A Bar Through Time

The door swung open as a drunken punter fell through the door. In a mumbling of words, he managed to stagger his way back out.

“Closing time was five minutes ago, and it looks as though you’ve already had enough,” said Claire from behind the bar. She wore a black T-shirt and trousers — it wasn’t worth wearing anything else, or anything nice — because she knew that by the time the night had ended, she would be hot and sweaty, at the very least.

The Fire Smoke Inn of Edinburgh was a cosy place. As you walked in, the open fire was on the right, warming up the room and its inhabitants, along with the warm glow of low lighting. Walking through, you would find the bar. Behind that bar, you would find Claire, the bar lady.

Not many people knew, unless they were locals that the stairs in the centre of the space were the last remnants of the original building. The rest of the building had long crumbled, yet the stairs were intact—the height of the stairs ending at the wall.

Claire made herself busy with wiping down the tables with latherings of disinfectant. She didn’t know why she bothered. In less than 24 hours, it would be as though she’d never touched it. And, as far as she knew, she was the only person in the whole of Edinburgh — the whole of anywhere, in fact — who bothered cleaning the tables. But cynically, she was rather strapped for cash in the first place, so she couldn’t risk the tables walking themselves out. Cleaning the tables was more than routine. Claire pressed the spray bottle three or four times, depending on the size of the table, and then wiped it in a circular motion, picking up discarded glasses as she went. As mundane as it was, she found it very therapeutic: a chance to decompress after a long shift.

If anywhere, the stairs went into the wall.

That is until, very unlike any other day, she was interrupted. The bottom step creaked as the foot of a seemingly young man appeared around the corner. Claire put the utilities down and got to action.

 “Excuse me, sir. Closing time was well over half an hour ago. You should have left by now.”

“I was just coming down the stairs to see you,” the man said with a smile, his voice level and stirring. He was in clothes much like Claire. His hair was long but well-kept, and he wore a belt around his waist, holding his clothes tight to his body.

“You came down to see me?” said Claire. “Where did you come down from?”

“The stairs.”

“Did you not hear me?”

“Yes, I heard you.

 “But those no longer go anywhere,” Claire said, nodding towards the staircase. If anywhere, the stairs went into the wall.

“I live upstairs, you see.”

“Upstairs? There is no upstairs…”

“There was when I was last here.”

“Last here? I’ve never seen you!” finished Claire. “Could you please leave?”

“Not before you pour me a wine,” he said sternly, his charming nature clouding over. Claire felt a shiver run down her spine. If nothing else she had to keep this man talking so she could phone the police.

“Not done much with the place, have you,” he drawled. “A red would be lovely,” he added. Claire went into the back room to get one at the bottles from the rack. Whilst in the back room, the man spoke still, and Claire eyed him carefully.

“And you’re the landlady here?”

“Yes, I am,” said Claire, as her voice cracked.

“How long have you worked here? Do you give your people good service?”

“I like to think so.”

“How long has it been since you were last here? I’ve never seen you before,” asked the man.

“I’ve worked here for nearly ten years in the bar.”

“I worked here nearly 200 years ago. Like I said, you haven’t done much with the place. The stairs are still here. You couldn’t even get rid of them. Do you make a good living?”

“Well, it is my bar, so I do find that I’m making enough. Thank you.”

“Good,” continued the man. “In my day, this very pub was the hive of Edinburgh — at least, that’s what I like to call it. I’m sure somebody out there will disagree with me.”

“Mind you,” Claire interrupted, “if you were here two hundred years ago, everybody you knew is going to be dead, aren’t they?” before she managed to stop herself.

“Yes, that is right,” said the man, his demeanour truly turning this time. “Do I look like I need reminding?” his brown eyes now turning a foul black. His form shimmered, and his face and hands grew bigger — disproportionate to the rest of his body.

With a wave of his hand, he jumped over the bar and flew into the back room, holding the base of the wine bottle that Claire was placing on the rack. “This is my pub,” he said. “Now, get out.”

NorthernLife Sep/Oct/Nov 24