At least that was one less thing to feel bad about.“Listen, I’m gonna be leaving town for a while.Family emergency,” Zig added with grim humour.“That bloke?He was, uh, joking about me owing him.”
“Are you all right?”she asked again.The worry in her voice made his chest go tight.
“Yeah.I mean, I will be.”Ifhe managed to find out where Si was.“You know me.Always bounce back.”
“Right.”She didn’t sound convinced.“So do you want me to say anything to the boss?”
Zig was tempted to hedge his bets, say no.But who was he kidding?He’d be moving on no matter what happened tonight.“You can tell him I’ve quit.I’m owed three nights pay, so he can take that as notice.”He could have done with the money, but he couldn’t afford to let it slow him down.
“Okay.Stay in touch, yeah?And I hope it all works out all right.With your family.”The doubt was clear in her voice.
“Yeah.Me too.Cheers, Ans, you’re a mate.”They hung up, Zig feeling a bit off-balance at the concern she’d shown and how much it had affected him.
Then he shook himself.The bus was here, and it was time to get down to business.
Peckham had smartened itself up a bit since the last time Zig had been here.He passed several businesses that’d been turned into hipster hangouts on his way to the Dog and Duck, and hoped to God Si and his mates’ old local hadn’t met the same fate.What were the chances a bunch of brickies would still be patronising a pub if it now served organic microbrews and boasted entertainment by arts students?
Luckily, the Dog and Duck sat, unchanged, on its side street, its mock-Tudor front looming over the paved beer garden at the front.It even still had the same old red telephone box standing outside it, and you didn’t get many of them to the pound these days.Now, Zig saw, it housed a defibrillator.He pitied any poor sod who had a heart attack and then had to deal with a pub-full of drunkards gamely trying to resuscitate him.
Zig had a sudden flash of memory: a summer evening sitting outside the pub with a rum and coke as the sun went down, listening to Si have a heated debate with himself about the best companions inDoctor Who.Zig smiled.He’d been so bloody enthusiastic, Zig hadn’t had the heart to tell him he’d never seen the show.When he’d finally admitted it—later on, when they’d sneaked into Si’s room at his mate Adam’s dad’s house for some privacy—Si had been mortified.And very, very keen to make up for “boring” him.
Jesus, that seemed so bloody long ago.Was he crazy thinking Si would have any time for him now, after all the years that’d gone by?
Ah, sod it.He was here now.Might as well go in and see if there was anyone he recognised.Zig crossed the road, strolled across the paved area—dark and empty now, with a chill wind blowing through it—and pushed open the heavy front door.
Inside was exactly as he remembered it: Browner than an old man’s trousers.There was the wood panelling and bare wood floor of a proper old boozer, the crowd inside proving it hadn’t totally gone out of style with the creeping gentrification.Zig couldn’t see Adam Merchant’s dark head among the drinkers, but—his heart gave a jolt—there were a couple of other blokes he recognised from all them years ago.
He’d always been good at faces, and the kind of blokes who worked on building sites didn’t tend to change much.Guys Zig knew from the clubs, yeah.They’d switch up their hair colour and style every other week—their gender presentation too, some of them—but brickies?Most of them gave into the macho peer pressure and stuck with what nature had given them.There was a ginge there, red-faced from the sun even in December, who he’d have known anywhere.
Zig strolled up to the bar and ordered a pint, then leant back with an easy stance, sipping it for a while.God, it tasted shite.What he wouldn’t give for a rum and coke.
Not to mention, someone he cared about to drink it with.
Having drunk half of his pint and established his manliness credentials, Zig ambled over to the group he’d clocked earlier.
“All right, lads?”
None of them answered, and the ginge sent Zig an unimpressed look.Then he frowned.“I know you, don’t I?Ain’t you that lad who used to hang around the boss’s son?”
Boss’s son’s mate, actually, but who cares?
Zig smiled.“Knew you’d remember me.”It’d been a fair bet; the eyes were a dead giveaway.“How’s it going?”
“All right.If you’re looking for Adam, he’s buggered off back west.”
Shit.“Back to Glastonbury?”
The ginge huffed.“Gonna be a tattooist.All that money his old man spent sending him to uni, and he’s pissing it away drawing bloody flowers on people.”
The bearded bloke next to him—who had plenty of ink on his bare forearms—scowled.“Fuck off, Letch.It’s art, innit?He’s good at it.”
“Don’t need a bloody degree to do it, though, do you?”
“Got an address for him?”Zig asked, trying to get them back on topic.
“Why?Does he owe you money?”Ginge wasn’t so friendly now.
Zig took a step back.“I fancied getting back in touch, that’s all.”
