Excerpt: Wolf Interval

‘It’s the same day every day.’ The bartender lamented to anyone who would listen.
‘Everything’s frozen these days, nothing changes. The same regulars every day, and even the irregulars come in the same pattern. There’s the tourists at three, different bunch every day, all identical. They’ve got their little leaflets and their cameras, they want the same photo of me behind the pumps. Always trying to get in the tapestry at the same time, assuming they’ve got the nous to get the right angle. They normally don’t.’
There was a cough from the balding, bearded redhead at the bar, the ash from his cigarette fell silently to the bar. The bartender didn’t acknowledge how much he enjoyed the punctuation provided to his ramble, and continued.
‘There’s the workers, a random hand, dealt from all the local buildings, all on the dot at five past five. They stay for a few to deaden the same boredom as yesterday, and the day before that. As they’re leaving the kids start to come in, with the same over excited pretentiousness as the day before the day before that.’
‘Fucken’ kids.’ Was the bold gruff splutter of the redhead, staring into the last inch of his beer.
‘And it’s not just here. It’s the whole damn town. The whole damn island.
‘Nothing happens.’ The bartender paused, and stared around at his demesne. Every oaken fitting was covered in grime, though the brass on the pumps was polished to a sheen. It always was, as the bartender took to polishing well when he was bored enough. He stared into the eyes of the stuffed eagle mounted over the door. The Eagle returned his gaze with noble aplomb. Same as always.
‘The same food every day, no matter what we eat. The same weather every day, no matter what it’s like out. It’s the same politics every year, no matter who we vote for. Nothing changes.’ He breathed a deep sigh, slightly deeper than usual, surprisingly.
‘I guess that’s what gets me most. You look at history, and politics was everywhere. It was revolution and change and challenge and excitement. People tried to make a difference, and sometimes it even worked.’ Another sigh. ‘Now nobody even tries. We just accept it. No point in doing anything when nothing ever changes’
‘Like ‘im’. He gestured towards the slumped sleeper at the end of the bar, though nobody looked up. They all knew the rant by heart anyway, and knew where he pointed.
‘Times passed, I woulda kicked him out for sleeping like that, middle of the day and all. Picked him up and told him he’d had enough. But we let him lie now. Because that’s what we always do. Because we know he won’t change. It’s his way, and he’s set in it, and it’s fine.’ He was looking kindly at the man now. ‘Course, we know his condition, so we understand, we let him lie. It’s part of the routine.’
‘But it’s all routine now.’ His arm rested over the metallic line of lager pumps, as he let the words linger in the air. The quiet melancholy guitar folk gently flowed from the speakers into the room, swelling to fill the silence. The pub was old, extremely old, though the bar fittings at least had been modernised, and the cheap bright posters jarred against the tapestries and paintings. The renaissance clashed with the medieval clashed with the Helvetica, all over the walls. The oak went beautifully with the deep, thick, filthy carpet though. Tiny wooden gargoyles peered out from beside the low, dark windows. Some of them stuck their tongues out impudently, others lustfully. Some of them looked solemn whilst others threatened or jeered. The gargoyles, in their variety especially, clashed with the patrons, who wore no expression.
The Pomeranian’s Arms was technically a quite nice and cosy pub. Close enough to the castle, and with enough history to get a bit of tourist trade, and in a dark enough alleyway to feel safe for the locals; it made enough money to get by, and always would. The wine list wasn’t terrible, and the liquor selection was good. The beer was a mixed bag, but there was always something bland for the locals, something strange for the pretentious, and something strong for the miserable.
But then there was the malaise. It was autumn, and the city had been enshrouded in fog for most of the last months. Today however the sun had pierced through the clouds and burst onto the streets. It was a gloriously brisk and bright day to be wandering the historical alleyways of Helsingor.
But the sun never gets into the Pomeranian’s Arms, and the fog was still thick.
It was not the fog from the sea.
The French, call it malaise, possibly. Or at least that’s what everyone else calls it, occasionally with a vague French flourish to their tone, a smoothing. It was everywhere in the Pomeranian’s Arms, and, in fact, the barman was right. It was everywhere in Helsingor, and everywhere on the whole of Sjaelland, and probably beyond. The debateably ancient city had aged further in the last decades, the age that comes from the injection of modernity. Nothing makes a castle seem old like filling it with touch screen computers and interactive exhibits in hideously exuberant pink laminated MDF boxes. This was roughly what had happened throughout the city. The main street had been overwhelmed, at least at ground level. The buildings above still had their occasionally moss tinged ornamentations, but people don’t look up, so it’s all glass fronted shops with huge strips of branding at their crest. Huge displays of inadequately dressed mannequins or rows of plastic bottles, or just large glowing icons, for those that sell more ethereal products.
So if you took the long view, the bartender was wrong, there had been change. But all this change was just homogenisation, and that had led to stagnancy.
‘It’s all frozen. We need something to crack the ice. Break it up so we can have a swim. Make something happen. I can’t go on doing the same thing day after week after month after year.’ The barman resumed almost a full minute later, with a burst of anger that quickly cooled as he listed the ever increasing periods of time.
‘I’m telling you it’s frozen, everything’s static in this place.’ A hint of a smile crept across his face, the smile of someone who has just come up with a dreadful pun or literary reference, and thinks it will impress even through the groans.
‘Something is definitely frigid in the state of Denmark.’
‘Stops it going rotten, doesn’t it.’ The slightly more droll response came unexpectedly. It was the sleeping man.
‘Like a fridge, y’know.’ Dogstar Mouridsen explained needlessly, lifting his narcoleptic head from the bar. A streaky pattern from the oak was imprinted on his cheek, and the texture of his sleeve was on his forehead.
‘I’ll have another duppel please Age.’ A cheeky grin flourished across his patchily bearded face, knowing how much the bartender resented not only his sleep, but that he had timed his addition to the rant so well. Age Sejersen rambled not because he really minded anything that much, but just because he enjoyed his own rhythms, and filling the space with words. His patrons didn’t mind because they were past caring, and in honesty, it was relaxing. There can be a soothing quality to boredom, when done correctly. The ale helped too.
‘You’ll be getting me one too then, I’ll say.’ The barman harrumphed emphatically, as he poured the pint for his friend and antagonist.
‘Always.’ Dogstar winked, and as he did so the heavy, ornate door swung open with a hefty solid thud and a hint of a crack.
The whole clientele (there were only four in total) jumped, as the tourists had left and it wasn’t five o’clock yet, and they gazed at the unexpected intruders.
Two women, one in a razor sharp black suit and clichéd narrow sunglasses in accompaniment, and one in an enormous parker jacket with various woollen comforters cascading around it’s perimeter. Hat, scarf, jumper, gloves, all poured out in a torrent of stripes and patterns of colours ranging from a pastel blue to an aggressive scarlet. The former had just shoved the latter through the door, and the knitted mass stumbled into a heap on the floor. The suit formally surveyed the room, and perfunctorily nodded before striding off into the distance.
Dogstar’s jaw hung open, as he stared at the girl.
Age dealt with the bizarre situation with typical aplomb.
‘I’ll put one for her on your tab too, Dougie.’