The Last Beacon

PART I: I

The Newt's Eye Pub was dismal.

Thursday evenings were usually characterised as full of life, and thick with the smell of sweat and alcohol. However, this night the bar seemed like a different place; as if the spirit had left the building. There were no bar songs sung in off-key harmonies by drunkards. No young lads out for a stag night. There were only four people in the room that evening.

There was the run-down man who was always present, slouched over the greasy bar, drowning his sorrows in whiskey or rum. There was the fellow in the dark trench coat who only visited the pub to drink a beer and play Solitaire at the table near the bathrooms. Then there was the bartender, Landolf, who always wore his signature insolent grin on his face.

"You're doing it again, Miss Cavlacanti."

Sascha Cavlacanti broke away from her thoughts to peer up at the bartender.

"Am I?" She asked, still swirling the drink in her left hand, "and I thought I told you not to call me 'Miss Cavlacanti'. It's too formal, Landolf. Sascha is fine."

"You can't possibly have forgotten that I enjoy being formal." he said, straightening his bow tie to prove his point, "So, what are you thinking about? Your tequila can't be so intriguing that you have to stare at it for as long as you have been."

Sascha averted her gaze from the bartender's watchful eyes. "It's nothing," she muttered through the maze of her thoughts.

She heard Landolf sigh, before setting the glass he was polishing onto the counter. The dim lights above the bar flickered constantly, suspending the immediate surroundings in dancing shadows.

The bar became silent once more, aside from the subtle sounds of breathing, and the flick sounds that occurred every time the man playing Solitaire drew a new card. Sascha began to drum her fingernails on the wooden bar, sporadically letting out pitiful sighs as the seconds melted away into minutes.

Out of nowhere, she sat up straight and downed the shot of tequila, that seared her throat as she swallowed it. She slammed the small glass onto the counter and slouched back into her previous position, her head leaning on her right hand.

"What am I doing wrong, Landolf?" she eventually uttered.

The bartender looked down at the girl who frequented his bar, seeing her pale skin take on a wavering glow from the yellow lights overhead. Her dark hair fell across her face in bunches, partially obstructing the brown eyes that looked up at him expectantly. "You're only seventeen," he said after a moment, "your problems can't be that bad."

"But that's just it," she countered, "I'm a seventeen-year-old alcoholic. I'm not even legally allowed to drink. My family is dead, and I spend most of my time talking to a lonely bartender."

"I'm not lonely, I'll have you know." he said breaking into a hearty laugh, "And, besides, it's not like anyone in here cares that you're underaged."

The both laughed for a moment, and as the peace was broken, the man by the bathrooms cleared his throat loudly, and began to pack up his cards brusquely. His irritation was palpable and Sascha looked over at him, taking in his features for the first time, despite seeing him frequently. His black hair was short, and it was teased into small spikes. His brilliantly blue eyes only partially focussed on the scrambled pile of cards as his hands stuffed them into the box. Every so often he glanced up at Sascha, who was silently watching him pack up his cards.

After closing the box, all at once he was at the bar, stopping when he was mere inches from Sascha. She averted her eyes, shying away from the man who stood too close - and he turned to Landolf, slipping a few coins across the counter. "Thank you, Landolf," he said, his voice husky, "I'm done for the evening. Have a good night,". For a brief moment he looked down at the girl below him perched on her bar stool, "m'lady," the man acknowledged, nodding at her, before walking at once towards the exit.