The Firm

I took a sip of my pint, tried not to gag, and kept focused on the table in front of me. The jukebox was playing something folky, the singer lamenting the loss of a bonny besom with bonny brown hair. It was probably quite relaxing, but the atmosphere was anything but. I shouldn't be here, I thought.

I knew that before I came, of course. Everyone in town knows Hannigan's. It's where the local firm meets. The Yardale Town Service Crew. Yardale Town was a third division side, but it had some premier-league psycopaths supporting it. You saw them out on the street the day of a match, sometimes. Hard-eyed, tattooed mutants smoking roll-ups and drinking Stella, swaggering about town as if they owned the place (which, on match-day, they pretty much did). When it was a home game, they spilled blood here; away, they just hopped on a coach and did it there. I couldn't think of them as people. They were a mob, a natural disaster, a trip to A&E just waiting to happen. More like a pack of animals, I'd often thought. I stayed inside when I knew they'd be out, and under ordinary circumstances, wouldn't have gone near Hannigan's without a SWAT team in tow. But this wasn't ordinary circumstances.

Meet me at 4pm in Hannigan's Pub. Your life depends on it. That was all. I'd got the text around nine in the morning, just when I'd been debating whether or not to bother getting dressed that day. I sat looking at it for a long time. It was a bit of surprise, to say the least. I'd always thought that my life depended on not going into Hannigan's, after all.

But I went. Even if I took care to avoid them, it wasn't a big town. They'd know me. They'd know where to find me. I didn't think it was a threat they'd made lightly.

I walked in, and nearly recoiled from the stench. Everyone's so big on the smoking ban, but no-one ever stopped to think about its effects. Like, without a fug of nicotine hanging over everything, how were places going to smell? This one stank. Of puke, stale beer, body odour; you could taste it. Actually, physically, taste it.

The second I walked in, people were looking at me. You get used to that when you grow your hair out. The price you pay for looking cool. Usually though, it's just a quick glance - of interest, distaste, bemusement, whatever - and then away. Here, people stared. It was dark - of course it was, but I could make out figures in the shadows, their faces turned towards me. The barman was looking at me like I'd just crawled out of his salad waving my antennae. Not that he'd ever encountered a salad, from the look of him.

I walked up to the bar, not fast, not slow, trying not to breathe too hard in case I offended someone. I gestured to one of the beer-taps and grunted. If I'd spoken, and they'd heard the London in my voice, I'd have been picking my teeth off the floor in about ten seconds flat. He glowered at me a second, then took the world's filthiest pint-glass from a shelf behind him, and filled it. It wasn't until then that I checked to see what I would be drinking. Skoll. My stomach rolled. I don't know if you're a beer-drinker, but if you're not, let's just say that calling Skoll "rat-piss" would be an insult to the secretions of a fairly blameless animal.

"One fifty." He snarled. That was cheap, but still about one pound forty-nine too much for what it was. I put two coins down on the bar, and he snatched them up. I took my pint and sipped it. Jesus. Chemical warfare in a glass.

I took it to the deepest corner I could find, and sat down, praying that whoever wanted me would turn up soon. I think I've expressed my feelings on the beer, but I kept sipping it, out of habit.

I was so intent on looking inconspicuous that I didn't notice the man(?) sitting opposite me until he'd already taken a chair. My mouth went dry. He had to've snuck into creation while God wasn't paying attention. He grinned at me, revealing a smile from which about half the teeth were missing. I was too afraid to speak, but he did it for me.

"Georgie-boy. Don't talk, just listen. I'll be quick." He leaned closer, and I flinched back. "We've got a little business to discuss. To do with your little adventure on the moors the other night." I swallowed, and my free hand gripped my other arm. "Bet you're wondering what all that was about, yeah?"
"A dog." I said, quickly. "That's all it was. A dog." He laughed, a dry, wheezing sound.
"You know better, my boy. We won't talk now, but me and the boys, we'd like a word. Meet us here next match-day." His smile disappeared, and just for a second, his face shifted. The eyes stretched outwards, his jaw jutted forward, and three thick ridges appeared in his forehead. Then, he was normal again. "Your life depends on that, too, my boy. Never doubt it."
"Wh-" my breath whistled out. He just grinned again.
"Welcome to the firm, my boy. It'll be a bit rough at first, but once you're used to it, we'll have some fun. Oh yes." He stood up, and left. I sat for a few minutes, stunned. I peeled back my sleeve, and looked at the bite on my forearm. Nothing too bad, I'd thought; just a dog gone feral. My own stupid fault for being out so late. But I'd never really believed that, had I? More like a pack of animals, I'd often thought.

I stood up, and headed for the door. No-one was looking at me anymore. I prefered it when they had been.