs.

Jim leaned forward a little in his chair, a slight knowing smile on his lined face.

“Actually, it isn’t quite what it seems.”

The tall man looked a little puzzled and Jim continued.

“It’s a gas fire in fact. If you watch it for long enough, you’ll notice the repetition of the flame patterns. Everything comes round again. But it’s certainly realistic enough, I’ll grant you that, and it warms the old bones in the same way.”

“Well, it certainly deceived me” replied the tall man. He then tipped his almost full pint glass in the direction of the fireplace. “To the fire!”

“To the fire” replied Jim, raising his own glass in acknowledgement.

A moment passed as both men supped their beer and stared into the flames, until the tall man broke the spell.

“I’m Adam by the way.”

“Jim” replied the older man cheerfully.

“It’s lovely to see such a traditional old country pub still going strong like this. All the old dark wooden panelling and the low-beamed ceiling and so on. You can really sense the history here.”

“Yes, it hasn’t changed much at all in the last forty years or so I’m glad to say! Apart from the name. Used to be called ‘The Wheatsheaf’ for as long as anyone round here can remember, but some new chap bought the pub last year and changed it to ‘The Prodigal.’ Ridiculous if you ask me. And of course, we’ve now got to put up with that awful sign hanging on the front.”

“Yes, I did notice it as I approached” replied Adam neutrally.

“Can’t miss it, can you?” A black silhouette of a man with yellow eyes . . . what the devil that’s all about I don’t know. Still, this new chap hasn’t changed anything else thank God. Still the same fine beer.” Jim took an appreciative sip of his ale and continued.

“He also kept on old Mick, the landlord. Been here well over twenty years now. Used to be a footballer, quite good so I’m told. Though I’m a rugby man myself.”

Jim half turned his head in the direction of the bar, where Mick the landlord was pouring a pint of lager for a customer. “So can’t complain too much, I suppose.”

“Have you met the new owner?” asked Adam after a pause.

“Oh no, no-one has, not even old Mick. He’s not a local chap apparently, somewhat of a mystery. All done remotely or online or something like that. The way of the world now it seems.”

Jim sighed and found solace in his pint. Adam gazed into the fire once again. At the mahogany bar behind them a middle-aged couple were being greeted effusively by Mick the landlord. Adam, now warmed by the fire, pulled up the sleeves of his black cashmere jumper and Jim noticed a tattoo on his left forearm – a bell possibly, with some foreign writing of some sort beneath it. For a moment Jim wished he had travelled more and perhaps learnt another language. These thoughts were interrupted as a large dog of indeterminate breed wandered past, sniffed the air between them, and disappeared again.

“So, are you staying at Rose Cottage?” Jim asked presently.

“Yes indeed. How did you guess?”

“Well it’s the only holiday accommodation in the village really.” Jim shrugged.

“Ah yes, I see.”

Jim waited, expecting the visitor to enlighten him further and after a few more sips of beer Adam did continue.

“I’m just here for a few relaxing days of the country air.”

“City chap are you? I can’t quite place the accent?” Jim raised his eyes from the fire and looked at him directly.

“I’m something of an itinerant I suppose. I’ve been abroad for a long time, all over the place really, so nowhere in particular is home these days.”

Jim nodded thoughtfully.

“I haven’t been inside Rose Cottage for many years. Like the pub it had a new owner recently who seems to have done a bit of work to the old place. I’m sure it must look rather different now.”

“I’m sure it does. You must pop in and see it while I’m here.”

Jim smiled weakly.

“Another pint?” asked Adam presently, rising nimbly from his chair.

“Well . . . yes that’s . . . yes, another pint of the old ale, thank you kindly.”

2.

The pub was quieter now as Adam duly returned with two pints, setting Jim’s down on the table next to him before retaking his own seat opposite.

“Cheers.” Jim raised his pint slightly and Adam returned the gesture. They fell into silence, seemingly mesmerised by the flickering flames and in the company only of their thoughts and their beer. After a while Jim began speaking, somewhat hesitantly and without raising his eyes.”

“Rose Cottage . . . has a history, you know. Not a good one, truth be told. Not something people round here like to mention these days. It was a long time ago really . . . no reason to worry you . . . all just ancient history now.“

“No, do go on. Please.” Adam leant forward slightly and looked expectantly towards the older man.

Jim looked slowly up from his pint, doubts evident in his eyes, but after another sip he falteringly continued, his voice quieter than before, his expression rather sombre.

He explained how, almost thirty years ago, a man and his grown-up son lived at Rose Cottage, the wife and mother having died in a tragic accident some years previously. The father worked as a handyman in the village and was a popular figure, but the son rarely left the cottage and when he did was moody and unapproachable. Always wore black, avoided eye contact and seldom spoke to anyone, though he could sometimes be heard whistling to himself, seemingly lost in his own world.

Then one day the father simply disappeared. The police investigated, or so they said, but nothing came of it. Meanwhile various rumours circulated about the son, whose mood had become even darker on the rare occasions anyone encountered him. The cottage and its garden, meanwhile, fell into a poor state.

It was decided, following a meeting at the parish hall, that some of the village men would visit him and try to find out what he knew about his father’s disappearance and try to encourage him to look after the place or to perhaps give it up.

Adam interrupted at this point. “And were you one of those men?”

Jim shifted a little in the chair, but could not get comfortable. He contemplated the flames again and then replied quietly.

“Yes I was.”

An awkward silence ensued before Adam gestured for Jim to continue.

The visit had not gone well, Jim explained, and the son’s attitude together with the state of cottage the men found inside, once reported back to the parish council, only caused the rumours to intensify. The son became, in effect, a pariah and a figure of fear. Shortly after the visit he broke into the church one moonlit winter’s evening and rang the bells continuously for around five minutes. Once the ringing finally stopped, the vicar and a few other men cautiously entered the church, but there was no sign of the son to be found. Also absent was all the church silver and the proceeds of the previous Sunday’s collection. Neither the son nor the silver was ever seen again, though there were unsubstantiated rumours that he travelled abroad, South America it was said, and made his fortune there.

Rose Cottage remained vacant for over twenty-five years until the recent renovation. The villagers felt that it was somehow cursed and any potential buyers were put off by the speculation and the gossip that had, by now, entered village lore.

Adam had listened largely silently and intently, never taking his eyes off Jim, who had begun to feel the weight of the younger man’s gaze, but at last he spoke.

“So you – the villagers – to all intents and purposes banished this young man?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, no, we just wanted to know what had happened . . . and we wanted things to get back to normal and . . . “ Jim’s voice was louder now and defensive in tone but his words trailed off.

“This poor young man who had seemingly lost both of his parents.” There was a harder edge to Adam’s voice now.

“Well I can understand how it may seem now but there was real unrest in the village at the time and, well, the world has changed since then hasn’t it?” Jim drained the last of his beer.

“Unrest based only on rumour?”

Adam’s tall, lean figure bent forward across the diminishing space between them and at that moment the bell behind the bar rang loudly five times and Jim appeared startled.

“Last orders please, last orders” called out Mick the landlord from behind the bar.

At that Jim rose from his chair with a speed that belied his age and took his cap and scarf from the hook by the fire

“It was good to meet you but I really must be going. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay.”

“I’ll walk with you” replied Adam, quickly standing up and draining the last drops of his own beer. A time-worn floorboard creaked beneath him.

“On, no that’s not necessary” protested Jim.

But Adam was already in his overcoat at Jim’s side and he gestured for him to lead the way. As they passed the bar Jim looked out vainly for Mick’s reassuring presence, but he was nowhere to be see. Instead, his rather sullen daughter was behind the bar, engrossed in the screen of her mobile phone, elbows on the bar top.

“Goodnight Charlotte” Jim declared loudly.

“’Night Jim” she replied without looking up from the glow of the screen.

Adam opened the heavy oak door, inviting in a cold blast of fresh air and ushering a hesitant Jim out. They stepped over the threshold onto the worn stone path and turned left where the road sloped up gently towards the church. Adam turned his head to Jim.

“We’re going in the same direction, so it makes sense to walk together don’t you think? You live in Church Lane you said?”

“I . . . I don’t think I did” replied Jim, a note of agitation evident in his voice.

“Oh, you must have done.”

Jim turned to look back somewhat regretfully at the pub and noticed how the yellow eyes of the black silhouette, on the hanging sign above the entrance, stood out disconcertingly in the dark. They reminded him of an owl. The two of them walked briskly on with the wind behind them, the church steeple rising high above the line of now bare Rowan trees that flanked the old, narrow road. There were few street lights here, but the night was clear and the waning moon had only just passed its full extent, throwing a sheen on the steeple’s oak shingles. Adam was whistling loudly and Jim felt that he recognised the tune from somewhere, an old tune, from some time long ago.

“As Rose Cottage is on your way home you must stop in for a nightcap. You mentioned earlier that you haven’t been inside for many years and I’m sure you’d love to see the old place as it is now.”

Jim seemed to quicken his pace, but Adam remained effortlessly by his side.

“Oh, no, not to worry, I must be getting back. It’s very late and the cat will want feeding and anyway I’m sure the owner wouldn’t like you entertaining guests at such a late hour.”

“Ah Jim, no need to concern yourself about that. I can assure you that the owner would be very pleased for you to visit the old cottage again now. He would be very pleased about that indeed.”

As he spoke Adam moved closer and placed his large hand firmly on Jim Baines’ shoulder, guiding the older man towards the left, towards where Rose Cottage sat implacably in darkness behind its small front garden, the eponymous flowering shrubs reduced to spindly, thorny sticks by winter’s grip. As they had been on that moonlit night almost 30 years ago when the church bells were unexpectedly heard. Then the younger man began whistling that same old tune again and this time Jim recognised it and knew now, without any doubt, who the stranger beside him was.