Deserved

DOMINIC'S STORY..... I loved the way the light came in, just as the sun went down, signalling the start of another night. Another shift filled with chatter, clinking glasses and music, to block out my inner noise. Tonight, uncharacteristically for this time of year, was devoid of any light. My sombre mood was mirrored by surprisingly brutal weather. Rain hammered the wooden porch hugging the 'South of Heaven Inn', and I sighed, because now I had a pooch that needed walking, but sure as hell wouldn't venture out in torrential rain. Larry was a p***y, and I couldn't help but chuckle, watching him sulk in his dogeared, faded blue bed by the French doors. He passed me a withered look. Brother had the hump with me, funny how dogs do that. Like you're able to turn off the rain with the flick of a switch. But I liked the rain. The rain steadied my splintered nerves. Like some holy ablution washing away the sins of the day. Or maybe not. Sometimes it hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. Steeling myself against the bar, I took a deep breath, knowing this feeling all too well. Clay Arterson and Randy Miller, two metal heads and avid Harley worshippers sipped from tankards in a booth by the saloon style doors. The fire in the hearth raged in oranges and yellows, bathing the usual gaggle of Nam veterans surrounding it, in a halo of light. A scattering of single individuals, many of them truckers and contractors, took up residence on the throng of bar stools ribboning along the expansive red wood counter. I watched 'Devil's Tongue,' roll in, drenched to the bone, their lead singer Dex squeezing out his shoulder length jet black hair and stamping his muddied feet on the coarse coir door mat. Over by the staging area, a troop of latex wearing Tongue groupies chattered amongst themselves, making eyes at Dex and the infamous womaniser of the group, Vin, the bass player. At that moment, Hunter Fabray strutted in, and I say strutted because he purposefully walked with a swagger that Western heroes like Eastwood and Wayne would be envious of. In his Pantera tee and black jeans, muddy river hair and cursory nod to the groupies, he was never short of a little female attention. He'd been visiting a brewery down in Rock Creek, and I hoped he'd secured a deal for some of their dark mead. He gave me a thumbs up sign, and then hung out his tongue like a salivating dog, wiggling his eyebrows towards where the groupies languished on the stage. I rolled my eyes, shrugging, as if to say; 'They're all yours brother.' But he headed on over, rolling the sleeves of his open shirt up over the elbow, and he slapped me on the back. 'Another day another dollar, huh boss. It's brutal out there man. My hair look okay?' 'Your hair looks homo, as per usual.' I jested, 'Bieber called, he wants his hair back.' 'f**k off.' Hunter retorted playfully, brown eyes twinkling. 'You were the only guy, in the Iraqi desert, more concerned over his hair than whether his legs were gonna get blown to f*****g bits.' I chided. 'And I told you, it's coz those Middle Eastern chicks are hot.' 'So you'd prefer to have no legs so long as your hair stayed intact.' 'Would I get to keep my d**k?' He had one hand on his hip. Brother was actually serious. 'What?!' 'Well.' Hunter began, 'If my legs got blown off but my hair was okay, would I still have a d**k, like a working d**k?' I shook my head in amusement. Typical Hunter. He stared at me, holding out his palms as if he didn't understand my bewilderment. 'If I lost both my legs I mean sure it'd suck, but I'd have you to carry me around in your hulk like arms and I could still work here. I mean how could I not, there's a whole load of metal loving p***y I've yet to dip my wick in.' One thing I loved aside from the rain, was lifting weights. He liked to poke fun at my larger than average muscle ratio. I punched his arm and he wiggled his eyebrows again, as he served one of the groupies. I recognised her. She'd been here a lot over the past week or so, sashaying her hips and licking her scarlet painted lips. She batted her thick mascara slicked eye lashes in my direction and I turned my back, heading towards the store room. Hunter served the woman, throwing her a few of his tried and tested lines, and I closed the door, resting my head against the gnarled wood. Have I been tempted by our female bar flies before? Hell yeah. I'm only human. A man, at that. Biologically we're visual beings. Show us a pair of doe eyes, and an hour glass figure wrapped up in a clinging low cut dress and we're interested. But with me, that's as far as its ever gone. I'm not a virgin, far from it, but lets just say I haven't had s*x in a long time. A really long time. The store room window had been boarded shut a long time ago, but I could still hear the rain, and the drone of voices in the bar. But tonight, that somber mood didn't shift. I eyed a bottle of Jim Beam , my fingers touching cool, smooth glass, and I withdrew it from the racking. I needed something. Hell I always needed something. I was a hairs breadth from dependancy, but I didn't have an addictive personality. That was my saviour. Sometimes I'd wallow in the cold, detached isolation that had become my life. Other times it was remembering what I'd seen, that made me wake up and appreciate what I had. I'd spent two long, arduous, sleep deprived tours in Iraq, followed by a year of aid work in and around the Kurdish regions. Years of misery at military school for both Hunter and I, led to the inevitable progression of war. Our tours there however, made us more determined to head back on our own terms. We worked for free, rebuilding homes, visiting the families affected by the 1987 Halabja g******e, laid down new roads and assisted with fixing electrical issues and even installing cable tv in the local tea house. Best of all, we swapped our rifles for pens, teaching kids English. That was the last time I felt useful, hopeful, and needed. Not that I was ungrateful for the bar, I mean I did love this place. It was rustic, rough around the edges, and it attracted the kinda crowd that didn't ask too many questions or gossip. Living on the periphery of Cedar Creek, we may have fallen into the trap of gaining ourselves a gathering of small town busy bodies. The kinda folk that are so nosy they fear anyone who hadn't beared their dirty laundry in public. The kinda people who treat anyone that doesn't fall into their little boxes like some medieval witch. And we didn't fit into a box. Our clientele consisted of the local charter of the Sons of Mayhem, a gang of bikers, and because of the music we chose, we attracted metal fans, metal bands on our open mike and band nights and stragglers. That's the only way I can describe them. Guys like me, with no direction, no wife to go home to, the guys working eighty hour weeks in trucks destined for long ass drives out into the middle of nowhere. The place wasn't conventional. But nor were Hunter and I. I heard rapping on the door and I moved away, glad that I hadn't opened the bottle. 'Could do with a hand out here brew, things are hotting up.' I looked past Hunter to see two groupies dancing on the bar, Coyote Ugly style, and the band in full flow. The place had filled up quickly, in spite of the dreary, dismal, driving rain. We'd make a fortune tonight, it'd tide us over for the slower winter evenings that were creeping up at speed. My friend asked no questions related to my hiding out in the store room, he never did. We had this quiet unspoken agreement between us. We both had a colourful past, but we were making the best of the cards we'd been dealt. We'd seen a lot of death and destruction together, enough for ten lifetimes, both on the front line and the years that followed in Iraq. It was a case of he didn't ask and I didn't say. And vice versa. I'm Dominic Weisz. Ex Corporal, humanitarian, bar tender and perennial loner. And what's true today, was true yesterday. Everyday before and everyday since. I did not kill Abby Mae Whitman.