The Things You Didn't See(4)
It took an age before Holly reached the bar, which was pressed into her ribs by the swell of customers behind her, all vying to be next in line. The bar was sticky with spilt beer, and she felt it ooze through her T-shirt to her skin.
The half-sloshed barman finally noticed her, his eyes already sliding lazily to the impatient crowd behind. ‘What can I get you, Beyoncé?’
In order to be heard, she stood on tiptoe, and saw that across the bar area, in the games room, which had a full-sized snooker table and a dartboard, trouble was brewing. The source was a tall, lean man, wearing a black hoodie to obscure his face. She could see only his mouth. He was speaking loudly and fiercely to someone she couldn’t see, and brandishing a snooker cue above his head.
The barman tapped his fingers on the bar. ‘Come on, Puss, I haven’t got all day.’
She saw Hoodie’s face blanch with rage as he raised the cue higher. Her senses switched to alert and she knew that things were about to kick off. Her drinks order forgotten, she snaked through the three-deep throng behind her and made her way around the bar.
She stopped at the threshold, assessing the situation. Hoodie was poised threateningly over a smaller bloke cowering close to the ground, his hands raised in defence. Judging by his top hat and ginger wig he was obviously supposed to be Willy Wonka, but there was nothing funny about the scene. Hoodie brandished the cue like a sword with a fixed grip that Holly felt in the palms of her own hands. Then he brought it down, slamming it on Wonka’s top hat so the cue splintered in two as the victim toppled sideways, his knees at an odd angle, his head hidden by the hat, both arms protectively covering it.
Holly’s synaesthesia registered the blow as if she herself were the victim, gritting her teeth as she moved towards Hoodie. Her own hands ached from the force of wielding the imaginary cue – she was able to feel this sensation too. These heightened responses, both a curse and a gift, meant she had no choice but to intervene: it was why she was training to fix people. She hoped being a paramedic might cure her synaesthesia, might mean she could lead a normal life. It hadn’t happened yet.
‘That’s enough, you leave him alone!’ She threaded herself in-between Hoodie and his victim, trying to ignore her splitting headache.
Willy Wonka crouched behind her, his hand tugging the edge of her jacket, and said in a wheedling voice, ‘I’ll get it for you, mate, I promise. No need for this, is there?’
Hoodie was repositioning half of the cue to strike again. Holly’s palms felt again the strength of his grip as he raised it, her brain assessing both assailant’s and victim’s reactions. After this blow, Wonka wouldn’t be able to speak.
‘Move, Catwoman. I’m not done with this idiot yet.’
‘I’m not letting you hurt him.’ Holly planted herself more firmly in Hoodie’s way, unable to stop herself from intervening, now she knew the consequences of running away.
The pub had fallen silent. Everyone was watching the stand-off, and Holly could see Hoodie was weighing up just how much damage he wanted to do, and how publicly. Finally, he lowered the shattered cue, pointing its tip at Wonka. ‘I’ll give you one day. You pay me what you owe, mate. Or else.’
Wonka nodded, frantic, backing away on all fours. Then he scarpered. Holly’s headache eased as Hoodie’s grip on the snooker cue loosened, and she relaxed. It was over, the pain had cleared, and she could return to the bar to order her drinks.
This time around, the barman leapt to serve her, and she returned with a tray of drinks to Leif and his coven in their candlelit corner. They stared at her wide-eyed, as if they had just watched her perform the best trick of all that Halloween.
‘Very impressive,’ said Trish, aka Sookie Stackhouse, grudgingly. ‘I can see that black cats really are lucky. Our Swedish boy will never have a dull moment with you around.’ And then she winked again at Leif, who gave a satisfied grin.
Hours later, woken by the sun’s watery fingers of light, Holly assumed she was in her own flat until she realised that, although the layout of the bedroom was identical, the bed was smaller than her own. The sheets felt suspiciously budget, not the Egyptian cotton she had treated herself to last year, to celebrate the start of her new career. The flat was the same but different, and then she realised why: Oh fuck, I’ve fucked Krueger. That’d teach her for drinking three pints of snakebite on an empty stomach. Still though, her body felt peaceful; there was a sweet stillness in her core that she experienced after good sex. A rare pleasure, given her poor track record with relationships.
Beside her, Leif stirred but remained sound asleep, and she rolled on her side to study him. His Scandinavian-blond hair was matted but his face still looked fresh, even after a night on the booze, although she could see red smears on the white pillow where the other side of his face had rested. Typical man – he hadn’t removed his make-up properly.
Looking down, she realised she had matching red marks all over her breasts. Yuk. She touched her hair, and found her ‘ears’ were still in place; one advantage of inheriting her father’s coarse black hair was it tended to hold its shape, so it was passable. The same couldn’t be said for her skin, which was now covered in dried sweat and stage make-up.
She checked her watch: 6.50. Still plenty of time to go home, shower, and make herself presentable before she checked in for duty. Since finishing basic training, she was now shadowing and supporting the response team, gathering experience for when she’d be one of them. As she plucked her scattered clothes from the floor, she saw, hung up, a navy uniform. She hadn’t noticed it the night before. Leif half-opened his eyes and yawned sleepily.