Dark Places

Patient Solitude

Red Queen onto black King.

Red seven onto black eight, turn the card over.

Black two.

Deal three cards.

Red seven.

Nothing.

Deal three cards.

Black four.

Nothing.

The old man put the cards in his right and left hands together on the table and swept up the others from their separate piles into one. He picked them up, turning those were facing the wrong way so he had a neat pile once more. He drained the last of his half bitter, replaced the empty glass on the beer mat, and began to shuffle the deck.

A large man paused beside the table, picked up the empty and replaced it with a full half pint. He picked up a few coins from the collection next to the beer mat, and walked off without a word. He knew the score by now, he'd been manager of the Oak Tree pub for long enough to know old Albert hated to be disturbed whilst playing. Effectively, of course, it meant Albert (never Al or Bert) hated to be disturbed at all, seeing as all he did during the five hours each evening he spent in here was drink half-pints of bitter, one every hour and a half or so, and play Patience.

Occasionally the manager, Paul Fisher according to the sign above the entrance, tried walking away without taking any money for the drinks. Albert was so much a part of the furniture Paul felt a little guilty taking money all the time. He was never allowed, though. Albert would take hold of his arm and guide him back to the table. Without even looking up, he would pick up the money for the half bitter and hand it to Paul. At times the manager attempted to refuse the payment, but then Albert would look up, and Paul would see the sadness in the old man's eyes, and would take the money just to get away.

Paul hated looking into Albert's eyes. There was no cruelty, no hatred, no nastiness of any kind stirring in the depths. That was not what disturbed the big man. Rather, it was the desolation. Here was a man who had spent every evening sitting at this table, quietly playing Patience, for as long as Paul had been manager, and apparently a lot longer than that. Here was a man who never had any company, and hardly ever spoke apart from a nod goodnight when he left each night. Here was a man who had never won a single hand of the game he so religiously played. Not one. There was an emptiness inside this old man which Paul could feel whenever he looked into those eyes. He soon learned to just keep the drinks coming, and to keep taking the money.

Albert smiled briefly at the faded photograph of his wife which was set next to his beer mat. This was something he did before each game, as if for luck. The fact he had never won even after all these years of playing, and waiting, didn't bother him - he barely noticed.

His hands shook ever so slightly as he began dealing once again. That and the tight, grey skin shrink-wrapped to the knuckles and fingers, were the only signs that these were an old man's hands. The movements were fluid and smooth, if a little shaky. The cards were dealt evenly across the polished table-top. This was about the only table in the pub which did not have someone professing their undying love, or hatred, for someone else; Paul kept it that way, but didn't have to try too hard, no-one else had sat at this table for years. Seven neat piles of face down cards, with the topmost face up, were laid out in unhurried strokes. Once this was done, and a cursory glance showed there were no immediate openings, Albert pushed three cards from his left hand over into his right, and began to play.

Again.

* * *

The rain lashed down, a torrent almost completely obscuring the road ahead. Chris Johnson cursed out loud, adding to an almost endless stream of obscenities aimed at both the weather and every other road user in this arse-end-of-nowhere-dead-end-compost-heap. He had hated growing up here years ago, and, now that he was all grown up, and decidedly too good for this dump of a town, he could see why. God, in all his infinite wisdom, only knew why a salesman of Chris's stature had agreed to come to this backwater.