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(Author Unknown)

Winner Takes All

    

    It started when Wayne (I've blanked out his somewhat rude nickname) Johnson walked into the Pig and Bucket at 7 o'clock on the last day of the month. What month doesn't matter, the fact it was the last day does.

    It's been a tradition at the Pig and Bucket for as long as anyone could remember that whoever walked in at that time bought drinks for everyone there. Just the once, mind, one round of drinks. 

    It's been going on so long no one gave it a thought. Like, no one stood around and waited until 7 o'clock had gone, either. If they were out there and wanted a drink, they walked in and paid up. It was something we did.

    The thing was? this night, the one when it all kicked off, someone walked in alongside Wayne. A stranger. 

    Everyone in the bar went silent like a switch had been turned off. Flick. Chatter stopped, glasses no longer clinked, feet did not shuffle on the sawdust.

    Every head turned toward the door.

    He was tall, the stranger; dark but not in the way you think, not like a dark man coming in but a man bringing in darkness. Oh, that sounds stupid but you know what I mean: if you've ever met someone that seems like they came from 'down there' rather than 'up there', you'll know just what I mean. I can't put it in proper words like those writer people can.

    The doors on the Pig and Bucket open wide, so they do, it's possible for two people to walk in at the same time. The question ? silently mouthed by every last drinker in the pub ? was, which of them came in first? If it were the stranger, then we had a problem, 'cos trying to explain our weird tradition to them who don't know is pretty damn difficult.

    Wayne turned to the dark man and said; "whoever walks in here at 7 on the last day of the month gets to buy everyone a drink, friend."

    And the dark man said, "I am not your friend and you were a fraction ahead of me, sir."

    Well now, I can't be remembering the last time anyone said 'sir' to Wayne, he being the biggest loser I know but still? it was polite, if nothing else. Wayne looked round for support but for once none of us had been watching the clock to see if anyone would come in at 7, so it was his word against the dark man. I wouldn't have put a bet on which one was right and I definitely wouldn't have argued with someone who looked like he came from somewhere not very nice, either.

    But I'm not Wayne Johnson.

    The talk started up again, low, almost self-conscious, drinks were being drunk and feet began to kick the sawdust into piles again. Everyone tried to act as if they weren't the least bit interested but they were; they all wanted that free drink off one or other of them. If the dark man played the game, of course.

    "I walked in afore you." Wayne frowned at the stranger.

    "Sir," he was nothing if not polite, "I walked in beside you. We entered the door at the same time. Now, should we not buy these gentlemen their drinks between us?"

    "No."

    The tone in Wayne's voice made the landlord, Chev, look up pretty darn quick, I can tell you.  It meant trouble in the worst way. Wayne was an all right guy, even drunk he was an all right guy but get him on the wrong side no matter when and you had a handful of aggro any sane person would avoid.

    The stranger wouldn't know that.

    Chev leaned on the bar and looked at them both.

    "Might I make a suggestion, you two?"

    Wayne looked at him. "What?"

    "Wayne, yo-" he stopped himself from using Wayne's nickname just in time. "Listen up. You two got a dispute here. Now either one of you leaves and the other one buys the drinks or you gamble for it. Toss a coin, perhaps?"

    "Nah." Wayne dismissed both suggestions without even looking round at the stranger. I watched him, not Wayne and noticed his face didn't change.

    "What would you suggest, sir?"

    "Cards. Play you at cards. You do play, don'tcha?"

    "I did."

    "Then you can play again."

    The other thing I noticed was everyone was nursing the last of their beers, not wanting a refill in case they had to pay for it. The chance of a free drink was still on the table, as it were. If these two sorted out their differences.

    Then I noticed something else, something I ain't told a living soul since that day. I saw through the stranger. For a second, he was like - a faded photograph. Then he was solid again and I thought, had too much strong beer, me. Not that it would stop me having another when this nonsense was sorted out.

    "All right."

    Wayne looked displeased for a moment, he ain't the world's greatest card player, he'd lose at Snap, for sure, but he suggested it and he had to go with it.

    Chev put two beers on the counter, nodding at the two of them. "On the house, you can make up for it later, when you decide."

    "Thanks." Wayne took his and drank half the glass down before he looked at the stranger. He hadn't even touched his. "You all right with the bet, sir?" and the 'sir' came out so sarcastic I would have given money to bet the stranger would land him one. He didn't. He inclined his head so slightly you hardly saw it. 

    "I am indeed." He picked up the beer and walked over to a small table away from everyone. The message was clear, keep out, this is private.

    Wayne stomped over, banging his worn out boots on the floor as hard as he could as a way of showing disapproval. Tom Watkins, at the side of me as always, muttered "idiot. He could have paid up and looked big."

    I had to agree with him.

    Another silence fell over everyone like dust from the never cleaned rafters as the cards were shuffled and cut. Wayne drew the highest card, then they were dealt out. 

    Now you got to understand I didn't see the cards being laid out, I don't know who held which hand and who put what down. The game went on in near silence for a while, to the point when if drinks hadn't been at stake here, none of us would have sat around and waited patiently for it to end. We would have bought another drink and got on with our conversations, our 'setting the world to rights' talk which every true pub has on every true drinking night.

    But we didn't and we watched and we saw from the body language that Wayne was not doing well.  He was tense, holding himself very stiff, muttering under his breath, flicking non-existent dust off his jacket ? like that would make a difference.

    Then something was said and to this day no one knows what it was. What we do know is ? Wayne pulled a knife and in a moment the dark stranger was on the floor, with his breath gone and his heart still. Like it was that quick. Before any of us could move, Wayne turned round and looked at us.

    "What did I do?" he asked in such despair it near broke your heart.

    Then someone shrieked or shouted or something and we all looked down. The stranger had gone.

    And the knife Wayne held was black as sin and it never, from that day to this, showed a scrap of silver once.

    Ghost? Revenant, someone said, lovely word, better than ghost any day. Revenant, but what was he doing in the Pig and Bucket and why did he take on Wayne's challenge?

    Chev asked around and found out, about a month later, some dark seeming man had met a sorry end in the bar about a hundred years ago. Had he come back to live it out again? He was gone, we would never know.

    We do know Wayne wasn't the same man ever again. In fact, he bought the drinks that night and we've hardly seen him since. The few times he does call in someone was bound sure to ask to see the knife, to see if it had gone back to being silver. It hadn't. It didn't.

    I know. Wayne gave me the knife one afternoon, called round at my place, asked me to take it off him and keep it, only it was tormenting him, calling him to stab it right into his heart, like he stabbed the stranger and he knew if he kept it, he would.

    I check it now and then.

    That's how I know it's still black and I don't doubt for a minute it always will be.

    The real big problem is, it's calling me now, faint but there. Like I should have stopped it. Like I had the chance to stop it.

    Winner Takes All, they say. I think that time old Wayne won, in a manner of speaking, but then lost out big time. And giving the knife to me means I lost out too. I guess I shouldn't have taken it but what do you do when a friend comes calling like that?

    Got to admit to a bit of morbid curiosity, too. I wanted to see if it stayed black.

    Black as the gleeful thought that went through my mind when the stranger was on the floor, dead as I thought, because he was a stranger. We don't overly care for them in the Pig and Bucket. Especially at 7 o'clock on the last day of the month.

    Anyone know who I can pass the knife on to? Only the calling's getting a little louder these days.