Voices From The Back Room

Jimmy took a sip of his pint of beer and sighed. It had been a bad day at the office, so rather than chilling on his sofa that evening, he’d opted to go to the pub over the road for a few drinks. He ordered a pint of cold, crisp lager and found a spot on a stool at a tall table. He sipped his beer and watched the world go by. 

It was soon time for another beer. Before heading to the bar, he ducked into the toilets.

As he was washing his hands, he could hear raised voices coming from the next room, the back room of the pub. 

It sounded like there was a massive argument going on. It was really kicking off. Eager to listen more closely, and to catch a bit of gossip, he turned the taps off and wiped his hands dry on the bottom of his t-shirt.

How did the police know we were going to be there? It was a set-up, it had to be. 

The place was swarming with coppers. Somebody must have tipped them off.

We’ve been double-crossed, no doubt about it.

Who’s your money on?

McGuire is the newest guy on the firm. Finger points to him, surely. McGuire is the rat, has to be. He’s got to go. 

What? We shouldn’t do anything hasty. It could be any one of the guys. 

Why are you sticking up for him? You vouched for McGuire. This is on you. 

McGuire is on the level. I worked with him on that warehouse robbery in Trafford Park. I’ve done lots of jobs with him.

He’s the rat. You keep on defending him, like that, you’ll be a suspect too! 

Jimmy was reeling. The two men were in heated conversation. They sounded so serious, so professional. They were discussing murder like it was a business deal. A shiver went through him. Maybe for people like them, life and death was just business. If anyone stepped out of line, they were killed.

Jimmy hurried from the toilets as quietly as he could, not wanting to be embroiled in the shady goings on in the room next door. He decided to leave having another drink in the pub. He had a few cans in the fridge. He’d crack a can open and watch a film at home.

By the time he poured himself a beer at home, he had almost forgotten about the strange conversation he had overheard. 

Two nights later, after another awful day at the office, he decided to go for a few pints again. Once again, he had a couple of beers, perched on the stool at the tall table. There was something lovely about a cheeky mid-week pint. It felt like he was doing something he shouldn’t. He mostly went out for food and drink at weekend, with his circle of friends, so the idea of popping out for a spur-of-the-moment beer seemed like bunking off school or something.

He headed to the toilets. As he was at the sink, he heard the voices from the next room once again. It was the same voices as the other night. They were still in discussions about the robbery and the police. 

Come off it, McGuire. Don’t tell me you’re innocent. Do you think I’m stupid?

I swear, Dylan. It wasn’t me that blabbed to the cops. 

Did you really think I’d stand for it? You knew what would happen. The last person who stole from me is in the ground.

Dylan, please! 

There’s only one way this can end for you.

It wasn’t him, came the third voice, it was me.

Jimmy darted out of the toilets, and rushed to the bar. The barman gave him a nod that asked what drink he’d like.

‘You need to call the police. They are gonna kill each other.’ Jimmy blurted out.

The barman looked concerned, reaching for his mobile phone.

‘Why what’s wrong?’

‘It’s all kicking off in the back room. I heard it on Monday night, and it’s all going down again.’

The barman placed his mobile phone down on the bar.

‘Very funny.’ He said with a smile. ‘You almost had be going then. Are you with that lot?’

‘I don’t understand. Are you ringing the police or not? There’s going to be murder if we don’t act quickly.’

‘Come and see for yourself.’ The barman said.

The barman lifted the wooden hatch on the bar and joined Jimmy on the other side. He showed Jimmy to the back of the pub, to the back room. 

He pushed open the door and ushered him in to the room. Quite unsure what was going on, Jimmy entered the room. 

The three men stared at him, puzzled at the interruption.

‘Here are your contract killers.’ the barman said.

The men were standing in a circle in the middle of the room, clutching sheets of papers. They didn’t look like gangland killers, they had more of a student vibe about them. They were in their early twenties and dressed in rock band t-shirts, faded baggy jeans.

‘This is the local amateur dramatics group. The next play is about gangsters, isn’t it?’ the barman asked the men.

‘Oh yes,’ said one of the men, excitedly waving his script, ‘it’s going to be quite the thriller.’

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom