units, all coiled steel and polished copper. The walls, with their modern art and blocks of color, their history posters informing him of the rich heritage of this old building, which served Hull as a post office for decades. Down, at the sticky wooden floorboards and blue carpet trodden flat.
He drains his wine. Takes his electronic cigarette from the pocket of his crumpled black shirt and inhales. Scowls at the weak, anemic hit the gadget provides. Wishes he could just flash his warrant card and tell them he wants a fag. A proper fag. Three inches of nicotine and tar, smoke billowing upward in a greasy cloud, masking the stench of men.
He sniffs. The bar smells of damp carpet and clothes dried in musty rooms. It smells of brick dust and mud, mildew and spilled ale. It smells of stifled burps and cigarettes. It’s a place where men in their eighties place their daily budget on the table in front of them and keep drinking until it’s gone or the fruit machine pays out. It’s a pub that caters to the sort of clientele who like their fried breakfasts with a whiskey chaser. It starts serving pints at nine a.m.
The double doors bang open, bringing in rain and wind and traffic noise. Two solicitors with a pretty, little thing. One of them is fat and bearded, leading with his belly and looking around him like he is thinking of making an offer to buy the place. His colleague is a step behind; short and skinny, twitchy and beige. The blonde looks halfway familiar. She’s got on a business suit and flip-flops and has mud streaked up her pale calves. She’s wearing big spectacles and cheap jewelry. She looks fun. The trio order coffees to go. The blonde asks for a muffin. Says it with a giggle and a hint of innuendo and gets nothing back from her colleagues. Sighs, saying, “Tough crowd . . .”
This has been Colin Ray’s routine for the past three months. He has been suspended from work since slapping the piss out of some mouthy little prick in the cells. At fifty years old, he should have known better, but he was goaded into it by a slimy bastard who knew which buttons to press. The victim is dead now but Ray still hasn’t been invited back into the fold. He feels like an outcast. The police have been his life since he was twenty-one. He doesn’t know how to be anything or anybody else. He hasn’t the money to retire—his ex-wives see to that. His various families want little to do with him. He has a teenage son in Bristol whom he last met when the kid was still in nappies, and his last wife has gone back to Singapore with the daughter he gave her. That one hurt. He always did his best by the kid—right up until the point her mum closed her knees for good and sent him on his way. He misses that one. Liked looking after her. Liked the way she squeezed his face and did silly drawings and laughed when he swore. She’ll be nearly ten now. Probably doesn’t remember him. Probably doesn’t know why she looks a bit less bloody foreign than her bitch of a mum.
“Can I take that, sir?”
Ray turns to the handsome young lad who is hovering by his stool.
“Your plate, sir? Can I take it?”
“No, lad, leave it a bit. There’s something almost artistic about the way the bean juice is congealing. I want to look at it a bit more.”
“Oh,” says the barman acceptingly. “No problem . . .”
“Take the fucking plate,” says Ray, pushing it away. “Christ.”
The youngster looks confused but has enough experience of dealing with the breakfast drinkers to know that he shouldn’t make a scene. He takes the plate and retreats. Ray sits back in his chair and returns to scowling at the scene beyond the glass. He can see St. Mary’s Church across the way. Its chimes used to waken him when he first moved to the city center. Now he finds them soothing, like an infant’s mobile, playing gentle lullabies over the grind and fizz of the city’s soundscape.
“Getting poetic, Col,” he says to himself with a twist
He drains his wine. Takes his electronic cigarette from the pocket of his crumpled black shirt and inhales. Scowls at the weak, anemic hit the gadget provides. Wishes he could just flash his warrant card and tell them he wants a fag. A proper fag. Three inches of nicotine and tar, smoke billowing upward in a greasy cloud, masking the stench of men.
He sniffs. The bar smells of damp carpet and clothes dried in musty rooms. It smells of brick dust and mud, mildew and spilled ale. It smells of stifled burps and cigarettes. It’s a place where men in their eighties place their daily budget on the table in front of them and keep drinking until it’s gone or the fruit machine pays out. It’s a pub that caters to the sort of clientele who like their fried breakfasts with a whiskey chaser. It starts serving pints at nine a.m.
The double doors bang open, bringing in rain and wind and traffic noise. Two solicitors with a pretty, little thing. One of them is fat and bearded, leading with his belly and looking around him like he is thinking of making an offer to buy the place. His colleague is a step behind; short and skinny, twitchy and beige. The blonde looks halfway familiar. She’s got on a business suit and flip-flops and has mud streaked up her pale calves. She’s wearing big spectacles and cheap jewelry. She looks fun. The trio order coffees to go. The blonde asks for a muffin. Says it with a giggle and a hint of innuendo and gets nothing back from her colleagues. Sighs, saying, “Tough crowd . . .”
This has been Colin Ray’s routine for the past three months. He has been suspended from work since slapping the piss out of some mouthy little prick in the cells. At fifty years old, he should have known better, but he was goaded into it by a slimy bastard who knew which buttons to press. The victim is dead now but Ray still hasn’t been invited back into the fold. He feels like an outcast. The police have been his life since he was twenty-one. He doesn’t know how to be anything or anybody else. He hasn’t the money to retire—his ex-wives see to that. His various families want little to do with him. He has a teenage son in Bristol whom he last met when the kid was still in nappies, and his last wife has gone back to Singapore with the daughter he gave her. That one hurt. He always did his best by the kid—right up until the point her mum closed her knees for good and sent him on his way. He misses that one. Liked looking after her. Liked the way she squeezed his face and did silly drawings and laughed when he swore. She’ll be nearly ten now. Probably doesn’t remember him. Probably doesn’t know why she looks a bit less bloody foreign than her bitch of a mum.
“Can I take that, sir?”
Ray turns to the handsome young lad who is hovering by his stool.
“Your plate, sir? Can I take it?”
“No, lad, leave it a bit. There’s something almost artistic about the way the bean juice is congealing. I want to look at it a bit more.”
“Oh,” says the barman acceptingly. “No problem . . .”
“Take the fucking plate,” says Ray, pushing it away. “Christ.”
The youngster looks confused but has enough experience of dealing with the breakfast drinkers to know that he shouldn’t make a scene. He takes the plate and retreats. Ray sits back in his chair and returns to scowling at the scene beyond the glass. He can see St. Mary’s Church across the way. Its chimes used to waken him when he first moved to the city center. Now he finds them soothing, like an infant’s mobile, playing gentle lullabies over the grind and fizz of the city’s soundscape.
“Getting poetic, Col,” he says to himself with a twist
Similar Books
