TOTAL DARKNESS

'When's it gonna stop raining, Charlie?'

'I had an old man in here today. Sat on your stool. Swore it never would.'

'Gimme another shot, Charlie.'

'You're not driving are you, Tom?'

'I don't get drunk anymore, Charlie. You know that. Better than anyone.'

The bartender took the whiskey glass and poured him another double.

'Thanks.' He drank it in one, no longer tasting the bitterness; his tongue numb from two
long hours of abuse. 'Besides, I had to sell my car. It's quiet tonight.'

Charlie dusted off a beer glass and placed it just so on the shelf. 'It's Tuesday. Always
quiet on Tuesdays. And what with the rain and all.'

The rain was soft and gentle. It clouded the windows to the bar, turning the light from a
street lamp into a warmish blur.

'You okay, Tom?'

'Yeah...I'm, I'm fine. Just think about something Frankie once said. It was two days
before...you know.'

'Yes, I know.'

'He said, "Dad, someday, when I grow up, I'm gonna be a scientist!" Can you believe that,
Charlie? A scientist. At seven years old he wanted to be a scientist. Not a ballplayer,
not an astronaut. He didn't wanna have his picture hung in the Pro Football Hall of Fame,
sandwiched between Joe Montana and Joe Namath, he wanted to be a scientist.'

'Different. A nice dream.'

'Dream? I tell you Charlie. if you had been there, if you had looked into those eyes. Those
eyes of wonder, and, and innocence, then maybe, maybe you would have believed him to.'

'You think he would have made it?'

'He had something in him Charlie, something so damn special, until that bastard...!' He
sighed and pushed the little glass back towards the bartender. 'Give me something
different. Gimme, gimme a vodka. Straight, no ice.'

'Vodka straight, no ice.'

Charlie put aside the whiskey glass and picked up a clean tumbler.

He looked at the barman quizzically. 'You're supposed to drink vodka out of a tumbler?'

'Don't know, Tom. You choose.' He held up two glasses, one in each hand. He raised his left,
'The tumbler,' then he raised his right, 'Or the whiskey glass?'

'You choose, Charlie; I'm sick of making choices.'

'You're gonna have to make a choice someday. May as well get in the practice; be prepared.'

He laughed slightly and pointed to Charlie's right hand. 'The whiskey glass.'

Charlie poured the shot of vodka into the whiskey glass and then one for himself into the
tumbler.

'So you ARE supposed to drink it out of a tumbler.' Tom smiled.

'You made the choice, Tom. Can't go back on a choice.'

Charlie's face was blank and cold. Tom felt tense, as if something was creeping up on him.
As if something was about to go terribly wrong. But then Charlie flashed a quick grin, and
Tom relaxed again. Somewhere out in the night a car alarm went off, and they both glanced
towards the window, sipping their vodkas.

He let out a long, heavy breath. 'He killed 'em Charlie.'

'How do you know it was a he?'

'I know. I know. My wife and child are gone and I can feel it in my bones. In my soul. It
was a man who did it. It was a man who shot my wife in her face for fifty bucks. It was
a man who shot my son in the stomach. It was a man, Charlie, I know it was a man.' He held
back the tears, not wanting to embarrass himself in front of a friend he had only known for
a few months.

Charlie pulled, almost nervously on his moustache. 'There's not much you can do now.'

'I know.' He replied softly.

'No witnesses. No evidence.'

'No nothin'.' He swallowed the remainder of his drink and stood, ready to leave.

The car alarm stopped. Charlie looked at him, deep into his eyes. 'Unless...'

'Unless what?'

The barkeeper poured him another shot and topped up his own glass. He smiled. 'Oh, nothing.
Just thinking aloud is all. All bartenders do it. Especially if it's a slow night.'

'What is it Charlie?' He said seriously, 'What aren't you telling me?'

'Why don't you sit down Tom, you look tired.'

Tom found himself becoming angry at the only man he considered to be a friend. But he sat.
He thought maybe the liquor was fraying his nerves.

'That one's on the house, Tom' He gestured to the glass. 'Drink up.'

He felt uneasy and uncomfortable, but he sipped his vodka. He'd been driving on the road to
ruin far too long to turn down a free drink.

'Unless...' He prompted.

'You know I lost my father, Tom?' His voice slowed. 'Ten years ago. To cancer. Doctors say
he would have lived, if they'd only caught it earlier. But that was my dad for you; too
stubborn to see a doctor. "Just a little indigestion, son." That's all he'd say. Never really
knew if he believed it himself or not.'

'You never told me about that. You never mentioned your father before. What was he like?'

'Like I said, stubborn as an old mule.' In a quiet but serious voice he added, 'Sometimes I
used to think that if I looked down fast enough, I'd actually see the feet of a horse down
there, instead of those cheap old shoes he used to wear.'

Again, Tom felt uneasy. He heard himself say, without humour, 'And did you? Did you ever look
down fast enough?'

Sombrely, he replied, 'Once or twice.'

The air grew cold and Tom shivered. Then Charlie laughed loudly and the room warmed up again.
'Good heavens, Tom! Getting a little carried away with yourself there aren't you?!'

Tom laughed too, although not as loudly or as thickly as his friend had. Rubbing his eyes,
he said, 'Sorry Charlie. It's just, well, with everything that's happened... I guess I'm
just a little jumpy, that's all. Easily freaked out.'

Charlie came out from behind the bar and sat down on the stool to the left of Tom and patted
him on the shoulder. Tom looked up at the clock above the bar. It ticked silently, nearing
eleven o'clock. He noticed that the place was nearly deserted. One other customer sat in a
booth by the window, his head buried in a newspaper

Tom raised the almost empty glass to his lips. Before he drank, he spoke. 'If only I'd been
there, Charlie, perhaps I could have prevented it.'

Charlie drank his own vodka, then said evenly, 'There's nothing you could have done, Tom. You
were with that hooker.'

He snapped his head around to face the barman, nearly dropping his glass. Almost inaudible, he
said, 'I never told you that. I never told anyone that.'

'Calm down Tom, you look shocked.'

'I, I,' He stuttered over the sentence. 'I never told you that. H-how do you know that?'

'What would you do, Tom, if someone gave you a choice?'

'A, a choice?' He stammered. He was afraid and confused. He'd never mentioned the prostitute
before, not to anyone.

The bartender stood. He seemed taller now. 'What would you do, Tom, if an angel gave you a
choice?'

'What?'

'If an angel said to you, "Thomas, I can send you back," would you go?'

'What? I-I don't understand, Charlie. What are you talking about? Back where? How do you
know about the hooker?'

He raised his voice, shouted at him. 'Forget the whore, Tom, and answer the fucking question!
Would you go back?! Would you stop the murders?! Tom!!'

'Yes!' He screamed, 'I'd stop that bastard from killing my family! I'd tear his fucking heart
out!'

Ten long seconds ticked by, then the bartender calmly picked the two empty glasses up of the
counter and walked around to the other side of the bar where he placed them in a small tub of
water and began to wash them. With his back turned to him, he said softly, 'Time to go home,
Tom. It's getting late. You don't wanna be late. Not tonight.'

'Why? Why? What's tonight?'

'Good night Tom.'

He didn't know what to do. He wasn't really sure what had just happened and his head felt
heavy. He'd had too much to drink. So he slipped into his raincoat and wandered over to the
door. Immediately after opening it, he felt the cold wind and rain play on his face. He turned
to say something to Charlie, anything in order to try and understand the dialogue that had
just passed between them, but he was gone. The bar was empty. Even the customer who had been
reading the newspaper was gone, although Tom never noticed the man leave.

'I'm finally going nuts.' he muttered to himself. Then he buttoned up his coat and headed out
into the night.

He'd been walking for close to ten minutes when he suddenly realised how dark the night seemed.
It was as if someone had placed a dimmer switch on every street lamp, and then had proceeded to
turn them down halfway. Then he noticed that the rain had stopped, and, in fact, the ground
that he walked on wasn't even wet, as though it had never even rained at all. And it was quiet.
The streets were empty, not one single car drove by. He could hear nothing but his own
footsteps as he trudged onwards, not really knowing where he was going. Then his right hand
became heavy and cold. He raised it to his eyes, and in his grasp was a small handgun.
Bewildered, he stopped walking and turned the piece over and over in his hands, unable to
comprehend where it had come from.

A small gun. A tiny instrument of death.

As he looked at it, he spoke to himself, 'I'm not GOING nuts, I AM nuts.' He said it softly
but it seemed so loud in the deserted street.

Then he heard something. Just up ahead. A rustling and a slight murmur. He froze. Ten yards
away stood a gaping entrance to an ally way. It seemed to spill out shadows and darkness.

A shrill scream exploded into the night and then it hit him, the realisation of what was
happening, the conversation he'd just had with Charlie made sense. Charlie was an Angel! And
he'd sent Tom back in time to save his family. He'd been given another chance!

He raced into the ally way as the scream faded only to be replaced by a loud crash and a flash
of fire. A body fell against him, knocking him to the ground. A wet sticky substance slapped
his face, some of it sloshing into his mouth. Blood.

'No!'

Another shot rang out, this one cutting into his baby son, throwing him backwards into a
dumpster.

Tom pushed the corpse of his dead wife aside, stood and fired his gun straight ahead. He heard
the bullet ricochet off a brick wall. Then the other mans gun went off and Tom felt the metal
smash into his left shoulder. To his surprise he didn't go down or cry out in pain. Instead
he swung his gun around and fired again, and again, and again, until the hammer clicked against
empty, smoking chambers.

He dropped the gun and looked down at what remained of his wife. Then he walked over to his
dead son and stroked his cheek. He wept silently.

'Frankie. I'm sorry Frankie.' His voice began to break up. 'I'm so sorry.' He paused for a
couple of seconds then he looked into the blank eyes of his son. 'You would have made it
Frankie. You would have worked for NASA or anyone you wanted. They would have been beating a
path to your door. I promise you that.'

He stood in the centre of the ally way, unsure of what to do next. Then he heard a soft groan.
It was the assailant. Tom had presumed that he was dead.

He stepped up to the killer and bent down over him. He was wearing a mask and bleeding heavily.
The attacker had taken a bullet to the stomach, just like Frankie. Enraged, Tom clenched his
fist and raised it high into the air, then he brought it down hard and fast, striking the dying
man in the abdomen. He screamed out in pain as Tom hit him again, over and over, then, savagely
he found the hole in the mans belly and squeezed his hand into it. Grabbing hold of something
warm and wet, he crushed it between his fingers and then he pulled it as hard as he could until
it ripped free of the mans stomach.

Tom threw the stinking organ aside and looked down at the masked face of the dead man. He
wanted to leave but couldn't. Something told him to look, to remove the mask and look. So he
clasped the woolly veil in his good hand; the pain of the gunshot wound was finally beginning
to reach him, and he pulled it swiftly away.

He screamed and cried out, 'NO!'

He recognised the face of the killer, and it wasn't a man. It was his mother.

He fell backwards into darkness.





At first he didn't open his eyes. He just felt the pain in his shoulder which seemed to be
spreading across his upper back and chest. He tried to move his arm but he couldn't. He also
felt the sticky blood on his face and hands. He could still taste it, coppery, in his mouth.
He was weak.

It wasn't until he realised that he was standing up that his eyes finally opened. He took a
brief look around and saw that he wasn't in the ally anymore. He was across the street from
Charlie's bar. It was strangely lit. The light flickered like candle light. Then he noticed
the rain. It had started again.

With unsteady legs he crossed the street and stumbled up to the bar door. It was locked. He
pushed it open and slid through, brushing up against a pane of glass, not noticing the bloody
streak he left behind him.

'Charlie?' He croaked. His voice was dry and crispy. It hurt his throat to talk. 'Charlie? Are
you here?'

'I'm here.' The voice startled him. It came from the shadows to his left. He could just make
out the silhouette of the barman. He seemed even taller. Or maybe it was just him slipping to
the floor.

He struggled to keep his eyes open as two people grabbed him by the arms and dragged him over
to the bar, placing him on his usual stool. He felt himself lean over and rest his head and
chest on the counter top, a few feet away from a lone candle which burned softly, illuminating
very little. A neatly folded newspaper lay next to it. He tried to sit up but his body stayed
limp, unable to respond. He couldn't even move his head to look at Charlie.

He didn't know how, but he managed to speak. 'Charlie?'

'Yes Tom?' His voice was cool and calm.

'My mother?'

'Yes Tom.'

He began to cry again.

'She never did approve of your marriage, did she Tom?'

'My mother?'

'Yes,' his voice sounded almost smug, 'Your mother.'

'I failed you Charlie.' Tears ran down his face. 'You sent me back and I failed you.'

'No, you didn't fail me Tom. You did exactly what I wanted you to.'

'But they still died.'

'Yes, just like we planned.' His voice was still soft and composed.

'But I,I...'

Charlie finished the sentence for him, 'You thought I was an angel?'

'Yes,' he murmured.

Two people laughed; Charlie almost hysterically.

He spoke loudly, 'Why I'm no angel Tom! My father used to be but, well, he kinda fell from his
position.'

The two people laughed again. Tom just laid there, his mind unable to really latch on to
anything that was being said.

'Oh, I never did introduce you to my father, did I Tom?'

Yom's eyes hung half open. A man leaned in close but he still couldn't quite see him. He spoke
and Tom smelt his foul, demonic breath as it filled his lungs. It's voice was raspy. 'I want
you to say something for me Tom. Just to make everything complete; to finish the cycle. Swear
that it'll never stop raining.'

The face came into view and Tom looked into the eyes of absolute death itself and said, 'I
swear it'll never stop raining,' as he fell for the last time into total darkness.