Hangman by Thomas Newell

He kept ordering drinks. He took them from the stained bar top, and he plied me with whiskey, with gin, with ale. And I thanked him. 

I’d never seen him before but I guess he came here just like me, to drink and think away the day’s troubles. His tales of truths, of secrets hidden in governments, charmed my ears. 

We sat in the old pub and breathed in its old stories. The yellowed walls and the slumping beams in the roof listened as we talked away the outside world. It was nice to have a drink, to share it with someone, to talk about nothing and pretend that all that mattered was the next round. 

The country’d gone to the dogs. The world was all wrong, I’d drink with anyone who’d agree. And this man did. It wasn’t like it was in the old days. We toasted those good old days and we decried the nonsense in the news, the sheep that were in the dark. 

He listened and his words were crystals that pierced their lies. Then the lights that shone at closing time punctuated his points. 

I smiled and thanked him as we downed our final drinks. We’d joked and we’d poked fun at each other. The night had felt alive. I knew I wouldn’t remember it and that was what a good night was, right? One you wouldn’t remember? 

I could not recall much detail of the night, or our conversations. His face, however, was fixed in my mind. 

It was the face that grinned at me from below, as I hanged from the branch of the tree by my neck. The worst hangover of my life. 

Thomas Newell is a writer, translator and teacher. He is currently translating Soushenji, Tall Tales in Search of the Supernatural.