Devil’s Fork by Lee Hamblin

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Devil’s Fork


Jimmy eases a perfectly poured pint my way. It glides majestically across the counter’s sleek surface. First things first: the whiskey. A devil’s fork claws my throat on the journey down. I growl it loose and take a dampening slug of Ireland’s finest.

“What time’s he due?” asks Jimmy.   

“About two,” I reply, “said he’d come straight here.”

“You spoke to him, then?”

“No, text. You?”

“No, one of the lads mentioned it last night.”

Jimmy wipes the counter and adjusts his specs like he always does when unsure what comes next. He’s grateful to be beckoned by the gang of plasterers flush with Friday lunchtime pay packets. He also knows I’m not one for small talk.

Someone in the crowd not so far behind me says something that’s nothing, but it’s a nothing that once upon a time would likely have ended in a brawl. But today I let it pass, tune my ears to Weller’s angst coming from the jukebox instead, take another mouthful. Cheers and whistles tell me the stripper’s coming round with the pint glass. I put in a couple of quid without meeting her gaze. She dances to Madonna, then retreats, gathering up her clothes, covering her breasts, letting go of her smile. I went to school with her mother, God rest her soul.

Jimmy watches me drumming my fingers on the counter.

“What time you got?” I ask.

“It’s a little after,” Jimmy says, looking past me. His eyes give the game away, but he tries to pull it back. I thought I’d be okay with this, but the rattle in my bones tells me otherwise.

A hand comes to rest on my shoulder.

“Let’s have a good look at you,” my brother says.

I turn round and look at him for the first time in years. Ten years. Our faces are difficult to tell apart less you know the telltales. Or rather they used to be.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a too-small khaki t-shirt that broadcasts his muscular frame. His hair is as close-cropped as it was when our uniform was Fred Perry and Sta-Pressed trousers, and for a man in his forties, he’s in fine fettle.

He’s seeing me: hepatic-sallow skin and deep-welled eyes cheating death one day at a time.

To a stranger I’d pass for his father, not his twin.  

“When did they let you out?” I ask. I know it’s a stupid question, but I hadn’t thought of any better in all the ten years of thinking.

“This morning,” he says.

“Sorry I didn’t get to visit.”

He raises an arm to catch Jimmy’s attention, signals two fingers. His eyes convey a purpose long extinct in mine. He leans in and gives me a hug. I close my eyes, and all of the chatter falls silent. It feels like he’s drawing the darkness out of me with every breath.   

Ten years ago we bashed this poor bloke’s head in so bad he as good as died. I was the one lost it, the one doing all of the bashing, but Groover said it was his doing. He always took the heat for me, like the time as kids we set the kitchen on fire frying potatoes, or the time we got caught thieving motorbikes from the lock-ups round our way. He was protecting me, he said, said he could handle it, that he knew I couldn’t. I wish I knew what was he protecting me from. It seems getting locked up granted him absolution; it might have worked for me too, but I never got the chance to find out.

Someone in the crowd calls out. “Hey, Groover, good to see you back.”

My brother lets me go, turns, and gives a thumbs-up to Stan; a painter and decorator turned city boy we used to work with years back.

I don’t pretend to understand the how or why, but the good thing happening in the moments before had been shattered, and that pissed me right off.

“Wanker,” I shout at him.

“What’s that?” Stan says.

For all it’s worth, and probably from muscle memory, not intent, I get up from the stool. As Stan steams towards me, guys cannon off each other in his path like skittles. Vocal protests articulated in short sharp jabs get ignored. As he nears, Groover steps in front of me as a barrier.

“Hey, cool it,” he says to Stan, holding his hands up in peace, “he didn’t mean anything by it, it’s just that we haven’t seen each other for a long time.”

“Okay, Groove,” Stan says, easing back, “as it’s you, I’ll let it slide.”

I don’t feel too steady on my feet, so sit back down.

“Man, you’re looking great,’ Stan says to Groover.

“Cheers,” he replies, “there’s not a lot else to do inside but read books or work out. Even had someone come in and teach us yoga.”

Stan puts his palms together, rests them on his chest, closes his eyes, starts humming, starts laughing. Groover even laughs along with him.

Groover gets Stan a pint. Jimmy stares at me too long saying nothing, adjusts his specs, makes himself busy, Chloe comes round collecting for her next dance, and I have nothing but to let the devil’s fork do its clawing.  

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Bio: Lee Hamblin is from the UK. Now lives and teaches yoga in Greece. He’s had stories published in MoonPark Review, Blue Fifth Review, Ellipsis Zine, Fictive Dream, Flash Frontier, Spelk, Reflex, F(r)online, STORGY, Stories for Homes 2, Bath Flash Fiction Volume 2. He tweets @kali_thea and puts links/words here: https://hamblin1.wordpress.com