Born in Pretoria in 1979, Werner holds degrees in Publishing and English from the University of Pretoria and is completing his Masters in Creative Writing at the University of Cape Town. He is a part-time scriptwriter and crack addict, and has been to the moon, four times. Most of this is true.

This is Werner's second story for Something Wicked. This story is also available as a Podcast.

extract from Night Time is a-Coming

Damon sits down next to me. He is on his sixth pint, I am on my third. We are at the Long Street Café. It is six o’ clock and a typically chill August wind is gusting outside. We sit next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, our noses almost touching the pane of glass before us. There are spots on it. It could do with a wash. Damon beats out a rhythm on the wooden counter before him, then swears as some of his beer spills, then he is quiet. We watch passers-by passing by in silence for a while, happy to be in the cosy warmth inside the bar rather than in transit, on our way somewhere, out there in the harsh weather. But then, we will be on our way, before long, but for now we are delaying, biding, as time slips out there, as dusk slowly settles, as the hours of the sun go by.
“You might wanna go easy on those,” I say, nodding towards his beer.
“Hmmph,” to himself.
Damon’s nerves are still a little shaken, his speech a little slurred as he thrums his fingers on the counter again and says, “What do you think this is? Oak, mahogany?”
“Varnished pine,” I guess.
“Can’t be pine. It’s sturdy. Good wood. Can’t be pine.” He thumps his fist on it to prove the point.
The whole counter wobbles, the wood she is not sturdy, she is not good, but I let it go. It’s a rattled voice washing around in the current of the alcohol and I’m not going to get into an argument about what the bar’s made of. So, conversation dries up again. People pass, we sit. Damon taps a cigarette from his packet and rolls it around in his fingers for a while.
“He looked a bit like Arno Carstens,” Damon says.
“Jesus, man. Don’t say shit like that.”
I had thought I was done, but now I need another mouthful of beer. I end up draining most of what’s left.
“No, I’m serious. Angular chin, blond hair. If I’d met him in the street, instead of –”
“Drink up,” I say. “We’re getting out of here.”
“Relax, Shane.” Damon puts his hand on my leg, stays me. “There’s still time.”

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