TWO: Nobody [FLASHBACK]

The partiers upstairs were still going full-swing and he knew they'd probably carry on way past dawn. Tonight, the Celts crowding the bar outnumbered the other patrons at least ten-to-one. Bruce sat at the bottom of the creaky basement stairs, watching his ghostly reflection in the dust-streaked Guinness bar mirror propped against the wall beside him. Blue-on-black, at least he didn't feel like an outsider here—it was easy enough to put on airs when he was working, pretending to be that confident cheeky fucker without a care in the world. He tried to make out the damage on his face, to see if the latest attempt to camouflage with a face full of stubble did anything. The only thing he could see was the glow of the orange tip, flaring each time he took a drag off the cigarette.

The room was hot; close quarters filled with the earthy smell of malt from the empty kegs stacked in the corner. He'd been down here for hours, sitting in the dark, filling an old coffee can with the remnants of the moments he was shaving from his lifespan, one puff at a time. In a month, he'd be turning twenty-four. Most his age would be finished with college, would be well on their way into a promising career. He had the drive and ambition. He just had never actually finished high school so that sort of thing was out of the question, even if the lack of funds hadn't been sufficient motivation to avoid the topic. The Irish cousins spent most of their time telling him how lucky he was, to have a roof over his head and clothes on his back. He'd saved every measly tip for two years to buy that damned motorcycle and it was the only thing he had to his name.

The music grew louder and he smelled the skunky-sweet tang of Mary Jane on the cooler air as it flowed through before the door eased shut again. The lights buzzed, coming to life above him and he winced, resting his head against the wall as he closed his eyes.

"Danny's lookin' for ya." Maureen's voice was quiet as she leaned against the banister, looking down at her youngest cousin.

He grunted, shifting position as he opened his eyes slowly, letting his vision swim into focus on the pipes that crisscrossed over his head, snaking between the floor joists. The heavy bag in the corner swayed slightly, the chain vibrating with the rocking heartbeat of the place. Now that it was lit, he could see the mess he'd made— the old leather was bloodied. He didn't say anything. Didn't offer up any sort of apology. He was the only one that came down here. Stacking and changing over the kegs was his job.

"What's wrong?"

He took another drag off the latest cigarette, letting his hand dangle between his bent knees. "Shit." He mumbled to himself, feeling the weight of the exhaustion threatening to roll over him like a tidal wave.

"Been a long time since I seent ya this ripped up, Aggie." Maureen's hand reached out and tousled his hair. He recoiled from the touch, back bumping against the wall.

"Just tired," he mumbled, dropping the fresh butt into the can at his feet. "It's nothin', Mo," his sigh was masked by the increase in tempo of the muted rock from upstairs. A shadow passed across his features as he glanced up the stairs, at the door she'd left open a crack as though it was some sort of invitation to go back and join the revelry.

"The new shot girl's taken a shine to ya."

He chuckled, shaking his head. The girl was as dumb and as useless as a sack of drowned cats. "Who, Shirlea?" When Maureen nodded, he shook his head again. "She's fuckin' Tommy. Pretty sure she's off-limits unless I want Jimmy's crew comin' after me tae cut me ham snake off. Sorry… plenty of other ways tae dip the wick."

Silence fell between the cousins as Maureen laughed, sitting down heavily three steps from the bottom. Bruce said nothing. He ignored a lot of things these days, dismissing it all as inconsequential. She pulled out a rolled joint from between her tits and lit it, passing it to him after taking a generous puff.

"So who's the girl?"

He felt the tickle of a cough but managed not to dissolve into a choking fit, passing it back. Lethargy filled him, entwining itself with the dread, and becoming apathy. "There's nobody."

"There is," she pressed, leaning in closer as though the shitty weed made her clairvoyant. "You're not usually this moony."

He closed his eyes, taking another drag as the joint was passed back. Maybe the stuff wasn't so bad— he could feel his head buzzing now, that disconnect happening that made him actually feel human. He thought about the girl, remembering the way she'd smiled at him, the way she'd giggled when he'd kissed her hand. He sighed, remaining silent as he thought about just going upstairs to find some random slut. It might help if he lost himself inside a woman for a few hours. Lethargy won out and he stayed where he was, slumped against the cinder block wall. "Jimmy said he could get me a fight," he finally said, deliberately shifting the topic. "Mebbe there's somethin' in that."

"And he'll pay you to take a dive. He's as crooked as the day is long, Aggie. He can't be trusted-"

"Funny how yeh caution me now. Where was that advice ten years ago, hmm?"

Maureen sighed, shaking her head as she took her joint back.

"Need a drink," he mumbled, pushing up to his feet and swaying unsteadily as the blood all rushed to his head.

"So go get one," Maureen chimed in, pinching off the roach and putting it in an old Altoids tin in her pocket. "Not as though I'm gonna stop ya."

Bruce's eyes lifted to the ceiling, and he sighed. They both knew why he was hiding out down here, and it wasn't just for the punching bag or the silence.

"You's a right choob, Aggie. Hidin' out like a scared little boy. She'd let you, and Tommy wouldn't be the wiser."

"Not interested," he muttered, pushing past her to half stumble, half stagger up the stairs. Vaguely, he could hear someone trying to rouse up a chorus of Auld Lange Syne and he turned in the opposite direction, pushing out the back door and into the night. He leaned against the bricks, dragging the cold air into his lungs in an effort to clear his head. He wondered what she was doing.

"Who's the guy with the scars?"

He kept hearing that question, over and over. It haunted him, day and night. Nobody had ever asked that before. Nobody had ever really cared enough to. He was a tool, just someone there to do their job when the time came— everyone had a role. His was meant to be peripheral, casual. In and out. No ties. Nothing memorable.

"Nobody important," he murmured, his breath steaming as he pushed off the wall. Definitions weren't meant to change, least of all for someone as unimportant as Bruce McLeod.