Police officers didn’t get involved in the things I was dreaming about. No one did.
I sat in the car another ten minutes. During that time I heard two separate sets of sirens coming past on the road, heading in the direction of the peninsula, and when I looked out of the car window I thought I could see a faint orange glow on the horizon. It was then I realized that I needed a drink. I still had Tom’s wallet with his money, and by now Pen and her buddy would have made themselves scarce. It might not have been the best use of the cash I had, but after what I’d been through that day, I figured I deserved a cold beer.
The moment I walked in the door, I knew that in my past life I’d been a pub man. The bitter smell of the hops, the steady buzz of conversation, the clink of glasses on wood, the booze-fuelled laughter. It all felt so familiar. I’d done up my jacket and tried to tidy myself up, but I still looked far too much like a man who’d got himself into trouble recently, although I doubted whether too many of the drinkers would guess that I’d almost been killed at least twice tonight.
It had just turned 9.30 and the pub was busy. The punters were mainly male and of all ages, ranging from the barely legal to the barely alive, with a sprinkling of wives and girlfriends mixed in. Most of them looked my way as I walked over to the bar, and some blatantly stared. I ignored all of them and ordered a pint of Foster’s because, just like I knew how to handle a car, I instinctively knew that this was my drink of choice in a pub.
The barman was red-faced with a near-white handlebar moustache that made him look like a walrus. He inspected me like I was some kind of alien life form masquerading as a human being. ‘English,’ he said dismissively, and I wasn’t sure whether he meant it as an insult or a question.
I took it as a question. ‘Yeah,’ I said, looking him in the eye. ‘I guess I am.’
He turned away without another word and poured the pint, and I paid him with cash from Tom’s wallet before moving to the end of the bar as far out of the way as possible and taking a long gulp of the beer. It tasted good. I’d drunk beer back in the house a couple of times (although Jane had always discouraged it, claiming it wouldn’t be good for my recovery), but it tasted a lot better out of a tap. Or maybe it was simply the sense of freedom I was tasting.
There was a folded, crumpled newspaper on the corner of the bar. It didn’t look like it belonged to anyone so I picked it up and leafed through it. Jane never kept papers in the house. She always referred to them as media propaganda, so I tended to get what news I got from the TV – not that I’d been paying much attention of late. The pages were filled with stories of disaster, murder, cheap politics and the drunken antics of young, strangely artificial-looking celebrities I didn’t recognize. It was only when I got to the features section towards the back that I came across something that caught my eye. It was an interview with a woman called Tina Boyd. There was a photo of her sitting behind a neat desk looking at the camera. She was what you’d describe as striking – late thirties, dark hair cut just above the shoulders, good-looking, with nicely defined cheekbones. If it hadn’t been for her eyes, I’d have had her down as an actress or businesswoman, but there was a hardened glint in them that gave her away as someone who’d seen too much.
Having been drawn to her photo, I read the article. She talked about her career as a detective in various branches of the Met, during which time she’d been kidnapped, shot twice, come under suspicion for murder, and earned herself the nickname the Black Widow because her colleagues seemed to have a habit of dying around her. Luckily for them it seemed she’d left the force for good now and was working as a licensed private detective in London. She spoke briefly about the case she was currently working on,
I sat in the car another ten minutes. During that time I heard two separate sets of sirens coming past on the road, heading in the direction of the peninsula, and when I looked out of the car window I thought I could see a faint orange glow on the horizon. It was then I realized that I needed a drink. I still had Tom’s wallet with his money, and by now Pen and her buddy would have made themselves scarce. It might not have been the best use of the cash I had, but after what I’d been through that day, I figured I deserved a cold beer.
The moment I walked in the door, I knew that in my past life I’d been a pub man. The bitter smell of the hops, the steady buzz of conversation, the clink of glasses on wood, the booze-fuelled laughter. It all felt so familiar. I’d done up my jacket and tried to tidy myself up, but I still looked far too much like a man who’d got himself into trouble recently, although I doubted whether too many of the drinkers would guess that I’d almost been killed at least twice tonight.
It had just turned 9.30 and the pub was busy. The punters were mainly male and of all ages, ranging from the barely legal to the barely alive, with a sprinkling of wives and girlfriends mixed in. Most of them looked my way as I walked over to the bar, and some blatantly stared. I ignored all of them and ordered a pint of Foster’s because, just like I knew how to handle a car, I instinctively knew that this was my drink of choice in a pub.
The barman was red-faced with a near-white handlebar moustache that made him look like a walrus. He inspected me like I was some kind of alien life form masquerading as a human being. ‘English,’ he said dismissively, and I wasn’t sure whether he meant it as an insult or a question.
I took it as a question. ‘Yeah,’ I said, looking him in the eye. ‘I guess I am.’
He turned away without another word and poured the pint, and I paid him with cash from Tom’s wallet before moving to the end of the bar as far out of the way as possible and taking a long gulp of the beer. It tasted good. I’d drunk beer back in the house a couple of times (although Jane had always discouraged it, claiming it wouldn’t be good for my recovery), but it tasted a lot better out of a tap. Or maybe it was simply the sense of freedom I was tasting.
There was a folded, crumpled newspaper on the corner of the bar. It didn’t look like it belonged to anyone so I picked it up and leafed through it. Jane never kept papers in the house. She always referred to them as media propaganda, so I tended to get what news I got from the TV – not that I’d been paying much attention of late. The pages were filled with stories of disaster, murder, cheap politics and the drunken antics of young, strangely artificial-looking celebrities I didn’t recognize. It was only when I got to the features section towards the back that I came across something that caught my eye. It was an interview with a woman called Tina Boyd. There was a photo of her sitting behind a neat desk looking at the camera. She was what you’d describe as striking – late thirties, dark hair cut just above the shoulders, good-looking, with nicely defined cheekbones. If it hadn’t been for her eyes, I’d have had her down as an actress or businesswoman, but there was a hardened glint in them that gave her away as someone who’d seen too much.
Having been drawn to her photo, I read the article. She talked about her career as a detective in various branches of the Met, during which time she’d been kidnapped, shot twice, come under suspicion for murder, and earned herself the nickname the Black Widow because her colleagues seemed to have a habit of dying around her. Luckily for them it seemed she’d left the force for good now and was working as a licensed private detective in London. She spoke briefly about the case she was currently working on,
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