Pilgrimage (2 page)

He walked up to the bar said something to the bartender. The bartender gave the kid a look he usually reserved for people who had run out of money and were still trying to order a drink. The kid said something else and the bartender poured the kid a lemonade. Roland didn't mind non-drinkers in the pub any more than he minded non-smokers, vegetarians and Catholics. As long as they didn't try to push their beliefs on him, they could think what they liked. His curiosity satisfied for the moment, he turned back to his beer, smiled and brought it to his lips like a lover.

Roland saw the kid again as he walked by, looking for a place to sit. He watched him struggling to navigate the bar room crowd. Then the door opened again. Roland turned to check who was coming in this time. Another stranger, twig-thin, grey haired and dressed in a suit. He looked sickly but moved like a predator on the prowl. Everything about him made Roland uncomfortable. Roland made a mental note to keep clear of him. The grey-haired freak took a long, deliberate look over the crowd from the door and set his eyes on the new kid. The freak slithered through the crowd, right up behind the kid and whispered in his ear. The kid froze up like a dog catching a whiff of something bad. Panic turned his face pale. He looked ready to scream. The freak ran his hand over the kid's shoulder. It make Roland too sick to bear.

Roland stared down at his drink. He'd hardly touched it. It wasn't really his business. He looked back at the tall, greasy queer. Roland liked this pub. If he got kicked out of this pub too, he'd have nowhere close to home where he could drink. He didn't need to get involved. Normally he wouldn't let that kind of rudeness slide but maybe he would, just once. Live and let drink. If the kid didn't like queers cracking onto him – and why would he? – then he could sort it out.

But then again, screw it, why not?

Roland left his beer, trailing his fingers along the perspiring glass and promising to come back. He lurched over to the faggot and tapped him on the shoulder. The freak turned. Roland laid him out flat in one blow. The freak fell back onto the blonde girl as she came from the bar. She fell back onto a table behind her. The table fell, beer splashing over everyone around it.

The group at the table were all beards and tattoos wrapped in leather jackets – your average biker gang with a not-so-average mean streak. The bikers took a look at the girl and decided she was too cute to be at fault. Then they looked at the sissy laid out on the floor and decided he was too unconscious to be at fault. That just left Roland.

From the other side of the room, Roland could hear the girl's suitors calling at him and pushing their way through the stunned crowd.

He had just enough time to look back at his drink before the shit hit the fan.

The bikers were on him like lumps on a cane toad. The girl's suitors struggled against the bikers for Roland-beating rights. Then security tried to cut in and there wasn't a safe corner left in the pub. They were joined by a handful of working class heroes trying to restore order to the bar.

Roland wasn't as young as he used to be but age had brought him experience. Even drunk, he didn't take long to slip back into the old routines. First, get them off balance or go for the gut and knock the wind out of them. Then hit them with the knees, elbows and anything sturdy you can get your hands on. Everything looked a little out of focus but, the way Roland saw it, his opponents needed every edge they could get.

The first biker to come at him dripped cheap beer from his beard. Roland kicked his knees out, throwing him off balance. He grabbed the biker by the back of the head, slammed his face into the bar and let him drop. His friends trampled over him to get closer. One threw a haymaker and another one got behind Roland to cut off his escape. Roland skipped back, throwing his body against the biker behind him. The haymaker hit nothing but air. Roland rushed forward, thrusting his elbow out and hitting Mr Haymaker in the nose. He felt the cartilage crack. Tears started to fill Mr Haymaker's eyes. Roland grabbed a schooner from the bar and smashed it across the blinded biker's head. With blood, tears and shards of glass covering his face, he was out of the game. But the biker behind Roland had recovered. Roland felt something heavy come down on his back and heard wood splintering. He stumbled on the beer-soaked floor, right into an angry security guard, who tried to grab him but couldn't get a hold; instead he pushed Roland further down. Roland hit the floor head first. A second later someone dragged him up again. Roland didn't check who it was before turning and head-butting them out of his way.

Roland's head throbbed, his back ached. He felt alive. This beat the hell out of a quiet night watching the races. Roland breathed heavy through a wide grin and looked for a new opponent in the crowd. Anybody would do.

A blurry bouncer-like figure had a biker in an arm lock. Roland let his eyes focus on the pair, then reached out and wrapped his hands around the bouncer's neck and jerked him back. The bouncer hit the floor. The biker fell too, flattening the bouncer beneath him. Roland launched off the bodies and onto one of the other bikers. They both went down, Roland on top. Without pause, he threw fist after fist into the biker's face. By the time somebody dragged him away, the poor bastard's face was an unrecognisable red and purple mess. Roland thrashed against his captors until something sharp hit his leg. He didn't know what it was, but it made him lose all feeling. He grabbed a chair for support before he went down again.

Somebody blew a whistle. Shouting followed. Roland caught sight of police at the door. Whoever held him let go and his legs buckled under his own weight. Before he could make another move, somebody slipped his arm over their shoulders and hoisted him up.

“I got you,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Is there another door?”

“Behind the bar. Towards the toilets,” Roland answered, not sure who he was talking to. His vision was cloudy and sweat dripped over his eyes. His leg hurt like hell and his stomach was about to empty itself all over the pub, but he was moving, being led by
somebody
.

“Got it. My name is Griffith. Try and walk with me. I'm getting us out of here.”

“Good to meet you, Griffith. I'm—” Roland stopped and swallowed before the remnants of his dinner introduced themselves.

With Griffith leading, and in spite of Roland's blurred vision, they dodged the police and crossed the road. Roland must have told the kid to head for the hotel, but he didn't remember saying anything. As they passed under a street light, Roland took the best look he could at his pint sized hero. Best he could tell, through his blurred vision, he'd been dragged out of the chaos by the neat looking kid with a taste for lemonade.

They ducked down empty alleys behind the bar before coming out a good three blocks down the road. They crossed the darkened street in a hurry before doubling back to the hotel and slipping unseen through the parking lot. They stopped at the stairs for a moment. Griffith grunted and hoisted Roland further onto his shoulders before starting the slow ascent. Roland followed Griffith's lead, looking down at his grazed, bleeding knuckles. He made a fist and winced at the pain, then smiled.

“No matter how many times you punch a guy, it still hurts, y'know?”

“Can't say I do.”

“I'm sure that son-of-a-bitch bit me.” Roland counted every place his body hurt: Right knuckles, shoulders, head. One, two, three and his left thigh was cold and stinging - that made four, five if you count both sides of his head.

Roland couldn't be sure but the pain in his leg felt an awful lot like bleeding. Looking down turned his stomach in circles and his eyes wouldn't focus where he wanted them to. All Roland knew for sure was that one leg kept making one hell of a protest about supporting his weight.

“Right now, I think that's the least of your worries.” Griffith stopped, adjusted his grip and then pushed forward up the stairs.

“What do you mean?” Roland asked.

“You might have a concussion.”

“That's true. And we'll pretend I'm not bleeding until we know for sure.”

“I wasn't going to say anything.”

“I may be drunk, but I'm not so drunk I can't tell when I'm bleeding.”

“That's good. Then you're not too drunk to help walk.” Griffith said. Roland thought he was walking, but he redoubled his efforts.

“Those cops sure got there fast. They should get an award or something for their response time.”

“It was just good luck – or maybe bad luck, depending on how you look at it. I saw them when I came in, across the road.”

“Doing what?”

“Getting dinner, I think, from the take-away.”

“While on duty? Never mind that award, then.”

“No offence, but you weigh a tonne and you're almost twice as big as me.” Griffith's words came out as grunts, separated by deep breathes. “I really appreciate all you've done, but this isn't exactly easy. Could you stop talking until we get to the top of the stairs?”

“Whatever you say.” Each step shot pains through Roland's body and talking only made it worse. He couldn't object to a little quiet. And the kid had a good point. A clumsy gymnastic performance down the lime-green, cast iron stairs would be a sudden and embarrassing way to end the evening.

The stairs zigzagged up in sharp turns. Roland couldn't do much than hop awkwardly and hold on tight to his human crutch. He stopped when Griffith stopped and let him adjust his grip, even if he did get awkwardly touchy about the whole process. Roland didn't have a lot of options open to him and he could always beat the shit out of Griffith later if he tried anything funny.

Not that it was likely. Roland was a big man, well past his prime and he could smell his own foul odour – a gut-wrenching mix of sweat, beer, smoke and blood. That smell covered him from his stubble to his boots and you'd have to be all kinds of desperate to want to start feeling him up. No, no doubt Griffith was just a nice guy helping out his fellow man.

“This floor.” Roland said when they reached the third level. “Room 306.”

Griffith grunted an affirmative.

Room 306 was, Roland imagined, identical in almost every way to the other rooms in the hotel. But he'd never seen those rooms and that was enough to give room 306, his room, special significance. He fished the keys out of his pocket and gave them to Griffith, who opened the door, dragged Roland inside and dropped him on the bed. The sheets were a hideous brown and green striped pattern and Roland considered the fresh blood stain an improvement.

“You know,” Roland said. “I think I might need a doctor.”

“Don't worry about that. Just lay still and please try not to make this any more awkward.”

“Make what—”

The kid had started pulling his jeans down.

“Whoa, hey, I think you—”

“I need to do something about this cut.”

“Then call an ambulance or something.” He waved his hand in a useless, grabbing motion but his jeans were already gone. He didn't have the energy left in him to fight.

“Not a good idea. An ambulance will bring police, too. You saved my life back there so just leave this to me.” Griffith let the jeans drop around Roland's ankles and then turned his attention back to the bleeding wound.

“Do you even know what you're doing?” Roland pushed himself up and took a look at his legs. Now that the kid had pulled his pants down, he could make full sense of both the cold wet sensation and the sharp pains. The end of something curved and metallic was poking out of the flesh of his left thigh. Probably a knife. Probably cheap, because it had snapped off at the handle.

“Relax. This is about the only thing I do know how to do.”

“Oh, so you are a doctor?”

“Sure. Let's go with that.”

“That's good to know.” Roland ran his sleeve over his face, wiping the sweat away and then watched Griffith go to work. He blinked a few times and focused on Griffith until he could see with some clarity.

Griffith went quiet and placed his hands around the wound, the edge of his palms resting on Roland's legs. He closed his eyes. Slow and steady, the blade of a butterfly knife pulled itself out of Roland's thigh and into Griffith's hands. All the blood on the bed, on his legs and even soaking his jeans crept back into the open wound, and Roland's flesh knitted back together without leaving so much as a scar.

Griffith carried the cold blade over to the rubbish bin and dropped it in. “You'll be fine,” he assured him. “When you're sober, I'll answer all your questions.”

“I don't think it can wait that long.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not convinced you're real or that you'll still be here when I'm sober.”

“I will. I don't have anywhere else I can go tonight so if you let me stay, I'll give you answers in the morning.” Roland wanted to argue with his possible-hallucination but couldn't find the strength to push the matter. His adrenaline had run out once they’d left the bar. Roland also wanted to ask Griffith to bring him a drink but he wasn't sure if the kid would get it from the tap or just make it appear out of thin air. He couldn't deal with another trick like that. All he could do was accept sleep's call and let himself plummet into the depths of unconsciousness. He closed his eyes and muttered something that could scarcely be called English.

“What's that?” Griffith asked.