West Falls

Anderson Barr's arse hurt. Travelling the long road to nowhere, as romantic as it sounds, had been made up of mostly tedious bus trips. He shifted uncomfortably, wondering if a numb arse was a part of the journey into self-discovery popular fiction had promised him. He was also hungry and thirsty, which wasn't helping his mood.

When the bus driver announced the next destination: something Falls, he decided to get off and have a look. Born and bred in Scotland he was always a sucker for good scenery and anything with Falls in the title was usually a winner. On that count, so far, the American mid-west had not disappointed him.

The bus-stations however left something to be desired. He didn't carry a camera, preferring to let memory decide what was worth keeping, but if he did there'd be no use for it here.

After stretching out the bus cramps, he took a well loved New York Mets cap from his head, ran a hand through his straggly dark, but flecked with grey, hair and then replaced the cap.

Scientists and scholars could debate for hours quite why a man takes off his hat to fix his hair, only to put the hat back on, but no conclusion, other than that it seemed like the right thing to do at the time, would be reached.

The bus driver, a jovial black man, sharing tell-tale greying hair with Barr, had opened up the bowels of the bus to retrieve some luggage. He was currently struggling to unload and re-arrange the bags as a disgruntled husband and wife team looked on over his shoulder. They bickered as the driver fought on valiantly: Why is it taking so long? Ours should have been at the front since we're first off? Etc.

The driver, flummoxed but well versed in this customer-first world, eventually handed over the luggage and cheerily thanked the travellers for their patience. They ignored him, and went on their way.

America: a play, by these people.

The driver then turned his enthusiasm to Barr. "You okay there, fella?"

"Aye, I'm good," Barr said, revealing his well-travelled but still unmistakably Scottish accent to the driver. "It just never fails to amaze me how Americans can be so friendly and welcoming and yet so bloody rude and ignorant."

The driver looked back at the departing passengers, suitcase wheels clunking rhythmically behind them. "White folks," he said, "you gotta love 'em. No offence."

"None taken."

The driver hesitated before closing the bus back up, clearly unsure if this was one of those weird Brits who form queues for no good reason. "Did you have a bag in the hold?"

"No," Barr said, patting his trusty backpack, "You can close her up, I got everything I need here: Clean underwear, a few fresh shirts, and a good book. Used to have a toothbrush but I kept leaving them in motel bathrooms. Now I just hope they have complimentary ones."

"It's a wise man that learns from his mistakes."

"And a rich man that learns from everyone else's."

The driver nodded, giving that some thought as he closed the bus back up. "Not gonna lie, friend, I ain't a hunner percent sure what that means, but it sure sounded clever."

"I'll take that.”

The driver, noticing Barr’s Mets cap and realising it didn’t add up with the accent, said, "Thought you guys just watched soccer?"

"Long story."

"Well, best keep it to yourself. I got places to be."

He climbed back aboard his bus and settled in behind the wheel. He wasn't done with Barr yet though. "You know where you're goin'? Guessing you ain't local with that accent."

Barr looked off towards the biggest clump of civilisation, assuming, quite correctly, that it would be the centre of town. "I'm thinking that way."

The driver followed his gaze, nodded, and as much to himself as to Barr, said, "It's as good a direction as any."

And with that, he closed the doors and fired up the engine.

The sky was turning fiery orange as the sun began to set. Barr took note of a nearby Motel for later, and then, before the sun deserted him completely, headed off in the direction that was as good as any.

Red's Bar was the first thing that caught his attention. Its titular neon sign popping out against the descending night sky; a beacon to the hungry and thirsty.

The jukebox didn't scratch to a halt when he entered but it may as well have. Every eye in the place turned towards him, catching him in a spotlight of quiet judgement. He held a few of the gazes and returned them with a reassuring nod or a smile, all the while using the time to check the place over. Within seconds he knew all the exits and blind spots. It was just second nature now. The training never leaves you, certainly not their training.

The proverbial jukebox restarted, the spotlight dimmed, and the patrons returned to their business.

He headed for the bar.

A man in a lumberjack shirt sat there, hunched over, staring into his beer as if it held all of life's answers. Barr parked himself on a neighbouring stool. Lumberjack looked over and gave a friendly nod. Barr removed his cap, sitting it on his backpack - now slumped at his feet, and returned the nod.

"What's good?" Barr said.

The man held up his beer in answer.

Barr motioned to the assorted taps. "Which one?"

Lumberjack thought about this for a second as if realising for the first time that there were options available. "It's the beer one, if that helps?"

It didn't.

The barman sidled over- a young guy, handsome in that scruffy way that people seem to like these days. He sized up Barr in a manner that could not be described as subtle before offering an enthusiastic, "Hi, new face."

The customer service sheen couldn't quite hide that small town distrust of new people but Barr liked the "new face". It was a good opening line.

"Not as new as it used to be," he said.

"I ain't judgin', I'm just servin'. My parents lumbered me with the name Huckleberry, but I answer to Huck, which ain't half the mouthful." He waved a hand over his wares. "What can I get you?"

Barr pointed to an extensive whisky collection - with and without the e. "I see a bottle of Lagavulin up there. Is it safe to assume that it's actually Lagavulin in the bottle?".

"I can assure you it is. Not saying there ain't a bit of dust on it though. Apart from the owner they ain't exactly connoisseurs round these parts."

"Me neither. I just know what I like and don't see any point changing now."

"How d’you take it?"

"Neat, but I’ll have a little water on the side if you don't mind. And one of whatever my friend here is drinking."

Lumberjack looked across and nodded a thank you, adding, "That's an accent. You ain't from around here with that accent. You a european?" It was pronounced Your Peen, which made Barr smile.

Huck nodded along while pouring the beer. "What he said. All James Bond and shit with that accent. Connery though...Scottish, amiright?"

"Spot on," Barr said.

"You got a name?" Huck continued, "or do we just call you James?"

"Barr, Anderson Barr." he said, playing along with the theme.

"Andy for short?"

"No."

"Cool."

Huck passed a beer over to Lumberjack before turning his attention to the whisky.

Barr cast an eye around the room. It was comfortable and clean; dark wood and brass everywhere. An American bar. Not a beer stained carpet in sight.

A young woman who’d just come in caught his eye. She'd made an effort for her night out and looked good. Maybe slightly trashy; or maybe she was the height of fashion; Barr had long given up trying to make sense of such things. She had bleach-blonde hair which stuck out against her dark eyebrows.

She returned his gaze, looking him up and down as she passed. Whether it was appreciative or judgmental, he couldn't tell. She joined a table behind him to a chorus of enthusiastic greetings.

"He was the best one." Lumberjack said.

Barr turned back to his new friend.

"Who?"

"Connery. He was the best Bond."

Huck put the whisky and jug of water down, adding, "Yeah, no contest there."

They both waited on confirmation from Barr.

"Dalton was the best Bond," he said, looking in the water jug for a pipette.

The answer surprised the two men who shared a glance and shrugged.

Barr, having no luck with the pipette, improvised by dipping his pinkie finger in the water and using it to quickly apply a few drips to the whisky.

"Ain't that a girls drink now?" Lumberjack said.

Barr sucked the remaining water from his finger. "A little touch of water breaks up the alcohol and releases the flavours."

"Nice tip." Huck said.

Lumberjack shrugged. "Still smells like an ashtray to me."

Barr cupped the glass in his hands, warming the liquid in readiness for his first sip.

Huck headed off to serve another customer.

The door to the bar crashed open allowing a cold wind to sweep through the room. Angry footsteps followed in its wake and came to a halt somewhere behind Barr.

"Bitch, I told you never to come back in here. You know this is my bar and if you 'ain't with me no more then you don't get to hang here."

Bitch. Of all the slurs men had for women, Barr always thought that one was the worst. Something about the way it sounds when inflected with venom. Or maybe it was all the times he’d heard it thrown at his mother as a child.

He let out a sigh and sat his drink down. He looked over his shoulder towards the voice. Some kid in a bad shirt, clearly a few sheets to the wind. Big guy though. Not much taller than Barr but wider. Clearly knew his way around a gym. Probably started conversations asking how much you bench.

He was towering over the table of girls now and one in particular, the bleach-blonde who'd just come in, was bearing the brunt.

"It's a free country, Louis, and this 'ain't your bar, it's everyone's bar. You can’t stop me coming in here just ‘cause we ain't a couple no more."

“Oh, you think so? You wanna try me?'

Barr looked at Lumberjack who had suddenly found something really interesting in his glass. Huck gave a subtle but telling shake of his head, warning him off getting involved.

"I’ll drag your scrawny ass outta here right now,” the drunk continued, “and I’m bettin’ no one’ll be havin’ a problem with that.”

Stay out of it.

It's none of your business.

This would still happen if you weren't here.

The whole point of this adventure is to lay low, disappear, forget your old life.

...

Fuck it

“I have a problem with it.”

The proverbial jukebox ground to a halt for the second time since he entered. There was a sharp intake of breath from everyone in the bar. Huck's face fell.

The drunk straightened up from the table, puffed himself up and turned towards Barr. “The fuck d'you just say?”

"Yeah," bleach-blonde said, jumping up next to him, "who the fuck are you? Mind your own business."

Barr was momentarily lost. This was not the usual script. He glanced over at Huck who was shaking his head again, this time in disbelief.

"What?" the drunk added, "You got nothin' else to say?"

The girl was fully onboard now, excited by the potential for some violence. "Fuck him up, Louis. Guy comin' in here and givin' you shit like this."

Barr looked at the girl, affronted. "I was trying to help you."

She laughed heartily. "Help me? You think you grow up in a town like this and can't handle drunk ass-holes. Fella, I ain't the one that'll be needin' help."

"Yeah," her drunk, apparently-ex, added, "You're gonna be the one needin' help - wait..." He turned his attention momentarily back to her. "D'you just call me an ass-hole?"

"Yeah, Louis, I called you an ass-hole, 'cause you're an ass-hole. I used to let it slide but there's only so much ass-hole behaviour a girl can take, even with -" she waved a hand over the other potential mates in the room, "the limited options she has available to her."

The drunk threw his hands up, exasperated and frustrated, then remembered he had someone new to take that out on.

Barr did a quick scan of the room to see if there was anyone who might offer assistance, but they were all doing a great job of watching intently whilst simultaneously minding their own business. He got the feeling this was a frequent occurrence.

No one helping was a good thing though as it meant, whatever happened next, it would be one on one. Cleaner that way; easier to control. Barr slid off the bar stool and moved forward to give himself some room. He eyed up the drunk as if scanning for weaknesses, then slapped himself on the side of the head, let out a whoop and refocused. This caused a flicker of hesitation, as he knew it would. Facing an opponent who is unpredictable, or crazy, or both, throws out the rule book.

Barr glanced over at Huck again, who, as he'd hoped, was already on the phone: new guy in town starting a fight with one of the locals. Police will be here soon then. Just need to keep the situation, and himself, under control until backup arrives.

Too late.

As big and strong as the drunk was, he was equally as stupid and slow. To his credit though, he was enthusiastic. His punch came in with the power of a batter, bases loaded, swinging for a homer. It would hurt if it connected - hell, it'd probably take his head off if it connected, but Barr was smarter, faster and fitter.

He simply ducked under the punch and stepped aside. Physics took over the fight for him as the drunk's momentum drove him onwards.

The punch still connected, but with Barr's whisky. Then the guys face connected with the bar. Both the whisky glass and the guys nose shattered. Both hurt in their own way. Barr had been looking forward to that drink.

"Oh, shit, that looked sore." Bleach-blonde, hands over her face, pretending not to look. She glanced at Barr through her fingers. The look lingered, appreciative now - he was definitely a possibility for some fun depending on the outcome of this fight. Her eyes eventually met his own.

"Seriously?" he said.

She shrugged, then looked down at the bar.

The drunk was getting back to his feet. Blood streaming from his bust nose. His hand went to it and a howl of pain followed. “Motherfucker, that hurts.”

Rage filled eyes turned to Barr. “You're a fuckin’ dead man now.”

He launched himself at Barr again, punch coming in like a freight train. Anger had not sobered him any though and Barr again dodged smoothly aside allowing the train to thunder past and crash into a table full of customers and their drinks.

Bleach-blonde, now getting concerned, hesitantly stepped towards the carnage, unsure whether she should help her ex up, or just stay out of the way. Barr ignored her, turning his attention to Huck. “How long?”

Huck tore his eyes away from the disaster that was currently unfolding, and said, "Huh?"

“Until the local PD gets here. How long?”

“I'm surprised they aren't here yet.”

A bellow of rage filled the room again. The drunk stumbling to his feet amidst a mess of upended table, spilled drinks and broken glass. With eyes only for Barr he angrily shoved bleach-blonde back as she moved to help him up. She stumbled backwards, falling into Barr's arms, where she made herself comfortable. She seemed to have decided that this White Knight routine might be for her after all. She ran an appreciative finger along the lean muscles of his upper arm and looked into his eyes. She met a look of disdain. She barely got out a yelp of surprise before her ass hit the floor.

It was time, Barr decided, to take this outside before they caused any more damage or someone got seriously hurt. He had a plan.

The drunk came lunging at him again. Third times a charm. Barr stepped aside and grabbed the punch on its way past. Momentum was once again his ally and allowed him to swing the guy around with ease. A sharp twist of the wrist ended their amateur pirouette and drove him forwards, and head-first through the doors and out into the parking lot.

A perfectly timed police siren wailed. Red and blues cut through the darkness.

Barr added a little extra pressure to the guys wrist, forcing him to the ground.

Bleach-blonde had joined them, but, after seeing the police car, kept her distance.

A car door thudded and a flash-light was soon on them. Barr just knew there was a gun behind it.

A woman's voice called out, “Down on the ground. Now!”

Barr held up his free hand, as much in peaceful surrender, as to shield his eyes from the light. “He's already on the ground.”

“Not him,” the voice called back. “You. On the ground, hands behind your head.”

Barr let out a sigh and did as he was told.

Author note: This is a novel I started writing just before lockdown. I'll be the first to admit that it's a Lee Child knock-off. He was the inspiration to try and write a full length novel, and I figured that a classic urban western would be "easy" enough. I have a healthy second-ish draft done but would really appreciate some fresh eyes on it. I feel like there's a lot of 'early writer' still lurking in here, and imposter syndrome always lurks nearby.

The opening section has been loved by some (I think it sets up the themes of the book but that's not obvious from the first chapter) while others were confused as to what kind of book they were about to read.

So, I present it to you, dear Vocal readers, like a slab of meat to the wolves. Have at it.