What a stink. Old sweat, feet and stale beer. He had no idea why he used this bar. It was a dump. He sat alone at the corner table, nursing his whisky as if it held the answers to questions he couldn’t work out how to ask. A dim yellow light, the colour of old nicotine, cast long shadows across his tanned face, a face of too much time lost in it’s own thoughts and too much regret.

Outside, cold, pelting rain rattled against the window, a steady, drumming rhythm that was in counterpoint to the sound of a jazz saxophone, roughly played, drifting across from the tiny speakers over the bar.

He took a slow sip and the burn of the whisky reminded him of the first time he tasted it. Overseas, a young soldier in a foreign land. No clue really. The taste of the whisky was new and harsh, much like the reality of that stupid war, which had been the big draw. Better than Universal Credit they said. Fool. Actually, when he thought about it, most of it was outright boredom interspersed with short moments of abject, arse-clenching terror. There has been a lot said by tossers who know bugger all about it about ‘bonds forged in the crucible of combat’ and the ‘brotherhood of comrades in arms’. It was all a load of old bollocks as far as he remembered. A bunch of mouthy kids, mostly scared witless, doing what they were told to do and in between times behaving like twats.

The memories flickered like the old film reels his dad used to watch before he buggered off, jumping from one scene to the next. He remembered the laughter, the shouting, the drinking. The dying. There was one face that lingered who never made it back, whose memory popped up, unwanted and unprepared for at awkward times. Still, he supposed, somebody had to remember. That was the nearest he’d ever come to having a best mate.

The war ended, and he came home, a changed man. No surprise there. They all said ‘it will make a man of you.’ What sort of man seemed to have been irrelevant. One minute in the cold January sand, his face whipped by the downdraft of the helicopter, kit heavy on his shoulder, and just a few hours later back here with all these morons who had no idea. They all seemed pleased to see him. He wasn’t so sure. Survivor's guilt, bewilderment, anger, a complete head full of crap, all pressed upon him. Drown his demons in alcohol seemed like the best, in fact the only idea.

A woman entered the bar, her silhouette sharp and dark in the poor lighting. She wore a dress that clung to her curves, a stark contrast to the memories of a woman he once loved. Their love was a flame that burned brightly in the darkness, a passion that consumed them both. But like all flames, it had flickered and died, leaving only ashes in its wake. All his fault.

He remembered the day she left, the pain etched in her eyes as she walked away. It was a choice that haunted him, a wound that never fully healed. His choice. Not hers. He had joined up and she had begged him not to. Another not so smart move, he realised. Something else to drink for. Now that there was nobody to shoot at, blow up, bludgeon, strangle, stab, kick or bite.

The woman at the bar caught his eye though, a stranger whose gaze held a flicker of recognition. In her, he saw echoes of the past, a reflection of the choices that shaped his present. The jazz music suddenly seemed more present, as if the saxophonist had stepped up a gear and the barman had turned the speakers up a notch or two. He needed to go. Now.

He downed the last of his whisky, the liquid fire burning its way dow. It was still raining like somebody should have phoned Noah and given him a heads up. With a heavy sigh, he stood, leaving the memories and the empty glass behind. The door closed behind him, and he stepped out into the night.

“Fuck,” he shouted at the kebab shop across the road.