Forever After - By David Jester Page 0,1

should have, I mean -- fuck,” he chuckled.

“Apology accepted.”

Neil urinated with a smile plastered on his face. He finished in a hurry -- too bored and careless to wait for the final drops to release, happy with them soaking into his pants. “So, you live around here?” He turned to the next urinal but the strange man with the wet trousers had disappeared.

Neil shrugged to himself, wiped his hands on his trousers and headed back out into the bar. Spying the man whose shoes he soiled at the far end of the room he sauntered over, shooting a look of disdain at the indifferent bartender on the way.

The back of the room was lit only by a small bubbling fluorescent, positioned above a tacky, dusty and generic landscape painting on the wall. The man was reading -- the title of the book was short and pointlessly generic enough to indicate a mass-market thriller.

Neil sat down opposite the reader, plonking his weight down heavily, audibly sighing and grunting as his backside crushed against the thinly padded bench.

The man didn’t look up; the bartender clearly wasn’t the only person intent on ignoring Neil.

Neil coughed to clear a glob of dehydrated mucus from his scorched throat, and then, in a scratchy tone, asked: “You not drinking?”

The reader casually turned a page in his book before replying: “No.”

Neil stared into his averted eyes. His intuition had drowned in a sea of alcohol, but enough of it remained to warn him against close contact with the man. There was something strange about him, something off. He didn’t seem the aggressive sort, he didn’t look like he possessed any anger at all, but there was something behind those impassive eyes. Or maybe it was the fact there seemed to be nothing behind those eyes that fired so many warning signs in Neil’s mind.

“Go on,” Neil pushed, ignoring his intuition and finding that the sparse warnings capitulated against the remotest sense of resistance. “It’s on me, what you having?” he looked towards the bar, ready to shout an order.

“No thank you.”

“You sure?” he persisted, still trying to catch the attention of the bartender who had now moved onto cleaning a spotless shot glass.

“No.”

“Whiskey? You want some Whiskey?”

Still the reader refused to glance at the alcohol drenched face peering expectantly at him. “No thank you,” he said placidly, turning another page -- the sound of the folding paper audible in the relative silence.

Neil drew his attention from the bar, deflated. Out of eyeshot a relieved bartender continued to clean a pre-polished glass. He took another sip of his whiskey, disappointed to see that the sloshing liquid was nearing the bottom of the glass.

“So, where did you come from?” he quizzed. “I didn’t see you here before.”

The reader turned another page and didn’t utter a word.

“You married?” Neil continued, undeterred. “I bet you’re not, you look too smart for that.” He bent forward; his right eyebrow creased downwards, the corner of his mouth twisted distastefully. “Marriage is for suckers right?” he said in a gravelly pitch.

“If you say so,” came the placid reply.

Neil nodded and leant back on the seat. “I’m married,” he stated.

“Makes sense.”

“Ten years,” Neil continued, not registering the comment.

“That’s a long time,” the reader said, turning another page.

Neil nodded to himself, staring reflectively into the middle distance. “Most of it bad,” he explained. His face twisted in disgust, “And now she’s fucking my best friend. Doesn’t that just make you sick?” he inquired. “I’m Neil by the way,” he offered his hand over the table, a pleasant look on his sweaty face.

The reader looked over his book for the first time. His eyes stared blankly at the extended hand before dipping back to the pages of the paperback. “I’d rather not.”

Neil withdrew his hand and shrugged his shoulders. “Not the touchy-feely type huh? My wife was like that. Fucking bitch.” He spat venomously. “But she’ll get what she deserves.”

He reached inside his jacket and fiddled around inside, his fingers prodding and probing. When his hand re-emerged it was grasping a small handgun. He turned the weapon this way and that. His chunky, sweaty fingers toyed with the sturdy weapon.

The reader looked up, acknowledged the weapon and then returned his attention to the book. Unimpressed.

“Three hundred quid this cost me,” Neil said, his inebriated eyes gleaming as they drank in the sight of the gun. “It’s worth every penny. You know what I’m going to do with it?”

“I have an inkling.”

Neil nodded sternly. “They’re both at it