The Wandering Whisperer

The Whisperer was the only local pub that Charles Greyson hadn't been barred from. The thought of being barred from the only alehouse in the area that would serve him kept him in check, to a certain extent.

Driving wind howled around the pickup, causing it to rock slightly from side to side, suspension creaking.

Kendrick cast a glance towards the pub. He could see people moving back and forth, going up to the bar to order their drinks. The distant roar of laughter could be heard.

He took another drag of his cigarette, burning embers at the tip brightening, and again blew the smoke out the window.

He sighed. This was something he wasn't looking forward to.

With the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, he got out of the car, immediately hunching his body in an effort to fend off the biting wind. Rounding the back of the car, he opened the boot and pulled out a long, dark grey coat. He put it on, puffed up the collar and slammed the boot.

Having one last drag, he savoured the intake, then tossed the cancer-stick away, the red-hot ember immediately extinguished in a puddle.

He made his way quickly towards the door, dodging puddles as he went.

When he opened the door, the warmth was like a pleasurable slap in the face. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the low-lit setting, the long mirror behind the bar throwing back hazy shades of deep red from the lights suspended above it, like a Mojave sunset spreading out across the blue scuffed carpet that many a patron had walked over the years, thirsty for their vice. The smell of the house hotpot still lingered from the closed kitchen. Elvis's Suspicious Minds was playing on a nearby jukebox.