‘Don’t think so,’ he said.
As I watched, the young woman held her glass up and said something to her companion. He got up from the table and made his way towards our position at the packed bar.
I stood back, giving him a path to the bar. He nodded his thanks and caught the landlord’s attention.
‘Another pint and a G&T please, heavy on the G,’ he said.
Curious, buying two drinks, when you’d come from a table with three people. It added to my impression that the older man was a third wheel.
‘Let me buy you a drink if you’ve come over from Dunkirk,’ I said. He turned to face me and I got a good look at him. He was older than I’d thought. Older than the woman. Mid-thirties at least. He had a tanned face, with deep lines by the corner of his eyes, like he’d spent too much time in the sun. He’d shaved before he’d come out, and had a fresh nick on his neck, with the faintest trace of toilet paper attached.
‘I’m not with that lot,’ he said, gesturing to the soldiers. ‘You?’
‘Just a farmer.’
‘Nojustabout it. Equally as heroic. Keeping the nation in feed,’ he said. I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or not.
‘Where are you from?’ I asked.
‘One and four,’ the landlord said, pushing the two drinks across the bar. It gave the man a second to think.
He reached into his pocket for the right change.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘not allowed to say. Loose lips and all that.’ He said it in a friendly enough way, but there was a firmness underlying it.
He put his coins on the bar, confirming the amount with a quick flick of his eyes.
‘I saw your poster in the toilets,’ I said.
‘Not me, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Although ...’ he smiled, ‘if you’re looking for the culprit ... I’d say someone older than you or me. Well educated. Someone who knows their grammar and believes the printed word has power.’
The scar-faced man in the corner was watching our exchange. He stood up and muttered to the woman. She complained but he cut her off. He was clearly in charge. She finished her drink hurriedly and grabbed her handbag.
‘Nice talking with you,’ the man said, unaware that his companions were making plans for a hurried departure.
I felt a strong compulsion to keep him talking. Something was wrong, and some part of my subconscious had registered it but was declining to pass on the information. The longer I kept him talking, the more chance I gave myself to get to the bottom of my sense of unease.
But then the evening changed.
28
‘Cook, you cunt!’ a drunken voice broke through the hubbub. I felt a hand on my left shoulder. It grabbed me, jerking me back.
I went with it, letting the hand pull me around. When somebody grabs you like that, they want you to turn into their punch. Spin you around, take a wide swing at your jaw, or a looping fist to your nose. Standard pub brawl. So I turned, but I leant my head back. As expected, by the time I was facing my assailant, his fist was whistling past my nose. It was Kate’s younger son.
Things were looking up. The pub had looked like being a bust, but the man I’d come looking for had shown up and volunteered to be taken down. I let his swing pass me by, threw a short underarm jab into his large stomach. My fist disappeared into his solar plexus, and I drove upwards. A woof of stale air was forced out of his lungs, and he doubled over. I grabbed the back of his head, pushing it down to meet my rising knee, which crunched into his nose.
He staggered backwards, blood spurting from his broken nose, crashing into a table, sending glasses and ashtrays flying.
His older brother, Victor, arm in a plaster cast, took his place. There was a glint of light on the blade in his hand. I backed away. Regardless of whether my opponent had a broken arm, a knife fight was at the bottom of my list of preferred evening activities.
A buzz of anticipation rippled through the crowd. The ancient thrill of a fight.
‘Outside!’ the landlord shouted. ‘Both of you!’
Outside or inside, either was fine with me. Kate’s sons had hidden behind their mother’s skirts the last time our paths had crossed, but now we were going to have words.
*
