He half stops laughing. “Codding ya. But it will effing help. You know every person’s going to say something similar, right?”
The small smile on my face is a sufficient response, but I still answer, using my own natural, equally odd accent to garble mywords. “Yeah, I get that. But trust me, I think it’s going to be you asking me to repeat myself.”
His eyes flare wide before he belts out another laugh. “What’s the story there?” He nods his head, waving me through the kitchen door and into the staff-only area.
Not in a derogatory way, I slow my speech down and drop the tried-on accent as I reply. “My unique accent is a byproduct of growing up in Australia, America, and England. Throw in a summer or two in Europe, and the result is way too many tangs, oi’s and rolling r’s. Supposedly, it makes it hard for some people to get what I’m saying too. But we’ll get there.”
“Ack, we will. Right, come on.” He steps to the side, his arm pointing which way we’re going.
We walk side by side, and he gives me a quick rundown on where all the important things are—the cellar, staff toilets, cleaning closet, while telling me how he likes to manage his staff.
Then he takes a seat at the bar and makes me work the morning and lunch shift without running down anything about the actual job. In fairness, though, I did say I was experienced.
Like he warned, the pub is busy. I work with two others behind the bar, pulling pints, until my arm aches. I make polite conversation with anyone that asks, but it’s also one of those establishments wary of newcomers.
At the end of the shift, Walsh slides over a piece of paper with the hours he wants me to work for the next week.
Walking out into a light drizzle, the misting rain follows me home, along with the unwanted attention of someone. Certainly, when you walk into a new city, and one “owned” by criminals, you expect to fall onto a radar of sorts. Which is all that’s going on now.
Hoping they’ll lose interest, I take my time by grabbing some groceries and then racing across the road to a bookshop where Iwaste an exorbitant amount of time. Although, you never really waste time inside a bookshop.
After more crisscrossing from one shop to the other, I order takeout before asking to use the back entrance of the noodle shop. Slipping out the alley, I backtrack and wait a few extra minutes to make sure I lost them before heading to my accommodation.
Letting myself into my rental, I feel ready for food, shower, and sleep, but my plans get waylaid when I come face-to-face with a black crystal vase with a single red rose in it and a handwritten note propped against it. Sorry I missed you.
“Are you serious?”
Leaving all my bags on the counter, I’m dialing my host’s phone while I search through the rooms again. The call goes through to message bank. “So, thanks for dropping by, but next time, don’t let yourself in. I want to change the access code. I’m not comfortable with you being in my space uninvited. It’s beyond creepy. It’s inappropriate, at best.”
I hang up before I give myself the opportunity to say how I really feel. Picking up the expensive-looking vase holding the flower, I open the front door and leave it on the doorstep. Shutting the door coincides with a text coming in, from my landlord.
“Couldn’t take my call. Gutless arsehole,” I gripe, before going back out into the night and following the instructions on how to change the PIN code on the electronic lock.
It calms some of my mood. Not by much, though.
After a steaming hot shower, I climb into bed and watch puppy reels while I eat my Chinese takeout. And as my finalfuck youto the world, I leave my bowl on the side of my bed to take into the kitchen in the morning.
My brain takes a while to switch off, and there’s a moment when I startle, bolting upright in bed to triple-check where myphone is after last night's escapades. Leaving it on the floor but close enough to grab when my alarm goes off, I roll over onto my side and don’t move a muscle.
When I wake up, I’m alone, and I reach down to my phone, half triumphant to find it exactly where I left it. Turning the alarm off, I flick on the small lamp next to my bed, getting ready to check my socials, but the first thing I notice is my bowl is gone.
I go from half awake to demon rage in the next beat. Palming my service revolver, I burn through every room in the house again, hoping to find my intruder, before ending up back in the kitchen, where the fucking black crystal vase and rose are back with the note propped against it like before.
I don’t even recall walking back into my room to grab my phone or even dial the number. “Look, arsehole, I’m not doing this.”
I hang up, coming back to my senses once the rage dissipates. I pack all my belongings, leaving the front door wide open when I leave. The Uber I ordered comes quickly, and I’m at the pub with my bag parked next to my locker in the staff room before Walsh makes it in.
In between setting up for the day, and after the busy lunch shift, I try to find a new place to stay. I work through Stayz and Airbnb, getting knockback after knockback. I’m considering available hotels as a short-term solution when my phone dings, alerting me that one of the properties I was looking at has unexpectedly become available, with the rent less than half of what it was originally. It’s an expensive warehouse apartment with heavy security and state-of-the-art features throughout—their words, not mine. The building isn’t huge, but it’s an odd U-shape which means there’s plenty of natural light, and only two apartments per floor which works well for me.
I pay the security bond and rent before the stress that’s been distracting me from doing my job finally starts to recede.
The rest of the day passes with getting the bar ready for the weekend, restocking bottles, cleaning out the fridges.
“You wanna come and tap a keg with me?” Johnny, one of the barmen, asks.
“Of course,” I answer, following him.
“How are you settling in?”
