Most people go to pubs to relax with friends after a hard day at work. You know, have a laugh with a pint or three. Apparently in my dreams, I go to the pub to catch a killer.
I was sat with two friends at a table in the corner, quite casually despite the news; since we’d been there, three bodies had found. Nobody seemed to be overly bothered by this as the pub was still busy, if not busier, than before. Was it a new attraction, The Murder Pub? Did people come here to dance with death? It was crazy. It was also extremely obvious who was executing these deaths.
Of course it was the sullen, lanky guy who glared at everyone. He wore all black, kept his hands in his pockets at all times. He said nothing to anyone, towering over us all like we were beneath him – literally. He had an air of disgust, and to be quite frank he was frightening.
We were seated by the toilets as it had been the only table spare. We watched as a drunken man staggered into the gents and this murderous beanpole followed him. We sat with terrified anticipation. Beneath the loud music and raucous talk of the crowd, if you really listened, a muffled gunshot was just about audible. We watched in horror through the glass panel in the door as the floor slowly turned red.
Another man headed for the toilets. “No!” We hissed at him. He turned his head in our direction, confused, but didn’t stop walking. He pushed open the door and stopped, staring. He backed out, let the door swing shut. Then he turned around and headed back to his table, pint in hand, as if nothing had ever happened.
What the hell.
My friend nudged me. She looked meaningfully at her jumper on the table. I lifted it up and saw a pistol underneath. She nodded at me and I knew what she was telling me to do. Before I could gather my thoughts and take action, the murderer emerged from the gents. He looked deliberately at our table and he smiled at us. My skin crawled.
He walked among the people, drinking nothing, saying nothing, but forever watching us. I kept my hands under the jumper, fiddling with the gun. I had to stop him. I had no evidence that he was the murderer, nor did anyone seem to care about the mass killings.
Determined, I began to play around with the pistol. I’d never used one of these things before. I didn’t even know if my aim would be accurate. But seriously, what was this pistol? It was almost part slingshot in the way you had to load it. There was a single strap of leather that had to be nooked behind the bullet. I was thoroughly confused.
The longer I struggled with the pistol, the more I began to think myself out of it. These people hadn’t properly witnessed this man murdering people. But if I shot him there and then I’d be the murderer, and that would be all they knew. They’d probably accuse me of killing the others too.
But if I didn’t, more people would die, myself potentially included. To sacrifice my life, potentially spend the rest of it in prison, would save all of these people. Did I want to give everything up for these complete strangers though, for the greater good? Why had my friend put this pressure on me?
As my morals and self preservation internally debated, the murderer began to circle his next prey…