Bloody Revenge

The Redemption Inn is awash with ale, as it is on any given night. A man sits, solitary at a table with only one chair. He has chosen his position purposefully. It’s vicinity to the door, the table’s small size. These are not the actions of someone who would welcome company to distract him, he has waited for this too long, not slept for too long to allow some drunken fool to ruin his meticulous planning. His head jerks back as he shakes the remnants of an ale into his mouth. He pours it from a drinking horn with his left hand, spilling most of it on his wild, unkempt beard. When the last drop dribbles tentatively from his chin he slams the horn onto the table as if it’s emptying is a personal insult. He shudders at the pain in his hand as he does so and curses himself through gritted teeth for forgetting the sword cut that caused the bright white, risen scar across his palm. Still causing him to flinch so long after the injury was done, and constantly reminding him of that terrible night. His other, good hand firmly grips the pistol he has concealed beneath his cloak, wrapped in a dry rag to separate it from his sodden garment so as not to wet the gun’s powder. Rain strums on the leaded crisscross of the windowpane. The night is unseasonably wet, as if the angels themselves are weeping.

This curious figure didn't frequent musty, vice ridden ale houses. Ask anyone about him and they would say he was unflinchingly moral, religious, a quiet man, ordinarily. But that night was no ordinary night in his life and it is only the most ordinary amongst us who can act in truly extraordinary ways.

Those still sober enough to care would subconsciously have noticed him, the one person in this small, cramped room who looked out of place, which was quite a feat in itself in such an unusual crowd. Sitting as he was with his left leg shaking uncontrollably and his eyes fixed on the door with such determination it was like he attempted to see straight through it. His right hand never leaves his cloak. He snatches at the elbow of the serving girl as she rushes past him, pushing her way through the crowd, empty tankards in hand, “Another horn of beer” he almost squeals in a higher pitch than you would expect from a man of his build and appearance. His voice catches in his throat, tinged with anxiety. The girl shakes off his grasp but acknowledges him with a sideways glance and a mistrusting nod, she resumes her path to the pump room. His nervousness is obvious in every part of him and he wears it plainly. 'She can't be much older than my Elle is...was', he thought as his temples tightened and tears began to form in his eyes. He had always been too proud to cry, or too stubborn, but like I said, tonight was no ordinary night.

He felt unreal, as if he was watching himself sitting there from an inch behind reality, ale in one hand, gun in the other, and cold, bloody vengeance in mind. The image of his dead daughter's broken body flashed into his mind’s eye, sending a shudder of rage through his entire being, making him want to escape his own skin and so these terrible memories forever, and serving to strengthen his resolve to carry out his grim and deadly task. He would wait here for the man he had been looking for all these months, tonight he would find, and once again stand face to face with, Augustus Blood. He would end the life of the man who killed his family.

An elegantly dressed, thin man with a dark olive complexion and a meticulously oiled, well trimmed moustache sits on a low stool to the left of the doorway singing a lullaby to his long lost love over the sea. His voice a stirring mix of English laced with a foreign lilt. The solitary man at the table observes him only briefly, noticing that his clothes look exotic and outlandish, being more used to a tricorn hat, cloak and sturdy leather boots on a man than the frills and bright colours of this curious looking bard. The assembled crowd is as varied as the multitude of concoctions that they pour down their necks with such fervour you would have thought tonight was their last. As if not to drink with such enthusiasm was to deprive them of the refreshing, numbing quality of a cool drink on a hot night for all eternity. And it was hot. And it was wet. And it was uncomfortable to be in such a crowded, low ceilinged and confined space. His pace quickens as the heat of the bodies around him make him feel as if he is being constricted by his own, soaking cloak. Panic grips him tight and wraps its wings around him, he knows there is nothing he can do to escape its’ clutches and so he embraces it, as he had learned to do throughout a life of anxiety and pain so fraught with trouble and loss.

A dull thud awakes his senses as the serving girl absent-mindedly slams his next drink down and speeds on to her next customer. His head swims with the effects of alcohol as he clumsily feels for the pistol sheathed beneath his cloak, it's weight and touch giving him reassurance in this dangerous and alien place. He wasn't a drinker, ordinarily.

Suddenly, just as the serving girl heads off into the shifting form of the drinkers and the drunk in front of him the door swings open with a brutal force, flooding the room with the night's chill and startling him out of his stupor. The crowd shifts in a vain attempt to avoid the icy cool breeze that is unleashed, dissolving the human heat of the room. Suddenly, a buzz of recognition starts the adrenaline flowing through his body. He is almost struck dumb, the moment is finally here, all those agonizing months he has spent deliberating with himself, with God, with his very soul, came down to this moment. His chance for revenge, standing there before him, embodied in the shadowy figure at the edge of his vision. A uncontrollable chill overcomes him, he feels his hand shaking as he tries to lift the pistol from under the folds of his cloak, its weight as heavy as a lifetime of troubles. He rises, knocking his full tankard onto the rush covered floor, and drawing all the attention in the room to him. Standing in a whirlwind of freezing cold air, body convulsing with panic and cold, pistol drawn and pointing at the open doorway. His round, sad eyes, full of bright tears, stare fixedly on the shadow in the doorway. His vision dances as he tries to blink away the tears, to face his mortal enemy as the proud and courageous man he knew he really was. It had to be now. His pistol quiveres in his grip as he gingerly squeezes the trigger. A shot rings out and streaks its arc towards his target, smoke billowing from the barrel of the gun, enveloping him in an impenetrable haze.

Augustus’ eyes widen with a mixture of disbelief and pure terror as the scene became clear once more. There, back turned away from him, the body of the serving girl lays lifeless. Silence floods the room, he stares into the perpetual blackness of the barrel of his freshly fired gun and with composure and a steady hand, presses the trigger once more. Augustus Blood grieved for his family no more, and he had got his revenge. With his final bullet he had brought justice to his family's killer.