A man walked into a bar. A smog of cigarette smoke hung like a raincloud.
His briefcase was heavy and he switched it from hand to hand as he walked from the Tube station.
He needed to go unnoticed, so he was dressed in a grey suit, bought at John Collier.
The man looked at the clock behind the bar. His heartrate increased. It was later than he thought. He examined his wristwatch which he had checked for accuracy just before setting out. He relaxed; the pub clock had been set five minutes ahead of the real time.
Struggling to get to the bar, he nudged people out of the way. He dared not ask them to move. His accent was thick; they would know he was an outsider.
He caught his own reflection in the mirrored wall. His face was pale despite the scorching summer (the sun rarely shone back home). His head was oblong and his features fleshy. His black hair, inexpensively cut short, was slicked with grease but a lick of hair stood up at the back, making him resemble one of the naughty boys you saw in popular comics.
He glanced again at the clock; time was short.
He leaned the briefcase against the bar and headed towards the Gents, but made a last-second detour.
Three minutes later, the man was on the 109 bus. As it headed towards the train station a large explosion rent the air. The man sat back to enjoy the journey.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 