Always the Sun (11 page)

‘There he is,’ said Mel.

‘Where?’

She nodded towards the far end of the bar, where Dave Hooper stood, in the company of five or six other men. Hooper rested an elbow on the bar and kept his head low, listening to a younger man’s anecdote. He wasn’t looking in their direction. Either he hadn’t noticed Sam’s entrance, or he was ignoring it.

Mel said, ‘Do you want me to come over with you?’

Sam glared at her as if offended. The answer to her question was yes.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t be stupid. I’ll be fine.’

‘He’s a nice bloke,’ said Janet. ‘I like Dave.’

‘So I hear,’ said Sam. He sipped his Guinness. He could feel Mel and Janet, expectant, to either side of him. So he slapped his thigh and said, ‘Well. No time like the present.’

But he didn’t move.

Mel nudged his shoulder.

‘Go on.’

He lit a cigarette and smoked half of it in three long puffs. Then he stood. The cigarette felt awkward in his hands and he crushed it in the ashtray. His body felt unfamiliar, as if he had returned to adolescence. With his fingertips, he rapped out a paradiddle on the edge of the table.

He said, ‘Right.’

It was a long way across the busy pub, and it would be disastrous to nudge a shoulder and spill someone’s drink because the necessary apology would devalue whatever he then went on to say to Dave Hooper. So he took the expedition slowly and carefully, measuring the weight, timing and direction of each step.

Eventually, he reached the corner of the bar. Its curve reminded him of an aeroplane’s wing. Dave Hooper wore a checked, shortsleeve shirt untucked over his jeans. His back was turned, with the same ambiguous intent. Perhaps by ignoring Sam he was simply trying to prevent any further embarrassment. Sam hoped so. The span of Hooper’s shoulders seemed immense, like a shire-horse. Sam imagined him as an anti-stud; a bull employed to kill cattle.

Hooper was now in muted discussion with four other men, all younger. Three were dressed like Dave, the fourth wore an estate agent’s suit and a bright tie in a fat Windsor knot.

Sam spread a hand on the bar.

Hooper continued to act oblivious, cackling at whatever joke he’d just been told.

Sam cleared his throat and said Hooper’s name.

There fell no heavy, awkward silence. Dave Hooper glanced simply and naturally over his shoulder. He registered Sam’s presence and smiled. He turned, pint in his hand, and leant an elbow on the bar. He reached into his breast pocket for a golden pack of Benson & Hedges. He lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Sam, who shook his head.

Dave Hooper said, ‘All right?’

‘Yeah,’ said Sam. ‘I’m good. Thanks.’ He looked around and said, ‘It’s a few years since I’ve been in here.’

Hooper joined him, looking round the pub.

He shrugged, minutely.

‘It’s still a shit-hole.’

Sam held back a forced laugh that he feared would be honking and patronizing.

Instead, he said, ‘Look. I’m sorry about the other day. I handled it all wrong.’

Hooper shrugged again.

‘Don’t worry about it. It’s forgotten.’

‘It’s just …’ said Sam.

‘It’s forgotten.’

It was an assertion, more than an observation.

Sam said, ‘Can I get you a drink?’

Hooper looked at his glass, then drained it and set it heavily on the surface of the bar.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Cheers. Pint.’

Sensitive to the minutest signals of tension, the barmaid had been loitering close by, washing glasses, so at least the service was prompt. It seemed necessary to Sam that he order himself a pint, although his Guinness stood undrunk, back at the table. The drinks took a while to pour and they waited in silence. Then Sam raised his glass to Hooper and said, ‘Cheers.’ Hooper said ‘Cheers’ in return. That was the end of the conversation. Hooper turned his back again and Sam wandered back to his seat.

‘See?’ said Mel, making space for him. ‘He’s a nice bloke.’

Sam hated him.

‘Yeah,’ he said, and supped the head from the pint that had been waiting for him, slowly warming.

Janet went off to put some money in the fruit machines. Mel spotted some friends at the bar and waved them over. They were called Anna and Alison. Alison was thin and wan, Sam’s notion of a junkie, but he learnt that she was Deputy Manager of a small Gap outlet in town. Anna was black North African, elegant, with close-cropped hair and bootleg jeans.

Within five minutes, Mel had made it clear to Sam that Anna was single. Within ten minutes, she’d made it clear to Anna that Sam was single, too.

Sam could feel the unfamiliar lunchtime drinks hissing at the base of his skull like an untuned radio and he avoided Anna’s inquisitive gaze. She laid a hand on the back of his and told him not to be shy. Then she looked at Mel and Alison and all three of them laughed.

Sam wanted to go home. But solitary egress was not possible. It would look conspicuous, as if he’d come to the Cat and

Fiddle simply to grovel to Dave Hooper. It was some comfort that he made for only passing sport to the women. Surreptitiously, Alison pointed to somebody across the bar (another woman, he presumed). The three women joined in a huddle and began to exchange intelligence about her.

Sam examined his mobile phone. Earlier in the week, he’d spent a bus ride to work clearing its memory. Now only four numbers were listed in his personal directory: two were work-related. One was Mel’s mobile. The fourth was Jamie’s.

Jamie answered on the third ring.

‘Dad?’

‘All right, mate?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What’re you up to?’

‘Nothing. Stuart’s round. We’re watching a DVD.’

‘Nothing saucy, I hope.’

(Briefly, the women broke off their conversation and looked at him. He didn’t notice.)

‘Course not. We’re watching—what is it, Stu?’

‘
Scream Three
,’
said Stuart, as if from a considerable distance.

‘
Scream Three
’ said Jamie.

‘Fair enough,’ said Sam. ‘Wouldn’t you rather watch
Attack of the Clones
or something?’

‘
Dad
…’

‘All right. I don’t know.
Gladiator
or something.’

‘I’ve already seen it like a gazillion times. I haven’t
even seen Scream Three
yet.’

‘All right,’ said Sam. ‘But I’m telling you now—there’s no sleeping with the lights on.’

‘Ha ha,’ said Jamie, for Stuart’s benefit. ‘Dream on.’

‘Anyway,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

There was a pause.

‘What? Right now?’

‘What’s wrong with now?’

‘Duh. It hasn’t even started yet.’

Sam looked at his watch.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right. I’ll see you a bit later then. About teatime.’

‘Whatever.’

Sam terminated the call and pocketed the mobile.

Mel had been keeping half an eye on him. She broke off from whatever Alison was saying and said, ‘Is he all right?’

‘Fine,’ said Sam. He gave her an encouraging, martyred expression and urged her to continue with her conversation.

He lit a cigarette and tried to join in, but it was a halfhearted attempt. Gossip was of greatly reduced appeal when it involved strangers. Nevertheless, it was a fruity story. It featured a woman called Jenny he would be interested to meet.

Taking grim pleasure from his own selflessness, he went to get in another round. At the bar, he cast several glances at Dave Hooper, who was engaged in the same conversation with the same four men. Hooper was interrupted every few seconds by someone saying hello on their way to the lavatory.

He seemed unaware of Sam’s presence. Sam found this greatly irritating.

It was clear that Hooper was drinking too much. At one point he offered up a great yell, such that the entire pub paused for a second and looked his way. Hooper was clambering on his mate’s shoulder, holding up a twenty-pound note like an Olympic torch, trying to get the barmaid’s attention. He got it.

Sam’s contempt darkened. Taking great care, he balanced the drinks on a circular tray which he carried back to the table. Everyone was too involved in their conversation to thank him properly. Only Anna took the proffered glass, raised an eyebrow and briefly touched his upper arm.

The Guinness, five pints of it by now, pressed against his bladder. He’d delayed going to the lavatory because he’d have to pass Dave Hooper to get there, bidding him a courteous acknowledgement. If Sam broke that protocol, sanctions might be applied. These would be followed by a renewed peace agreement that would require greater reparation, and more profound public humiliation.

Even worse was the possibility that Dave Hooper might wish to visit the lavatory at the same time as him.

He imagined Hooper doing a quick, copper’s squat at the urinal, untucking his cock from its lair. Should Dave Hooper occupy the urinal next to him, Sam knew that he wouldn’t be able to piss. It had happened before. If it were the wrong kind of pub lavatory—two urinals, and only one cubicle—he might find himself in real trouble. If the cubicle was occupied, he could find himself trapped at the urinal, desperate to piss and quite unable. An unending queue of men would see only Sam’s back and his bald spot, as he waited with gritted teeth at the urinal, mentally rehearsing the 13 × table, waiting for the train that never comes.

Whenever it was possible this might happen (which was whenever he visited a new pub) Sam would not go to the lavatory until he was drunk, or until discomfort had matured into pain. Whichever was first.

He stood. The weight against his bladder sent a cramp across the wall of his stomach, down to his anus. He excused himself, then walked fearfully in the direction of the door marked
Gentlemen.

There was a laugh.

The young man talking to Hooper glanced briefly at Sam, and said something into Hooper’s ear. Hooper laughed and looked sideways. He cuffed the younger man round the back of the head. Sam was close enough to see, but not hear, him mouth the word
behave.

He pretended not to notice. But as Sam approached, the lull in Hooper’s conversation deepened. Soon it had become a derisive silence. Hooper stayed propped at the bar, looking at Sam with blank disinterest. His companions paused, then parted, allowing Sam to pass.

Sam fought to keep his expression impersonal. His penis twitched. He feared to piss himself.

He nodded hello to Dave Hooper and passed by. The small group of men closed in his wake.

With an open hand, Sam pushed open the lavatory door.

He heard Hooper laugh behind him.

In the lavatory, there were four urinals and three cubicles, only one of which was unusably stuffed with shit-smeared wads of paper. He passed it, gagging, then hurried into the farthest cubicle and locked the door behind him. He scrambled to unzip his fly. He waited for a few moments, in some discomfort. Then he pissed for longer than seemed possible. When he was done—and there were several false starts—he pulled a few sheets of paper from the roll, just to make the right noises, and pulled the flush. He stepped into the tiled lavatory, adjusting his belt.

One of Dave Hooper’s companions stood at a urinal. It was the young man who’d spoken into Hooper’s ear when Sam approached, causing him to laugh. He was good-looking, in a sporty way, in his late teens or early twenties. He was looking at the ceiling, whistling as he passed a hot parabola of pale beer-urine against the aluminium splashback.

Sam passed by him, and stopped to wash his hands. (He knew that flush handles, touched by numberless faecally-smeared hands, were the dirtiest part of any public lavatory. Second came the taps, which were touched by many (not all) of those same shitty hands. And further, he knew it was unnecessary to wash one’s hands after urinating: the skin of the penis was no dirtier than the neck or the cheek or the ankle, and the hand was not contaminated by touching it. Yet he could never bring himself to leave a cubicle without flushing it, and washing his hands afterwards.)

As he washed, the young man sighed and zipped himself up. He joined Sam at the wash basins, but only to check his hair in the mirror.

He caught Sam’s reflected eye.

He said, ‘All right?’

Sam nodded, rinsing the soap from his hands under a trickle of cold water.

‘All right?’ he said.

He turned and began to dry his hands on a damp loop of thin, blue towel that hung from a battered dispenser.

The young man said,

‘Are you Jamie’s dad, then?’

Sam straightened.

He faced the wall for a few seconds, the filthy, wet towel limp in his hands.

Then he turned and faced the young man.

He said, ‘Are you Liam?’

The young man nodded in a manner that suggested
of course
he was Liam. Everyone knew that.

Sam spoke through his teeth.

He said, ‘Leave my boy alone, you little bastard.’

Liam made a show of patting flat the crown of his gelled hair.

He said, ‘I haven’t
touched
your fucking son.’

The casual obscenity, with his child as its object, slapped Sam with the cold force of blasphemy and he trembled when he spoke.

‘You coward,’ he said. ‘Look at the size of you.’

Liam’s smile was beautiful.

He laughed.

‘Fuck off,’ he said.

Before Sam could answer, the lavatory door swung open. In the mirror, Sam watched Dave Hooper enter and stop behind them.

‘What’s going on?’

Liam Hooper laughed again.

‘Mr Greene’s having a word with me.’

Sam faced Dave Hooper.

Dave Hooper said, ‘If you want to have a word with someone, have a fucking word with me.’

He punched Sam in the face.

Sam’s head struck the towel dispenser. He and the dispenser’s metal cover fell to the floor. It whirled and rattled on the wet tiles like a spun coin.

Sam lay in the wet, looking at the scuffed nubuck suede of Dave Hooper’s Caterpillar boots. Hooper drew back a foot. Then he paused, put it flat on the floor.

He said, ‘Twat.’

He held the door open for Liam to leave, and followed his son back into the pub.