Replay

‘Replay’
by
Writewayze

Filthy, dull weather; wet and miserable. Wednesday again; half-day closing. Jem Foster’s mouth curled down into an expression of distaste. The town was dead. Then a sigh of relief. The Black Swan was still open, the porch light shining, welcoming, beckoning. Alone and feeling like a lost soul he crossed the street. Head down against a flurry of wind-borne rain, he made for the light and the comfort of the Black Swan.
He pushed open the lounge door.
There was no one there. No drinkers in the room. What else had he expected? Still, it was warm and dry in here. Chance for a nice chat with Sharon, the dolly who served behind the bar.
He glanced towards the bar. No one to serve him at all. Again, not unusual.
Then he shivered, as he had the distinct feeling that he knew what was coming next. Although, apart from the obvious fact that he would walk to the bar, what was there to know? He shook his head and with a wry grin, he murmured. ‘Deja vous.’ That’s what they call it isn’t it? Well he’d been in The Black Swan often enough, but what he’d just experienced was different. Strange how an ancient pub could spook you, he thought. Even in the daytime...
The strange moment passed and he dismissed the fanciful notions to think on. It was nothing to do with the supernatural, or Deja-vous. It was the guilt again. Like it always was. After all, he had sworn to give up the drink; altogether. But Christ! Without Emma, life was…
He pushed aside the recrimination. That was almost twenty years ago now. History. Done with. He couldn’t alter anything, so why not drink anyhow? It did keep the guilt at bay, despite what naïve and well-meaning friends said. He kicked the bundled memories aside and went to the bar. He craned over the counter and winced as his sciatica reminded him, he was fifty five. ‘Sharon?’
There was no one there.
He sighed. Where had Jack Hurst found the girl? She was pretty. Oh yes! Very pretty, but useless, at least as a bar attendant. Grabbing a tall stool he hoisted himself onto it and grimaced as more pain coursed down his leg. ‘Sharon!’ He repeated; louder this time.
Nothing.
He dug out his wallet. ‘Sharon! Please!’ Still no answer. It would be pointless complaining. Jack would just grin and fudge an apology, with the proverbial. ‘Can’t get the staff, Jem!’
Foster didn’t really mind, although lately he’d considered drinking elsewhere, even if Jack Hurst did keep the best pub for ten miles around.
Then a hint of movement, just inside the kitchen.
No, he was mistaken.
There was no one there.
He saw her. Not Sharon. Someone new; and even prettier. From the rear anyway. Five feet five maybe. Autumn gold hair, spilling down her back, settling just above firm, shapely hips. ‘Come on Foster,’ he chided himself, ‘You’re old enough to be her Father’
She turned around, a guilty look flooding her face. ‘Oh! I’m sorry.’ She hurried over, moving with feminine grace; floating almost. An order book appeared in her hands, but she panicked, the book slipping through her fingers. Instinctively she stooped to retrieve the pad. Her tight, blue skirt stretched over her shapely hips and her blouse fell open a little, treating Foster to a glimpse of pert breasts and spotless underwear. She was not only new to the Swan, but also to the job. Feeling like a Peeping Tom, he averted his gaze.
She straightened up, still flustered. ‘Do you want to order Sir?’
He didn’t answer. Now she was closer, he was busy taking it all in.
The girl was gorgeous. Her eyes had large, moist pupils, set in irises of the deepest green; fringed by long, natural lashes. The smile that hit him was of the sort that should have been rationed. ‘Christ,’ Foster thought. ‘If that’s her workaday smile, how would she welcome a lover?’ He almost shook with desire; old enough to be her father, yes… But he wasn’t her Father. He let his imagination roll a little. Then hastily, he buried the licentious thoughts. She didn’t really look the type.
She was waiting; patient, still smiling. She leaned towards him, her delicious perfume pervading the air. ‘Your order Sir?’ Her eyes shone; a brief indication that she was well aware of her effect on him,
He dredged up an answer. ‘Only my garage hands call me Sir!’ He winked. ‘Or they used to, before I sold out.’ He pointed to the back shelf. ‘No food thanks. Just a rum and Pep.’
That smile again, as she discarded the pad. ‘You took early retirement?’ She reached for a bottle of Pepsi.
‘Good guess.’
From her armoury of allure she chose a knowing grin, as she went to the optic and poured a measure of rum. ‘It’s three o’clock.’ She said, turning her head towards him. ‘You wouldn’t be here if you worked and you don’t look old enough to be a pensioner.’
Was she merely fishing for a good tip? Maybe. Although, with his thick, dark hair and a metabolism that incinerated calories, he knew he carried his age well. No conceit. Just lucky genes. Maybe she’d been sincere. If not, he still felt good. He smothered another snatch of desire. ‘In ten years time, I’ll be old enough,’ he said ‘and I’ll probably look it too!’ He grinned then, ‘What the hell! Make it a double!’
She seemed to freeze and her shoulders moved in the slightest of shrugs. She turned her gaze away and let another measure pour into the glass. She came to the bar and set the drink down.
Foster smiled, held out a hand. ‘Jeremy Foster. Jem to my friends. What do I call you?’
Her hand was light, cool and dry. She squeezed gently; for a shade longer than courtesy demanded, before letting go. ‘Emma.’ She said.
‘Emma!’ He gaped a little.
The guilt again. Nagging, persistent; inevitable almost, it pressed down on him. The replay of the accident marched in perfect file through his memory, every detail clear; but clearest of all the broken body of Emma; lying in the road, her neck twisted at a strange angle.... Accident?
Shaking the images away, he did the usual thing. He side stepped the guilt. Damn it! It had been an accident. The drink had not had anything to do with it. It was the other driver who had pulled across in front of him. Never a chance. Certainly not for Emma. He’d tried to rouse her, but...
There had been no one there.
Guilt again. Maybe the rum he’d drunk that night... Not too much. The Police had breathalysed him, but he’d shown clear. Lucky for him. His reactions? Slowed. Unlucky for Emma.
The young woman’s voice pulled him back. ‘Out to lunch Jem?’
He shook his head. ‘Er... No.’
She frowned at him. ‘Emma isn’t so bad a name. Is it?’
He forced the memories aside; couldn’t lumber her with those. A white-lie came. ‘Sorry Emma.’ he said, regaining composure. ‘It’s just that it’s old-fashioned. For a young lady.’ He smiled.
‘Well that’s all right then.’ She shook her head, amused and then shrugged. ‘My Mum liked the book.’
He took the drink and gave her a five pound note. ‘Then be thankful your Mum wasn’t a fan of Ian Fleming.’
Emma chuckled. ‘True! Fancy being called Tiffany.’
‘Or Odd-Job!’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Ugh!’ Ringing up the order, she handed him his change. ‘The brewery says we shouldn’t use customers’ first names.’
That was when Jack Hurst’s booming voice filled the room. ‘That’s for the miserable pubs!’ His huge shape filled the kitchen doorway and he beamed at her. ‘I told you Emma. The Mucky Duck is a “Friends’ Society.”’ He shuffled his bulk to the taps and poured himself a half pint of bitter. ‘And Jem here is a founder member.’
‘That’s obvious.’ Emma said. Her smile bordered on the sexy. ‘And if it wasn’t, I’m good at reading friendly!’
Hurst answered her with his version of “Dracula”. ‘Me too young stranger.’ he said. ‘Or did you think I hired you just for your figure!’
Foster hid a grin. Somehow, Jack Hurst was always able to get away with that sort of thing.
It didn’t throw Emma. She just poked out her tongue. ‘If I’d thought there was any chance of that, I wouldn’t have taken the job.’
‘You asked for that Jack.’ Foster said.
Jack Hurst jerked a thumb towards the saloon-bar, looked at Emma and did his shaky impression again. ‘Customers wench!’
‘What would we do without them?’ Emma smiled and, with a last glance at Jem, she went through to the other room.’
****
Maybe two months later, Jem realised he was in love with Emma. He wanted to tell her, but couldn’t. Girls like Emma, unless they were mercenary, didn’t bother with middle aged, ex-garage owners, however young they might look. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the inevitable rejection. He could handle that, but he fought shy of the prospect of looking foolish.
So, during the weeks since meeting her, he’d contented himself with innocent interludes in the Swan, eventually unloading some of his guilt, explaining his reaction to her name; telling her about the accident and the first Emma; and feeling all the better for it. He had also taken to giving Emma the occasional lift home in the Rolls. No drinks! And, also, no sly glances; accidental touches. Give her no reason to mistrust him. All fuel to the furnace of his growing adoration. He was getting so bad, that when driving alone, he had taken to glancing wistfully at the empty passenger seat; sighing, visualising Emma in his mind’s eye.
Although he knew.
There was no one there.
Then, just before Christmas, he decided. To Hell with ridicule! He had to tell her, if only to ease the pressure. Even so, he still needed a couple of stiff rums; bottled courage.
That night, Emma wasn’t working and, eagerly, he had collared her in the lounge. They had seated themselves at the bar, on tall stools. At last, Jem blurted out his confession.
Emma didn’t even look surprised. ‘I know Jem.’ she said. ‘You forget. I can read you.’ She reached out and caressed his cheek. ‘Better than any book.’ She edged her stool towards him; ran her fingers through the fine mat of hair on the back of his hand, ‘Don’t you know?’
‘What?’ His mouth had gone dry. He felt stupid; was this really happening?
‘I love you too, Jem.’ She smiled softly, ‘Don’t you know, for Heaven’s sake?’
Her revelation torpedoed him. Finally, he stammered. ‘B.But you never gave me... Well... a hint.’
‘I wasn’t sure Jem.’ She said, ‘I couldn’t risk hurting you.’
He was buoyant; a kid again, though he knew there were tears in his eyes. Who cared about that? He looked at her lovely face. ‘I feel like... like I’m getting a second chance Emma.’
She squeezed his hand. ‘I know Jem.’ She leaned forwards and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. ‘A replay. Yes?’
He smiled. ‘Yes. That’s it. A replay.’ He vented a sigh of contentment. ‘Oh God Emma! You know I won’t sleep tonight.’ he said.
She pointed to the drink, ‘You will Jem.’ She teased.
‘Hmmm! Maybe.’ Then he remembered the Rolls outside. ‘And I think, I’ll leave the car here
‘But you’ve only had one drink Jem.’
Deja-vous… ‘That could be enough Emma.’
The keys were on the bar. Emma picked them up. ‘Then let me drive.’
Deja-vous… He blinked. ‘Emma! It’s a big....’
‘You’re not going sexist on me Jem?’ She looked at him with mock annoyance.
‘No!’ he said. ‘But it’s my Rolls. No one but me Emma!’ He grinned, ‘So I’ll leave it here.’ Deja-vous…
‘Oh come on Jem.’ she said. ‘We’ll be home in minutes. What could happen?’ She pushed the keys towards him. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Take me home. Please.’
*****
Because of a protracted Autumn, wet leaves still lay about the roads.
Foster wasn’t drunk, by any means. But his reactions?
Well, whatever. He lost control. The Rolls left the road, mangling itself against a tree.

*****
P.C. Edwards pointed to the crashed Rolls. ‘What a mess Sarge!’
‘Yeah!’ The Sergeant pulled a face, recalling the broken bodies they had just pulled from the wreckage. It was like a replay. A bloody replay!
‘Smell the booze?’ Edwards grimaced. ‘Will they ever learn?’
‘Probably not.’ The Sergeant nodded towards the wreck, ‘Especially Jem Foster.’ He sighed ‘He killed his wife the same way, you know.’
‘Aw Christ Sarge! Never!’
‘Too true.’ The sergeant shook his head sadly, ‘Matter of fact, it was my very first breathalyser!’
*****
Filthy, dull weather; wet and miserable. Another accident! Jem Foster looked down, and let out a deep sigh, as he recognised the car; realised what had happened. A warm feeling of relief. No more guilt. He had finally made it.
Then a rush of disturbed air and he turned his head, in time to see the ethereal form of Emma rush on past him towards a white glow high above. She had gone. There was just the lingering scent of her Chanel. Another deep sigh and Foster looked at the light. Alone in the night and feeling like a lost soul he went to follow Emma, towards the light.
The light?
The porch-light of the Black Swan?
He shivered.
Deja-vous? Well he’d been in The Black Swan often enough, but the feeling he’d just experienced was different. As if he knew what was coming next. The strange moment passed. He shook his head at the fanciful notions. Strange how an ancient pub could spook you, he thought. Even in the daytime…

ends