“Shhh.”

20

Jon

The Bull smells like the bottom of a laundry basket, of old sweat and stale beer. I notice the group of blokes as soon as I walk into the pub. I glance at them. They’ve taken over an area in the pub to the right of the bar with a dartboard and pool table. I don’t want them to see me so I keep my head down as I walk straight to the bar. I order a pint, not because I want one, but because I think it’ll make me stand out even more if I have an orange juice. I feel raw, exposed, out of place. I shouldn’t have worn this stupid raincoat, the fashionable glasses. I take the coat off, but the glasses have to stay. I find a small table close enough but—with the door between us—not too close to the men. I sit and only then look at them.

There are six of them, two sitting at a table and the others crowded round the dartboard. They all look like a variation of the British bulldog: short or shaved hair, white skin made red and angry by the sun or black and wrinkled by the tattooist’s needle. A couple of them are younger than me but the rest look like they’re in their fifties or older. Most of them have huge bellies, taut as drums, full of beer. They have wide, easy smiles. They throw noises back and forth to one another—roars and slurs—but they all seem to understand each other perfectly. They wear gray polo shirts and slack-looking jeans. Their part of the pub is already littered with empty pint glasses, they’ve clearly been here for a while already. The biggest one fires three darts at the board, one after the other, like missiles, and the others bang the table with their palms and shout. I don’t know if they’re congratulating him or laughing at him. The two at the table have their backs to me and are much quieter, only moving to take the odd sip of their pints. They seem separate from the group, watching from the sidelines, not even talking to each other. The one on the left looks older, his back is curled, and he’s wearing a flat cap, but the bloke on the right, closest to me, is younger. His hair is short, light blond, and from here his neck looks too long and thin to hold the weight of his head. One of the older blokes comes over to him, slaps a red-raw arm over his shoulders.

“Your round, lil’ Rob,” he says, slurring slightly.

The seated man turns and I see a black streak like a lightning bolt on the side of his neck. It’s him, exactly as Cara described. Robbie Craig. He heads towards the bar with slow, viscous movements, like he’s melting, but there’s also a careful grace to him, as if he has every movement planned out well in advance. While the barman—without having to be told—pulls six amber pints, Robbie glances up at the clock hanging behind the bar, his jaw tensing, relaxing, then tensing again. His fingers drum the bar, he’s forcing himself not to hurry. He doesn’t look like a man having drinks with mates—I recognize due diligence when I see it. There’s somewhere else he wants to be, somewhere else he should be.