The Barman’s Clock

The Barman’s Clock

The Rusty Anchor, tucked in a cramped alley off Essex Street in Temple Bar, doesn’t catch the eye like the flashier pubs nearby. Its sign’s peeling, the windows smudged with years of cigarette smoke and rain, and the clock above the bar’s been stuck at 11:47 p.m. since June 12, 1972. Nobody knows why, but the old-timers, nursing their pints in the corner, whisper about Mick Flannery, a barman who vanished that night after a brawl. Caoimhe Doyle, 24, didn’t give a toss about ghost stories when she took the late shift at the Anchor in the summer of 2025. She needed cash to pay her Dublin rent, and pourin’ pints in the heart of Temple Bar’s chaos sounded like a laugh. But somethin’ about the pub—the way the jukebox sparked to life unplugged, playing scratchy folk tunes, or how glasses clinked after closing—made her skin crawl like she was being watched.

Caoimhe’s first week was standard: rowdy tourists shouting for Guinness, locals grumbling about prices, the air thick with the tang of spilled stout and wax polish. The Anchor’s wood panels, carved with lovers’ initials and old bets, felt like they held secrets. She liked the buzz of Temple Bar outside—buskers strumming on Crown Alley, artists sketching by the Liffey’s muddy banks—but inside, the pub felt like it was holding its breath. One night, wiping down the sticky bar after last call, she saw him: a man in a tweed cap, maybe 40, with a face weathered like driftwood, pouring a pint for nobody. His hands moved fast, practiced, but his eyes were wrong—cloudy, like the Liffey after a storm. “Oi, who’re you?” Caoimhe called, her voice sharp. He vanished, leaving a perfect pint on the counter, foam settling slow. The clock ticked once, then froze again at 11:47.

She cornered the manager, Pat, a gruff Dubliner with a smoker’s cough, the next day. “That’s Mick Flannery,” he muttered, polishing a glass. “Barman here in ’72. Mad for a fiddle player, Saoirse, but she was trouble. Got in a scrap over her, then gone. Clock’s been stuck since.” Curious, Caoimhe hit the Temple Bar Library, a quiet spot tucked behind Meeting House Square, and found a 1972 clipping in the Irish Times: “Barman Missing After Pub Row.” Mick, 38, had fought a rival over Saoirse, a folk singer who lit up the Anchor’s tiny stage with her voice like a bell. The brawl started when a drunk heckled her set; Mick swung, and chaos followed. Saoirse left for Galway the next day. Mick? Never seen again. Some said he drowned in the Liffey, others that he cursed the pub in a whiskey-fueled rage.

Nights passed, and the stranger appeared again, always after closing. He’d pour pints, set them on empty tables, and hum a tune Caoimhe swore was The Foggy Dew. She started stayin’ late, locking the door but keeping the lights low, watching. One night, a glass slid across the bar, untouched, foam sloshing. “Mick?” she whispered, half-expecting Pat to laugh at her later. The jukebox flared, playing a crackly live recording of Saoirse’s voice, sharp and sweet, from ’72. Caoimhe checked the stage, finding a dusty fiddle case wedged under a loose board. Inside were letters—Mick’s, to Saoirse, ink smudged with desperation: “Don’t go, love. You’re my song.” One letter mentioned a curse: “If you leave, this place’ll never move on.”

Caoimhe walked Temple Bar’s alleys, from the cobbles of Merchant’s Arch to the Liffey’s dark banks, piecing it together. The Anchor was trapped, like Mick, in that June night. She found Saoirse’s name on an X forum for 1970s folk fans and tracked her to a Galway nursing home. At 70, Saoirse’s hands shook, but her eyes were sharp. “Mick loved me, but I loved the road,” she said, voice cracking. “That night, he fought a man who called my singin’ rubbish. I left, ashamed. Never knew he vanished.” She handed Caoimhe a tape of her last Anchor gig, the night Mick disappeared, her voice soaring over a crowd’s cheers.

Back at the pub, Caoimhe played the tape after hours, the Anchor’s air heavy with dust and memory. The stranger appeared, clearer now, his tweed cap tilted, a sad smile on his lips. As Saoirse’s The Foggy Dew filled the room, Caoimhe read Mick’s last letter aloud: “Saoirse, you’re my time. Without you, it stops.” The clock shuddered, gears grinding, and ticked past 11:47 for the first time in decades. The stranger—Mick—raised a pint, nodded, and faded, leaving the glass warm to the touch. Caoimhe locked up, the pub quiet at last. Outside, Temple Bar’s neon buzzed, buskers played, and the Liffey flowed on. The Anchor felt new, like it could breathe again.

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