Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
It takes a moment, but I’m good at controlling my violence. I know how to tamp it down. Locking away the ugly feelings, I go back inside and throw myself into work, but my thoughts return to the same thing—or the same person, I should say. The hurt won’t let me go. It rankles right alongside my rage, creating the mother of all shitstorms inside me.
I’m like fucking Pavlov’s dog, conditioned beyond saving. When six o’clock arrives and I’m reminded of Violet by her mere absence, I get the hell out of there. A cleaning service van pulls into the parking lot just as I slam the door behind me. It must be the new service Gus hired. Their presence only rubs salt into my wounds, reminding me of things I shouldn’t think about, of a time full of sweet potential before everything went to hell.
I should be going home and face the situation I created, not that I’ve decided how to deal with the information Elliot has shared with me, but when I pull out of the parking lot, I turn toward Brixton and head for the dive I visited last night.
The place is dark and tacky enough to get lost in. I walk to the bar, plonk my ass in a seat, and push a few hundred-rand bills over the counter.
“Whiskey,” I say, nodding at the cheap label on the bottom shelf. Like the biggest cliché in the history of men with problems, I add, “Leave the bottle.”
The barman doesn’t argue. He slides a glass and the bottle my way, and then he backs off, leaving me to stew in my troubles. The regulars go about their business, not paying me attention. They probably sense my violent mood. A guy with a bandana and a leather vest plays the blues on a harmonica in the corner, his tune off-key.
I pour four fingers and down it in one go.
Fuck. That music is like chalk scraping over a blackboard.
Thankfully, the guy announces he’s taking a short break, and somebody pops a coin in the jukebox. An eighties tune comes on, the hard rock suiting my mood much better.
Being in the habit of sussing out every room I enter for threats, I’m aware of the people around me. The fat-bellied biker at the end of the bar carries a knife under his vest, and the bearded loner digging into a hotdog has a gun in his waistband. The barman will no doubt have a weapon under the counter. I’m unarmed, but these assholes don’t have business with me. They let me get on with my drinking.
A couple of pimple-faced youngsters do an obvious deal next to the serving window that gives a glimpse inside the kitchen. A chef with a dirty apron is flipping burger patties. I take in the old posters on the walls of concerts that happened fifteen years ago and the chipped paint on the doors. The floor is sticky with spilled booze.
How the fuck did I end up in here?
I know the answer.
I came here because I remember the place. It’s around the corner from where I used to live. The bar is a stone’s throw away from the street that runs along the train tracks. Go figure. I’m not sentimental, but even I can muster a tiny amount of nostalgia. The memories aren’t pleasant. I don’t revisit them often. Yet I can’t help but wonder if I’ll fuck it all up just because I’m my father’s son.
By the time my bladder tells me I’ll need to empty it before I polish off the bottle, only a quarter of the liquor is left. I push to my feet, stumbling a step to the side before I find my balance.
My tongue slurs as I ask the barman, “Where’s the bathroom?”
Slapping beefy palms on the counter, he shakes his head. “Ain’t no good idea going to the can alone in your state. Some men in here may grab themselves the opportunity to gain a few bucks.” He nods at my three-million-rand watch. “You don’t have to be dressed up all fancy to stink of money.”
My laugh is wry. “They can try.” Fuck, I hope someone will. I need the fight.
“Gimme your phone,” he says, holding out a hand. “Lemme call someone to come and get you.”
Despite the need to punch someone’s face, he’s right. Even in my slaughtered state, I realize I didn’t choose the best area to get hammered in, and I’m not alone any longer. I have Violet to consider. A wife. Fuck.
“Uber,” I say, my speech hardly intelligible.
The world turns around me when I take my phone from my pocket. I brace myself with one hand on the counter and unlock the phone with my thumbprint.
“Ain’t no Uber coming out here.” The barman shakes his hand in my face. “Gimme. Who can I call for you?”