Murphy Walked into the Bar

It was just after opening time when Murphy walked into the bar. He wasn’t welcome at any time of the day really. The Fat Landlord’s lazy wife, a picture of early morning sourness probably let the nuisance in, but who cared? It certainly wasn’t me. She was a miserable, cold unfriendly woman affectionately known as Choc Ice Lil. She rarely spoke, and never ever smiled.

The bar itself was an ancient Edwardian masterpiece of metropolitan public house architecture. It was a pub by day, and a venue at night. Once a collection of snugs, billiard and dining areas it now consisted of two vast rooms, separated by a large square bar. Pulsing lights, throbbing speakers and yard upon yard of dangling wires now disgraced its crumbling ornate pilasters and fine baroque ceiling.

Murphy paused in the sunlit open doorway scanning the long empty space before him. To describe him as a scrawny necked wreck would have been a kindness. Murphy had spent years living on the streets before ever I knew him, and it showed. Loose skinned and old enough to have lost several teeth he was as decrepit as the pub was.

A long shadow of him now stretched across the greasy red carpet giving the remarkable impression that he was at least nine feet tall, which he wasn’t. Framed in dazzling sunlight the strange illusion of a giant Murphy cast across the empty bar was very soon extinguished. Instantly snuffed as the brown heavy door with head shaped dents in its leaded panes, bearing hints of dried blood closed silently behind him.

The emptiness was an illusion too. As Murphy’s eyes slowly accustomed themselves to the natural order of the light inside, he would see that the early morning bar was not quite so vacant after all.

I was there.

I’d been working till past three in the morning the previous night, doing the sound desk for an astonishingly amateurish death metal band called Bugger Babies. Enthusiastic and young its members took themselves far more seriously than their dreadful racket could ever warrant. I was back by opening time, slightly shaky and enjoying the nutritious charge of a breakfast Bloody Mary. Extra Tabasco pepper to clean the mouth and put fire in my belly. I was waiting as usual for our very own host, The Fat Landlord to surface from his morning slumbers and pay me my money for the night.

So I was there, unnoticed and unpaid in the musty corner facing the damaged door, and The Lion Tamer was there as well.

I think his name was Dave. He was the doorman/bouncer in the bar and I’d actually known him for several years, but like most regulars he carried a moniker. Names in the bar were given, not told. He perched on a tall barstool like a giant daddy long legs. His tiny kneecaps pointing in opposite directions as his open legs splayed against the dark panels of the square wooden bar.

Murphy was halfway across the floor before he even noticed there were people on either flank. He paused, and a slight nervous twitch showed upon his face before he broke into an exaggerated jaunty saunter towards the bar. Then, launching himself onto a nearby barstool, sideways to me, and facing The Lion Tamer, Murphy licked his skinny lips and stared.

The Lion Tamer was a tall, solid, gawky looking man of well over six foot. His long spider legs and monkey arms were wrapped with sinewy muscles, like the intertwining strings of a sailors’ hairy rope. His feet and hands were unfeasibly large. The hands were a mass of gristle and scar tissue. Flattened knuckles and broken digits pointed crookedly in several directions, as if he’d been typing all day and his fingers had frozen in mid sentence.

His huge feet were encased in dull black boots that looked like two leather ammunition boxes, and would anchor his towering frame to the floor. But it was his face that made him unusual. It was ordinary, even quite benign looking at times. Stuck on the front of a too small head. A face without mark or blemish. When he wasn’t being the doorman at various cheap clubs like ours he was a bare knuckle boxer in late night warehouse fights, and he must have been good at it.

The Lion Tamer had a trick he used to show to the punters, especially those who he thought he might have a bit of trouble with later. He would line three coins carefully along the back of his hand. Then he would quickly flick them into the air and snatch each one of them individually with the same hand before they fell to the ground. It was a neat trick, and it carried its own unsubtle message. The Lion Tamer wanted you to know something. He wanted you to know that in the length of time it takes for a coin to fall to the floor, he could punch you three times.

Murphy continued to stare. Apart from occasionally running his dry tongue round his lips again he did not move at all. He sat with his long bony spine completely straight and perfectly aligned to the square legs of the wooden barstool. It was like he was an extension of it. Murphy and the barstool, fused into one immovable staring object. I don’t know why Murphy stared at The Lion Tamer like that. It was odd.

I mean anyone at all who drank in the bar could tell you The Lion Tamer didn’t really like Murphy all that much. It was even more confusing  because Murphy tended only to stare at people who gave him things, and who he trusted would be obliging enough to do so again. In fact it seemed to me to be his own unique and favourite way of asking for anything. Murphy would just sidle up to someone, touch their arm and then stare dolefully until they couldn’t stand it anymore. Eventually they might give in and offer him something, usually something he could immediately consume, but sometimes more, if he was lucky.

Murphy was always in the bar on a Sunday lunchtime. That was when they put out bowls of sea food, cockles and stuff on the bar, free to help yourself. Murphy would help himself alright if he could. He had a particular thing for the shell on prawns. He actually liked eating the heads as well. It was fascinatingly disgusting to watch him cracking the hard pink exterior with his few remaining teeth and sucking the rich fishy stew from inside. He couldn’t get enough of them, but it did nothing for his halitosis.

Some people spoke to him but I didn’t. I couldn’t see the point really. I found him interesting enough and I saw him alright when I could. You could say we sort of shared the same living space even. Murphy came and went as he pleased though, and in truth I wasn’t really all that bothered about him. It certainly wasn’t possible for me to engage him in any viable, intelligent conversation as such, and I didn’t pretend to try.

So there I sat watching from the gloomy corner. Waiting to be paid and struggling to guess what on earth Murphy thought The Lion Tamer was possibly going to give him. Whatever it was, from where I was sitting I couldn’t imagine it being anything less substantial than a swift and hefty kick up the arse.

The Lion Tamer was not very well known for his bonhomie as it goes. He was now showing some pretty clear, and menacing signs that he didn’t really want Murphy to keep on staring at him like that. Murphy on the other hand showed no sign that he understood any of this at all and just continued his relentless staring down of The Lion Tamer.

Finally he could take no more. Just as he was running his red tongue slowly round his narrow lips again, The Lion Tamer suddenly leaned over and poked his own one out. Murphy looked genuinely shocked. His tongue paused in its circular journey round his lips but now protruded from them foolishly, and in a similar gesture to that of The Lion Tamers’.

There for a few long seconds they sat, eyes locked and poking their tongues out at each other. Murphy’s eyes wide open with surprise and The Lion Tamers’ half closed, and narrowed with intent. I sensed that Murphy was about to attempt a rapid exit from the bar sometime very soon and I was poised and ready to grab him when he did.

Just then there was an all too familiar tap tap, tap tap sound fast approaching the bar in staccato quickstep. The bar room door suddenly flung open at the same time as a painful, high pitched screeched “Helloooo” assaulted our ears like a dentists screaming drill. The Tightrope Walker entered, spinning coquettishly into the bar. Her six inch pencil thin stilettos, silenced now by the aged Axminster were certainly no less obvious.

Tightrope skeetered across the floor, like a marionette on a gyroscope. Brassy, blonde and now in her late forties Tightrope was a woman who would take no prisoners. From the moment she arrived anywhere it was immediately and sometimes painfully apparent to everyone else in the building that she had. She would have it no other way. Age and the drink had left but a vague imprint of the earlier sex grenade she had undoubtedly been. She was however, still explosive. Tightrope could hurl herself confidently into any congregation, like an immortal suicide bomber. Burning shards of her barbed wit sliced easily through any crowd she encountered, cutting them all to size without mercy or care.

She could still draw men to her in an instant alright though, like flies to a cow’s arse, and she could shrivel a dick just as quick. She would cavort, cajole, flirt and entice. Thrilling and daring her gawping spectators to join her in her own hedonistic whirl of imminent self destruct, only to cast them casually to the ground. Tightrope would remain of course, teetering but intact in the limelight.

Whenever Tightrope was around and wanted to play you knew for certain sure that someone somewhere was going to take a tumble.

So Tightrope burst exuberantly into our small gathering, Choc Ice, The Lion Tamer, Murphy and me. Her eyes immediately lit upon Murphy. Surprisingly, and despite her hard exterior she did have quite a soft spot for him. I could never quite understand this one and Tightrope wasn’t the only woman who used to dote on Murphy. In fact he seemed to attract quite a few women, but if you ever found your face too close to him, you’d find he stank a bit. I’ve been told it’s a maternal thing. Somehow Murphy was some kind of surrogate for the children they never had. I found that thought quite disgusting myself.

Tightrope certainly had some maternal affection for Murphy, which quite frankly baffled me. Anyway, whatever the reason, Tightrope made a direct beeline for him and poured herself onto his neck with that awful mawkish, “Awwwwww,” usually reserved for babies and cuddly toys. She then planted a long squeaking kiss on the top of his beaming head as a sort of bonus.

Now this was all fine and dandy, even if a little peculiar to my mind. There was just one complicating factor that promised to add that little bit more excitement to the mornings’ entertainment. The complicating factor being that Tightrope was currently The Lion Tamers’ girlfriend, and The Lion Tamer was a very, very jealous man.

I’m sure that Murphy didn’t realise any of this at all. He simply wouldn’t be capable of understanding how The Lion Tamer might think or feel about anything. The personal lives of people in the bar were meaningless to him. But even if he could read The Lion Tamer’s mind, the idea that Murphy could pose the merest waft of a threat to him about anything at all was just wrong.

But then jealousy is a funny thing.

 

The Lion Tamer had a very strong sense of propriety actually. He had his own very rigid code of ethics which he stuck to like they were The Ten Commandments. Only he had just three. He told them to me late one night when we were having a drink together, hours after the bar had closed and all good folk were long abed.

In his slow, deep ponderous voice he leaned ever so slightly drunk into my face and said,

“There are three things you must never never do to me. You must never rob me. You must never lie to me, and you must never, never never ever, talk to me while I’m eating”

So there we all were. Murphy, The Lion Tamer, Choc Ice, Tightrope and me. Me still waiting for the Fat Landlord to pay me my money and getting a bit hungry now. So I decided to have another filling Bloody Mary, but this time with a packet of crisps. I was beginning to enjoy this. The whole ridiculous spectacle of The Lion Tamer wriggling around on his stool fuming like a stovepipe was just too good to miss.

Tightrope cooed and fawned over Murphy, completely indifferent to The Lion Tamers presence. I noticed a small blood vessel pulsing on the top of his shaven head which reminded me a little of the valve on the top of a pressure cooker. Eventually he cracked and standing up said, “Oi! What about me then?” This was met, or rather ignored by Tightrope plonking yet another kiss on Murphy’s head. She then responded with something to the effect that The Lion Tamer should immediately buy her a drink and that he was also a bastard, which he duly did.

Tightrope was very good at getting men to buy her drinks as it goes. Like the Lion Tamer she had her very own special bar room trick for the boys.

 

 

Tightrope would go into a bar somewhere and spot a group of chaps out on the town. She’d teeter past and “accidentally” spill one of their drinks onto the floor. She would squeal and say she was very sorry. She would buy him another drink. It was her birthday. She didn’t normally get to go out very much. Then she’d add she might be just that, tiny tiny, weeny bit tipsy. All this followed up with plenty of eyelash flutter and a quick totter on the high heels. Her womanly bosom would squash against his manly chest of course, and her hand would steady herself casually upon his bum. Ten times out of ten her mark would be buying her the drink. “Oooh thanks darling, a large Vodka and Tonic please, ice and a slice dear.”

She knew how to spot them alright. Rumour had it that that’s how she met The Lion Tamer in the first place.

So there was Tightrope, standing next to Murphy with her drink in one hand and the other one casually stroking the back of his neck. She continued to fawn like an adolescent schoolgirl over Murphy as wafts of steam continued to rise from The Lion Tamers’ ears. While all this was going on Murphy still had his back to me and was completely hypnotised by the soft caresses on the back of his neck. Then it happened.

Murphy ceased gazing adoringly at Tightrope for a moment and looked over towards The Lion Tamer. Since the arrival of Tightrope he’d taken over Murphy’s previous activity of staring and momentarily their eyes locked again. For some reason this appeared to trigger something in The Lion Tamer, and he began to rise slowly to his feet.

The whole bar jumped into the air as there came a terrific rumpus and banging on the small side door leading into the bar. The one that nobody used anymore. It was unusual in that the handle was on the opposite side to where you’d expect it to be, but it still opened inwards as all doors do.

Whoever was on the other side seemed to be frantically pulling at the handle towards them, while simultaneously kicking the door forwards in the opposite direction.

We couldn’t see any of this of course. The entrance was sealed off from the bar by a heavy blackout curtain. This stretched in a curve from the door to a cast iron support pillar standing by the bar itself. Anyone entering there would find themselves in a small darkened closet area completely surrounded by a blackout curtain, which incidentally opened on the bar side for exit and entry.

Eventually we heard the door burst open and the sound of our visitor tripping on the step and hurtling themselves heavy footed and rapidly across the floor. A single dull clang announced their precise moment of contact with the iron pillar. We then saw a great flurry of the curtain as the person behind it made their way back from the bar where there was an exit, towards the opposite wall where there wasn’t.

Once there we witnessed what appeared to be a fight going on behind the curtain before the hapless visitor blindly felt their way back towards the bar and eventual escape. A further short flurry of curtain followed before a large sweaty head, topped with a pork pie hat burst breathlessly through. Red faced from his exertions and red nosed from the drink, he had an impossible grin and mad eyebrows. It was Coco the Clown.

Swinging a bulging Bag for Life as if it were a counter balance the rest of  Coco swiftly followed. What came next in fact was a short obese man in said pork pie hat wearing cheap pinstripe trousers an inch too short and a grotesque green checked jacket. An orange T shirt proclaiming,” SAVE THE WHALE” in large bold letters across his chest and, “A SEAT ON THE BUS” written underneath, completed today’s ensemble. One thing you could say about Coco was that he didn’t have good fashion sense.

Another thing you could say about him was that he had stupid feet, and he fairly flapped his way into the bar.

I thought The Lion Tamer had incongruous kippers but Coco’s were in another class entirely. It was a wonder he didn’t fall over his feet more often they were that big.

Coco was a wonder on the dance floor, and he often had significant amounts of it all to himself. I’m told he used to be a very good swimmer as well. Anyway, his feet seemed to have paddled himself right up shit creek here and Coco’s entrance could not have been worse timed.

Blowing effeminate kisses to Murphy he pranced smilingly into the company. Now The Lion Tamer didn’t like that sort of thing at all and he already had another beef going with Coco anyway. The jigging vein on his head, which was already going like the clappers suddenly accelerated into a near perfect Fandango. Even Coco couldn’t fail to be aware of the penetrating glare emanating from the opposite corner of the bar for long. Eventually he stopped popping silly little kisses at Murphy and looked up, square into The Lion Tamers fierce, unwelcome gaze.

Now apart from his red nose Coco had quite a pallid complexion at the best of times. Watching his face drain instantly from a light pastry to an urn ash grey was something I’d never seen before.

Coco, among other things was a leading member of that noble band of cowboy builders that grace our green and gullible land. He could turn his hand to almost anything. He could mix concrete, do a bit of brickwork, carpenter, even put in the electrics, and he made a complete pig’s ear of the lot. In fact it wasn’t his appearance that earned him the name Coco the Clown at all. It was his remarkable skill in bollocksing up just about every job he was ever given.

Typically he’d turn up ok the first day and do a fairly good job. The second day he’d be gone by lunchtime to buy tools or something. You can forget the third. On the fourth he’d turn up at eleven and need a sub to pay his rent. Then you wouldn’t see him until he was broke again.

The job goes on so long that it never actually gets finished. Eventually someone else has to come in to complete the work and repair any damages the idiot has managed to do.

How anyone could be stupid and trusting enough to employ Coco to do anything at all was frankly beyond me. But this of course was why The Lion Tamer was not at all so very pleased to see him today. The fact he’d come in smiling didn’t help one bit.

Somehow Coco had recently managed to blag a few days’ work doing a bit of plastering round The Lion Tamers house. Typically of course, he had left quite a bit of mess on his nice new carpet. The Lion Tamer wasn’t very happy about this at all. Only yesterday he had to retrieve Coco mid drink from the bar and politely suggest to him that he might like to straightaway come back and clean it all up again. Well, Coco miserably got hold of an old carpet sweeper from somewhere and once back at the Lion Tamers’ he began to push it along, sweeping up his scattered bits of rubble and plaster.

Still dreaming of his unfinished pint no doubt he was pushing along as fast as he could when he felt the rollers stiffen. Undeterred and too bone idle to actually stop and clear them of plaster he carried on, pushing even harder than before. Pausing to wipe unearned sweat from his brow Coco briefly glanced behind him. It was then that he discovered why it had been such hard work pushing the sweeper. Somehow during the course of his slovenly labours a piece of Stanley blade had got stuck in the roller. Coco had just cut a six foot slice straight up the middle of The Lion Tamers brand new bit of Persian.

So there we all were, Murphy, The Lion Tamer, Tightrope, Choc Ice, Coco and me. The Lion Tamer positioned three coins carefully along the back of his hand. Raising one crooked finger into the air he beckoned poor Coco towards him. His smile upturned now Coco slowly removed his hat and gently placed that and his shopping bag on the nearest table.

 

 

Then, shaking like old Shylock he took his more than several pounds of flesh up for negotiation with The Lion Tamer. I reckoned his best bet now was to rely on his solid reputation as a professional idiot, and hope to gain some sort of staff discount or something. With a bit of luck there could still be plenty of him left. In truth though I had the near certain feeling that I was about to witness one of life’s great clichés, the tears of a clown.

Tightrope had sensibly turned her back on the proceedings and was repeatedly pumping pound coins into the fruit machine. Choc Ice was totally absorbed smearing bacteria round a dirty glass with a manky tea towel, and would see nothing. Murphy didn’t know his own good fortune. I could see Coco pleading desperately with The Lion Tamer but his face remained stony and unmoved. A long silent pause filled the room with an unbearable tension when suddenly he flicked three coins high into the air.

Pandemonium finally broke out. A great shout of, “Oi! You thieving little git!” bellowed across the bar.

It was Coco.

Spotting an opportunity Murphy had slipped unnoticed off his stool and made his way over to Coco’s bag on the table. Caught red handed, he was having a right proper rummage through everything he could find.

Coco came running furiously round the bar, faster in fact than his oversized feet would allow. His bulbous nose crashed into the carpet as Murphy fairly scampered off towards the gents toilets to escape. This seemed to lighten The Lion Tamers mood somewhat and he fairly roared with laughter.

Breathless with rage Coco clambered to his feet and looked inside his bag. “Flipping hell” he yelled. “He’s only gone and had me bleedin’ prawns away!”

 

The Lion Tamer slapped his thighs and roared again. “He’s had you. He’s had you alright”, was all he managed to say between triumphant blasts of laughter. Coco, with his nose even redder than before, stood glaring angrily at the toilet door.

I knew Murphy wasn’t hiding in the Jacks.

There’s a door back there leading into a small enclosed yard where the empty barrels and rubbish are kept. I’d taken a few crates out earlier for Choc Ice so I knew it was left slightly open. I also knew Murphy had used that particular exit many times before.

He was no spring chicken alright but Murphy would have been out, over the wall and far away by the time Coco had even counted his missing prawns.

The Great Prawn Robbery would be told and laughed about in the bar for weeks to come. The Lion Tamer finally managed to declare he’d never really liked Murphy all that much before, but he’d gone right up in his estimation now. Wiping tears from his eyes, and evidently in a better mood than before, he made Coco an offer he couldn’t possibly refuse.

The Lion Tamer had just got hold of an allotment. Coco was to dig it all over and paint the little shed as compensation for the carpet. Furthermore, he was to buy Murphy his own large bag of prawns every Sunday lunchtime until The Lion Tamer told him otherwise.

Justice of sorts being served The Lion Tamer turned his attention back towards Tightrope. She in turn informed him he should immediately buy her a drink, and that he was also a bastard. Planting a kiss on his head she added reassuringly he couldn’t really help it, and that she loved him anyway.

A crestfallen Coco was putting on his hat in readiness for his second trip to the fishmongers and I was losing hope of seeing any money that day. It was nearly lunchtime now and The Fat Landlord had still not surfaced. I decided to go back to bed for the rest of the day and try again later.

It was only a short walk from the bar back to my flat. There was some instinct or smell or something that told me I was not alone. I was being followed. I had a strange sensation of something running past me, just out of sight as I cut across the play area.

It happened on the stairwell on the way up to my flat as well and there was a short familiar snap sound like a large mousetrap going off. I was glad when I put the key in the door and got safe inside. I knew what was coming next.

I walked the few short steps into the front room. The curtains were closed and there on the sofa, staring into the unlit gloom was Murphy.

Our eyes briefly met and I made my way into the kitchen to get a can from the cupboard. I’d barely begun to open it before Murphy suddenly leaped off the sofa and came running top speed into the room.

I could feel him writhing and weaving himself round and round between my legs. I emptied the contents into his dirty old bowl and placed it on the floor by his saucer of milk. Then, for the first time ever, I actually spoke to him. Bending down, I scratched behind his ear and looked deep into his eyes and said,

“I love you Murphy.”

Feature Image: Lyonel Kaufmann