It had been so long since last she was here that everything looked like the shadow of what once had been. London seemed to her like an old master painted on top of a forgotten, discarded picture, and her mind tried to reconcile her memories with the reality she now stood before. Nothing looked the same, nor as she remembered, apart from the ivy-clad building on the opposite corner, with the perennial Union Jack hanging above the main door and Victorian gas lamps either side.

“Emily, where are you going?” she heard Tyler shout as she crossed the road.

Standing outside the Railway Tavern, she looked up at the metal sign depicting an old steam train, which was swaying a little, as if it had been up drinking all night. The scent of stale beer drifted out of an open window, showering her with the memory of her father.

“Good idea,” Tyler said as he held open the door, waited for Emily to step inside. “I think we could both do with a drink.”

It was just like any other traditional pub in London. Stripped wooden floor, large square windows looking out onto the street, a collection of mismatched tables and chairs, and a long bar with a brass pole running around the edge.

Only this was the pub her father used to come to. Every Friday after work, for a quick pint and a smoke before heading home. His office had been in the building opposite and once, just once, she and her mother came to meet him here before getting on the sleeper train up to Scotland, to visit old friends.

“What can I get you?” A rather plump man stood on the other side of the bar, one shirt button stretching over his stomach, and Emily could see a curl of hair peeping through. He was chewing something that smelled akin to licorice and regarding Emily with bulbous eyes that skimmed over her scar then across to Tyler.

“Pint of Guinness and…?” Tyler waited for Emily to reply.

“White wine spritzer, perhaps?” The barman gave a patronizing wink, then reached up for a glass.

“Whiskey,” Emily said as she pointed at the row of bottles stacked on a shelf up high. “Dalwhinnie.” The name came out all wrong and she saw the bartender’s eyes flicker back to her scar.

“Single or double?”

“Double.” Her tongue got stuck on the blend of “b” and “l,” made her jaw clench in irritation as she retreated to a corner table.

Emily watched Tyler share a joke with the bartender, envied the ease with which they simply swapped words without the embarrassment of having to try, of preempting the way the words would sound. If she were a foreigner, no one would judge or comment on her pronunciation; they would think it endearing, or simply accept all the strangeness. But it was a physical problem, one that would always catch people unawares and make them look, make them intrigued as to what had happened to the woman who, apart from the obvious scar, seemed just like anyone else.