Don't Swim in the Pool

Michael looked up from the table, across smoke and empty beer bottles, to the door. It opened almost immediately and in strode a tall man wearing a cowboy hat and a long leather coat.

”Over here,” called Michael

The man walked forward, stepping under the light, staring with his intense eyes at Michael. He took a seat and signalled to the barman that he wanted serving. He sat back, noticing Michael holding him in his gaze apprehensively.

The barman stepped over the man ordered two beers without shifting his gaze from Michael.

”I guess you must be Michael Shelton?” the man said, finally.

”Yes,” replied Michael, glad that the silence was finally halted, but unsure of the conversation.

The beers arrived and Michael took a large slug from his bottle to calm his nerves.

”As you know,” Michael began, “I am from a large magazine called Pedestal and I am interested in interviewing you on a subject I know nothing about. I believe that you contacted my editor about this. What gives?”

”Patience my friend, patience. All will be revealed.”

The man reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled free a packet of Marlboro cigarettes; he placed one between his lips and lit it before offering on to Michael.

” I don’t smoke, thank you,” he said, declining the offer. “What is this all a…”

”Patience!” interrupted the man. “I am Chris Palscul and I have a story to tell. You, my friend, only need to listen."

It all started back in 1985. I was drinking in a bar in London, but this is irrelevant. Playing pool was my life, always had been and always will be. That particular day had been a bad one: I’d just been sacked from my job; my wife at the time was giving me hassles and my so-called friends just didn’t want to know me. I was sitting drinking, just as we are, when an elderly gentleman entered the bar. He came straight for my table, sat down and ordered two beers.

”Hello Chris,” he said, “fancy a game of pool?”

To say I was a little taken aback is an understatement. I didn’t know this man from, well, Adam. Still, I took him up on his offer. He told me his name was George Winters and that he had seen me playing pool a few days before and had inquired as to who I was. At least that explained how he came to know my name but not his motives. This was just the beginning.

Michael ordered two more beers and took a cigarette from Chris’ packet that was lying on the table between them.

”May I?” he asked

”Go ahead my friend,” Chris said as he leaned forward with his lighter.

Please continue,” Michael uttered as he turned the tape over in his Dictaphone.

Well, George and I played a couple of frames. He was good, but I managed to take a couple of frames from him.

Chris sat back and contemplated what he had just said. He reached up and scratched his forehead and used the back of his weathered hand to wipe the sweat from his brow.

”Do to continue when you feel ready. I’m interested,” prodded Michael.

”Thank you,” replied Chris, reaching for his cigarettes. He lit one methodically and inhaled. Michael could distinctly hear the râle in each breath. Chris continued.

As I said, I took a couple of games from the old man and I felt good, like I’d never felt before. I guessed it was the beer, but it was stranger, somehow more personal. It was as if he knew just how to make things seem brighter. All was going well, in my opinion, but how wrong I was.

”What do you mean?” interrupted Michael.

”Patience!” barked Chris angrily.

George went to the bar and gestured to the landlord. A nod was returned and I proceeded to take my next shot. As I drew back my arm George clamped his hand around it firmly and asked me to follow him. Without a single thought, I did. It was as if I could not resist this man, his thoughts.

He led me through a door and into a back room, which I didn’t even know existed. Standing in this room was the most pristine pool table I’ve ever come across. It was already racked up and ready to play. It was then that George spoke and I will never, to the day I die, forget what he said.

There was a clunk as the tape in the Dictaphone finished.

”Shit,” spat Michael. “Hold that thought,” he continued, trying to gain his composure. He fumbled in his jacket for a second tape and then he came upon it. He inserted it into the machine, pressing record with his thumb.

“I’m sorry, d-d-do continue,” he stammered, afraid he may have offended Chris. His drinking partner just sat there expressionless in front of him, waiting patiently. A moment’s pause was taken and then Chris began again.

George said to me… Have you ever wanted to hurt people, to kill people, without getting directly involved?

I just stood there, dumbstruck. I mean, what do you say? He repeated the question and my head just filled with thoughts of my boss sacking me, my friends disowning me, all the people I have ever hated and right at the forefront of this was my wife. Without thinking, I mumbled yes. It felt good, like a weight had been lifted.

George handed me a piece of chalk and showed me to the board. On it were numbers – from one to eight – and a space next to each number. He told me to fill in each space with the names of the people I hated most, reserving the eight ball for that one person whom I hated most of all at that particular time. I did just as he said and I placed my wife’s name on the line opposite the eight ball.

George told me we would play a game of pool. I was to pot each ball in turn, from one to eight, but in that order. He said that each time I potted a ball the corresponding person would die. Then he asked me to make my break.

”And did you?” Michael asked expectantly.

”Yeah, but I couldn’t go through with potting the balls, it made me feel physically sick.

”I don’t blame you,” agreed Michael, as he pushed back the sour taste in his mouth and throat.

”There is more,” Chris said, finally. “So, you’d better turn your tape over.”

Michael did as instructed, inhaling hard on his cigarette as he prepared for Chris’ next instalment. After what seemed like days, Chris finally spoke.

George didn’t even bat an eyelid when I declined to pot the balls, he simply took my cue from me and potted the first ball. He looked me in the eye and said: I’ll do it for you kid, don’t you worry.

”Didn’t you question him?” enquired Michael.

”I only had one question: what happens if the cue ball goes down?

”And?” Michael said, excitedly.

”The person who takes the shot dies instead.

Somewhere, a pin was thrust into the balloon of Michael’s excitement and it deflated with a pop.

Chris took up the story where he had left off.

Well, George answered my question, but he stressed that he had never witnessed a cue ball going in. It was as if some force was controlling it. With that he rattled the shots off until only the black eight ball remained. George stood up and offered me a cigarette. It was then that I took up smoking as a second job.

”Well, who wouldn’t?” Michael concluded.

Anyway, we sat there and smoked, but not a single word was exchanged. When he had finished his ciggy, George stubbed it out under his boot and leaned forward, over the table to pot the final ball. As he did so, a picture of my wife flashed into my head. It was as clear as if she’d been there. A snapshot. I couldn’t let him go through with it: I still loved her.

I watched George’s arm pull back and I cried out for him to stop. The sequence of events that followed I never want to witness again.

The cue tip struck the white ball. It skewed off in the direction of the far corner pocket. George leapt for it, but he just missed and down it went.

George dropped the cue as if it were a red hot poker and clasped his hands to his throat. He made noises, horrible sounds like he was choking although he didn’t appear to be asphyxiating. He fell to the floor, convulsing and then he just, well, melted into the floor. He disappeared. I got up, left and I never went back. Never.

”What about your wife?” Michael asked.

”Well, she survived. I guess I didn’t hate her after all. A case of misguided love, you could say.” Chris answered.

”Jesus,” said Michael, repeating it over and over.

”That is all my friend, that is all I have to tell you. Any questions?”

“Just one,” replied Michael. “Have you got time for a game?”

“Rack ‘em up…”