The Hiding Place(22)

I can already tell that the pub is different from lunchtime. A lot of pubs are like that. They change at night. It’s darker, the ancient fringed lamps providing dusty pools of illumination. The atmosphere is—if possible—even more unwelcoming. The smell is different too. Stronger, wheatier and, if I didn’t know it was illegal, I’d swear people had been smoking in here recently.

The place is also busier than at lunchtime. A few young men loiter around the bar, holding pints, despite the fact there are plenty of free seats. It’s the possessive behavior of the steadfast local. Claiming territory, like dogs pissing on a tree (and I wouldn’t be surprised if they had done that against the bar too).

The rest of the tables are filled by groups of older men and women. They hunch over their drinks like animals guarding a kill. The men sport signet rings and rolled-up shirtsleeves revealing blurry gray tattoos. The women are all brassy streaks and crinkly arms poking out from ill-advised vest tops.

I know pubs like this, and not just from my childhood. They might have been in bigger cities, fancied themselves as being a tad more sophisticated, but the clientele and the vibe are just the same. These are not pubs for family meals or a nice glass of chilled Chardonnay with your girlfriends. These are locals’ pubs, drinkers’ pubs and, in some cases, gamblers’ pubs.

I walk toward the bar, trying not to look as out of place as I feel. I might know these types of pubs, but here—despite growing up in the village—I am still an outsider. It’s not quite the saloon-bar doors swinging open and the piano player falling silent, but I swear, for a moment, the general hubbub of conversation stills and eyes crawl over me as I walk toward the bar.

Little Miss Scary isn’t serving tonight. Instead, a balding man with inky black bags beneath his eyes and several missing teeth scowls at me.

“Worr canna getcha?”

“Erm, pint of Guinness, please.”

He starts to pour the pint silently. I thank him, pay and, while the Guinness settles, I scan the room again. I spot a free table in a far corner. After he’s topped up the pint I walk toward it and sit down. I have my schoolbooks with me, so I take them out and do some marking while I sip my Guinness. Despite the staff, the lighting, the smell and the decor, the beer is well kept. It goes down quicker than I intended.

I saunter back up to the bar. The barman is at the other end. He’s obviously undergone some miraculous personality makeover and is smiling and laughing with the group of men I noticed as I came in. In fact, he’s looking so gregarious I wonder momentarily whether he has an identical twin.

I wait. One of the young men glances my way and says something. The barman laughs louder and continues talking. I wait some more, trying to look relaxed, trying not to feel annoyed. He carries on talking. I clear my throat, loudly. He looks over, the smile falls from his face and he lurches reluctantly across the bar toward me. As if pulled by an invisible magnetic force, two of the young men follow him.

I hold up my empty glass. “Thanks,” for finally doing your job. “Another Guinness, please.”

He takes a glass and jabs it under the pump.

I’m aware that the two young men have moved unsociably close. One is short and stocky with a shaved head and a sleeve of tattoos. The other is taller and skinny with bad skin and the type of gelled hairdo I thought went out with white socks and too-short trousers. They’re not quite invading my personal space, not yet. Just gathering on the border. I can smell the unpleasant aroma of stale sweat only partially masked by cheap deodorant. Something about the pair feels strangely familiar, or perhaps it’s just the threat of confrontation that I’m familiar with.

I wait, watching the Guinness being slowly poured. And then I hear the shorter, stockier one say: “Not seen you in here before, mate.”

If there’s one thing I hate more than being called “man,” it’s being called “mate” by someone who is not and never will be.

I turn and smile. “Only moved here recently.”

“You’re that new teacher,” Unwise Hair says.

“That’s right.”

I do love it when people tell me things I already know.

“Joe Thorne.” I hold out a hand. Neither takes it.

“You’re living in the old Morton cottage?”

Again. The “Morton” cottage. Tragedy—especially bloody, violent tragedy—stamps its identity on everything around it.

“That’s right,” I say again.

“Bit fucking weird, isn’t it?” Unwise Hair has moved closer.

“How d’you mean?”

“You know what happened there, right?” Stocky asks.

“I do.”

“Most people wouldn’t want to live in a place where a kid died like that.”

“Unless they’re weird,” Unwise Hair adds, in case I haven’t got the subtle subtext.

“Guess I must be weird then.”

“Are you being funny, mate?”

“I guess not.”

He presses closer.

“I don’t like you.”

“And I was about to ask for your number.”

I see him clench his fist. I grip the empty glass, ready to smash it on the bar if needed, and in the past, at least once, it has been needed.

And then, when it seems that violence is inevitable, I hear a familiar voice say: “All right, lads. Nothing wrong here, is there?”