He Looks Familiar (short story)
“The usual Ron?” asked the barman eagerly, already reaching for the bottle of scotch from the shelf in front of him.
Ron nodded without smiling or saying a word. He took off his hat and placed it on the bar next to him, then began to casually flick through the newspaper which he had just purchased from the shop down the road. Two men were perched on the stools beside him, drinking their pints of ale and bickering flippantly about their predicted football results for the coming weekend. The man nearest to Ron, who was known by his surname - Wheatley, began to laugh at his friends attempted joke, but abruptly stopped mid-chuckle when his eyes met with Ron’s piercing, low-browed gaze. Wheatley’s smile morphed into a sheepish grimace. He shuffled nervously to his feet and made a V-shape with his index and middle finger, holding them up to his lips as if there was an invisible cigarette in his grip. Ron calmly looked back down at the paper, his chiselled jaw motionless.
“Another smoke?” asked the second, slightly smaller man, who went by the name of Ted. “It can’t have been much longer than fifteen minutes since we last had one!”
Wheatley felt his face begin to burn with tingling anxiety - his stare suddenly became serious and grave. “I want another one Ted, it’s been a stressful week. Now come on, let’s go.” He pushed his head forward slightly as if trying to point it toward the door, and widened his nervous eyes in a final attempt to make his eagerness to vacate the room apparent to Ted, who blankly scratched his sideburns for a moment and then to Wheatley’s relief, put on his oil-stained coat and pulled out his tobacco tin from the inside pocket.
Ron watched the two men leave the room and go outside. As Wheatley pushed the door open, the sound of the rain could be heard tapping away on the concrete like the soft roll of a soldiers snare drum, or the solemn clip-clop of a lady's high heels staggering down a lonely high street in the early hours of a Saturday morning. A sigh of cold air invaded the pub for a split second until the door closed behind them. Ron pushed some coins toward the barman, took a sip of his whisky and resumed his reading of the paper.
"Enjoy, Ron." the barman muttered.
Outside, Wheatley paced over to the sheltered area and struck a match. It went out. He persevered, but the combination of the wind and his shaking hand meant that the match extinguished once again. “For crying out loud!” he yelled. Ted sauntered over to him, laughing at his friends ordeal.
“Here, use mine.” Wheatley took the lighter and breathed a sigh of relief. “Are you ok buddy? You seemed a little nervous in there.”
"Do you recognise the bloke who just walked in a few minutes ago?"
Ted's forehead crumpled as he considered the question. He shook his head. "Can't say I do. Who is the fella?"
"I can't figure it out myself" began Wheatley, his cigarette rapidly shrinking with each nervous drag. "But I know him from somewhere, I'd put my house on it. And from the look he gave me, I'm quite sure that he knows me too."
"Maybe you've worked on a site with him in the past?"
Wheatley looked down at the floor. "No, that's not it."
"A friend from your schooldays?"
"Well I don't know Wheatley. I've never seen the bloke before. Come on, it's bitter out here."
As the pair swirled their cigarette butts into the concrete under their shoes, the door creaked and the chubby, red-cheeked barman came outside with a finely crafted roll-up behind his ear.
"By, it's cold out tonight!" He observed. "Don't suppose you've got a lighter between you?"
Ted handed him his. "Cheers mate."
"So how do you know Ron then?" The barman asked, looking towards Wheatley.
"What do you mean?" Wheatley retorted, bemused.
"Well, Ron just asked me if you go by the name of Jack, so I told him yes, but people know you as Wheatley." He stopped for a puff. "Funny, he's a man of few words, Ron. I think that's the most he's ever said to me."
Wheatley was stumped. Who was this man? He certainly knew him from somewhere. How did he know his name? He tugged on his jacket zip in confusion.
"I hope you know him as a friend and not an enemy." the barman continued. "If there was ever a man I wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of, it's Ron."
"Why's that then? Bit of a wrong'un is he?" Ted queried, intrigued.
"That's an understatement. A pal of mine who owns a pub up in Safebridge once saw him nearly kill a man with a beer jar, and what's worse, the poor lad hardly did anything to deserve it. Ron did 7 years for GBH."
"Bloody hell! When was that?" Ted asked.
"That's going back over fifteen years I'd say. Seems he's calmed down and settled with his wife and kids now. They live out in the village somewhere. Still looks a bit unhinged to me though. I was relieved to see him leave after that glass of scotch!"
The barman noticed customers gathering at the bar and quickly scuttled back inside to serve them. Wheatley and Ted followed him. For a while, Wheatley tried to rack his brains and work out where he knew this Ron from. After an hour passed and a few more ales were gulped, he forgot all about the whole thing. Himself and Ted played a best-of-five darts match then both decided to call it a night and set off to their homes.
"Goodnight lads. Come again." the barman said politely.
As the pair left the pub, the almost-full moon cast a damp glaze over the street and beaming street lamps made curlicue shadows from the intertwining branches of the tired trees. The rain was not heavy but seemed to sprinkle down gradually until everything was drenched. Ted shivered and put his hands in his pockets. Wheatley swayed as the ale took its toll on him.
"I'm ready for bed." he sighed, as they passed the decrepit old petrol station. They staggered on for another mile until Ted's house was in sight.
"Well, goodnight buddy." Ted slurred, shaking the wet hand of his friend and turning to walk up the drive of his semi-detached house.
The final half-a-mile of Wheatley's journey seemed to last for an eternity. He hoped that his miserable, whining wife would not be up when he arrived.
Eventually he could see his front gate and overgrown lawn at the end of the road. He lit up a cigarette and stumbled onwards into the chilling wind. He sat himself on the wall outside his house. There were no lights on. The street sat in dreamy silence, a distant cat purred lonesomely. "Ahh this boring place." Wheatley thought to himself. "I need to get out of here."
In the very moment that he put out the cigarette and turned towards his house, there was a sharp footstep on the pavement behind him and before he could turn to look, he was trapped in a crushing grip and pulled into the alley-way nearby. He tried to yell but the air had all been squeezed out of him. He tumbled to the floor and looked up through dreading eyes. It was him! The man from the pub, Ron!
As he looked up helplessly at the face staring down at him, it suddenly hit him - he did know this man. He knew him from the picture which sat on the bedside table of his other woman, with whom he had been having an affair for the best part of a year. He remembered her speaking in fear of her husband Ronnie and what he would do if he caught them at it. It was him!
Ron snarled - that harrowing calm expression had now turned to menacing rage. The rain dripped down and the street remained silently asleep. The cat let out another moan.
