Step through the doors, though, and there was no mistaking the theme. Everything from the purple-pink padding of the booth seats, to the sparkling butterfly-patterned tiling on the walls marked it out as more… flamboyant than most of the other pubs in the vicinity. An enormous length of rainbow-coloured ribbon that meandered between the chandeliers on the ceiling was just the icing on the cake.

Logan felt a sense of unease creeping up on him as he strode towards the bar. Not because of the gay thing—where people chose to put their various bits and pieces had never been any concern of his—but because this was everything he had always hated in a pub.

A pub, as far as he was concerned, was where you went to feel thoroughly miserable in the company of people you could temporarily tolerate. They were like churches, in some ways—a place to go for some quiet respite, and to reflect on the awfulness of the world that lurked out there beyond the heavy front doors.

A good pub had comfy chairs, quiet and inoffensive background music, a well-curated selection of whiskies, and in his more recent years, some half-decent coffee. He could tolerate a bandit, or even a quiz machine if it came to it, but a jukebox was an extravagance too far, because most people had no musical taste whatsoever.

A good pub was drab. It was depressing. It consoled you while you were inside, and made you feel all the better for having left it.

This place was the opposite of that. It was all gaudy colours, flashing neons, and there were old American Diner style jukeboxes on the tables in every booth. There was a small stage up against the back wall, too, complete with spotlights, PA system, and—unless he was very much mistaken—a karaoke machine.

Logan briefly flashed back to another karaoke machine, and to a spirited, if tuneless, turn as Elvis Presley, then he shuddered and walked more quickly until he reached the bar.

There were at least two hundred bottles of spirits on the wall behind the bar, each on its own little shelf. Logan could identify maybe three of them. Which, considering his previous expertise in the field of alcoholic beverages, really said something.

He wasn’t sure what it said, exactly, but definitely something.

“Doesn’t look like there’s anyone around, boss,” Tyler remarked as they stood waiting at the bar. “Through the back, maybe?”

There was a groan from the floor on the other side of the bar. Both detectives leaned over lager taps until they saw a woman lying there, one hand over her eyes.

“We’re just open,” she muttered. “Why are you here already?”

“Eh… Are you alright?” Tyler asked.

“Do I look like I’m alright?”

“Do you need help?”

“Do I look like I need help?”