so discoloured it was impossible to tell what its original design or shade might have been. Crushed cigarette stubs littered it but with so many holes burned in it already, that hardly mattered.
I edged over to the bar and tried to catch the eye of either of the beefy barmen. Both ignored me. They had a rush of last-minute orders and I was at the end of the queue. Besides, they don’t like women going up to the bar at The Rose. They’re traditional. There weren’t so many women in the place. Those who were there were defiantly raucous, shouting to make themselves heard.
The first thing they teach you at any kind of voice production class is that if you yell, you distort. Voice projection, that’s the thing. Breathing. The diaphragm. On the drama course they taught us all about that. Every word to be audible at the back of the gods.
‘Who owns a blue Cortina with a scratch along one side?’
I’d given it the finest Shakespearean. Henry Irving would’ve been proud of me.
It worked. There was a fractional pause. Eyes turned my way. Faces were blank with shock. One of the barmen asked, ‘What was that, darlin’?’ Not because he hadn’t heard, but because he couldn’t believe he’d heard it – not from someone my size whose head was not much above the level of his bar.
I repeated my question in my normal voice, adding, ‘Some kids are hanging around it.’
To back up my story, in the lull, the repetitive squeal of the car alarm could now be heard.
‘Merv!’ yelled someone. ‘Ain’t that your motor?’
The crowd heaved and parted like the Red Sea. Between the ranks, a figure appeared and came towards me. I felt like a very small Christian faced with a very large and hungry lion.
Merv was tall, pale, and rectangular like a slab of lard. He was one of those who think it obligatory to go around in sleeveless T-shirts in all weathers and his muscular arms were tattooed from shoulder to wrist. One displayed a morbid interest in coffins, skulls and daggers. The other showed an old-fashioned cannon and the word ‘Gunners’ in capital letters, indicating that if he knew what loyalty meant, which I doubted, he’d given his to the Arsenal Football Club. He had pale yellow hair trimmed to a stubble and his round slate-coloured eyes lacked lashes or brows. It wasn’t the expression in them that worried me so much as the lack of it. Nothing. A pair of glass peepers would’ve had more life in them. No doubt about it: I was faced with one of the living dead.
It spoke. ‘What about my motor?’ it growled.
‘Kids . . .’ I faltered. ‘Joyriders looking for a – ’
He shoved me aside as he strode out. I staggered back against the bar and bounced off again painfully. The crowd reformed. The barmen went back to pulling pints and the band to unplugging the sound equipment. I trotted outside to see what was happening.
Ganesh had joined Dilip inside the van and was dispensing hot dogs to the tarts. The alarm was silent now but Merv, standing by the car, was exchanging insults with one of the flat dwellers.
‘And you!’ yelled the householder, slamming his window shut.
Merv, still ignoring me, padded along the pavement to the van, arms dangling, held away from his body and slightly bent, fists clenched.
‘You seen ’em?’ he croaked.
‘No, mate, we’ve been busy,’ said Ganesh. ‘You want a hot dog? Buy two, get one free. That makes three,’ he added.
He got a glassy stare.
‘You see nothin’, no kids?’
Merv wasn’t as thick as he looked. He was suspicious.
Help came unexpectedly. The tart with the silver jacket said, ‘I seen a bunch of kids. They was round our way earlier. Joyriders, that’s what they are. They’re always hotrodding round there. Residents got a petition up to put them bumps in the road.’ She eyed Merv. ‘You on your own? Or you with a mate? ’Cos me and my friend, we know a
I edged over to the bar and tried to catch the eye of either of the beefy barmen. Both ignored me. They had a rush of last-minute orders and I was at the end of the queue. Besides, they don’t like women going up to the bar at The Rose. They’re traditional. There weren’t so many women in the place. Those who were there were defiantly raucous, shouting to make themselves heard.
The first thing they teach you at any kind of voice production class is that if you yell, you distort. Voice projection, that’s the thing. Breathing. The diaphragm. On the drama course they taught us all about that. Every word to be audible at the back of the gods.
‘Who owns a blue Cortina with a scratch along one side?’
I’d given it the finest Shakespearean. Henry Irving would’ve been proud of me.
It worked. There was a fractional pause. Eyes turned my way. Faces were blank with shock. One of the barmen asked, ‘What was that, darlin’?’ Not because he hadn’t heard, but because he couldn’t believe he’d heard it – not from someone my size whose head was not much above the level of his bar.
I repeated my question in my normal voice, adding, ‘Some kids are hanging around it.’
To back up my story, in the lull, the repetitive squeal of the car alarm could now be heard.
‘Merv!’ yelled someone. ‘Ain’t that your motor?’
The crowd heaved and parted like the Red Sea. Between the ranks, a figure appeared and came towards me. I felt like a very small Christian faced with a very large and hungry lion.
Merv was tall, pale, and rectangular like a slab of lard. He was one of those who think it obligatory to go around in sleeveless T-shirts in all weathers and his muscular arms were tattooed from shoulder to wrist. One displayed a morbid interest in coffins, skulls and daggers. The other showed an old-fashioned cannon and the word ‘Gunners’ in capital letters, indicating that if he knew what loyalty meant, which I doubted, he’d given his to the Arsenal Football Club. He had pale yellow hair trimmed to a stubble and his round slate-coloured eyes lacked lashes or brows. It wasn’t the expression in them that worried me so much as the lack of it. Nothing. A pair of glass peepers would’ve had more life in them. No doubt about it: I was faced with one of the living dead.
It spoke. ‘What about my motor?’ it growled.
‘Kids . . .’ I faltered. ‘Joyriders looking for a – ’
He shoved me aside as he strode out. I staggered back against the bar and bounced off again painfully. The crowd reformed. The barmen went back to pulling pints and the band to unplugging the sound equipment. I trotted outside to see what was happening.
Ganesh had joined Dilip inside the van and was dispensing hot dogs to the tarts. The alarm was silent now but Merv, standing by the car, was exchanging insults with one of the flat dwellers.
‘And you!’ yelled the householder, slamming his window shut.
Merv, still ignoring me, padded along the pavement to the van, arms dangling, held away from his body and slightly bent, fists clenched.
‘You seen ’em?’ he croaked.
‘No, mate, we’ve been busy,’ said Ganesh. ‘You want a hot dog? Buy two, get one free. That makes three,’ he added.
He got a glassy stare.
‘You see nothin’, no kids?’
Merv wasn’t as thick as he looked. He was suspicious.
Help came unexpectedly. The tart with the silver jacket said, ‘I seen a bunch of kids. They was round our way earlier. Joyriders, that’s what they are. They’re always hotrodding round there. Residents got a petition up to put them bumps in the road.’ She eyed Merv. ‘You on your own? Or you with a mate? ’Cos me and my friend, we know a
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