Donna was polishing the bar, taking too long but she didn’t want to move from her spot at the far end. The Bellerophon was quiet. Her arm was aching.
‘You trying to wear a hole in my bar top?’
Startled, she turned to see the guv’nor, Big Eddie Archer, looming over her. Donna had just moved to Brighton and only worked at the pub for ten days. Big Eddie seemed nice but scary. She’d never had a dad. Old men were unknown territory.
He smiled to show his comment was a joke, then glanced up at the TV high on the opposite wall. It was showing Sky’s repeating news cycle. The House of Commons was packed. Serious faces on the unmasked MPs. Narrowed eyes on the masked.
The screen cut to a thin line of soldiers facing robed Taliban and refugees. Donna jerked her head towards the back of the bar by the garden door, indicating their only customer.
‘Who’s that guy?’
Big Eddie smiled. ‘Him? That’s Danny.’
‘He ok?’
Big Eddie’s cheeks bulged as he exhaled noisily. His eyes flicked up to the TV again. Something about an alpaca facing a death sentence.
‘Best leave him be.’
Donna saw a drip mark she’d missed and polished it, using the opportunity to glance again at the solitary figure at the far end.
‘He’s had a lot to drink.’
‘He can handle it,’ said Big Eddie. He took a quick look at Danny, then hauled up the cellar hatch and eased himself down the narrow stairs to check his ales.
Not that he needed to. Covid restrictions had been lifted and the regulars were trickling back but trade was still slow. A wet August wasn’t helping.
On the TV, some MP was talking about incompetence and humiliation and demanding answers.
Alone behind the bar, Donna kept finding things to polish. She had settled in quickly in the short time she’d been working at the Bellerophon. She knew most of the regulars by now but it took time to build that classic punter-barmaid bond.
She’d served Danny a few times. Nice smile. Naughty eyes. Fit. Wicked sense of humour. Pretty hot, for an old guy. She knew a bit about him, not as much as she’d like.
Popping her cloth down by the sink, Donna leaned over the bar for a clearer look. Danny was doing serious damage to a pint of Stella with whisky chaser. There was a cluster of empty glasses. Tabloid newspapers were spread untidily over the dark, scarred table.
On TV, an MP demanded to know what action was being taken to protect the rights of women and girls.
As she watched Danny, Donna saw a pattern. He sipped, glanced at his newspapers, looked up at the TV when some politician said something, then looked the other way, out of the big sash window, staring into the deserted pub garden.
Donna turned at the noise of Big Eddie wheezing his way up the steep cellar stairs. When he saw her watching he pulled in his gut, attempted two steps in one go, grunted at the effort as he hauled himself out. The floor shook as the trap door dropped, slammed shut.
Big Eddie dusted his hands together. ‘Publicans must’ve been bloody midgets when they built this place back in the day,’ he said, breathing hard, glancing up at the TV again. Some politician was promising Covid booster jabs before the winter flu season.
Donna ignored Big Eddie’s efforts to seem younger and more flexible than he was. She indicated Danny.
‘He the soldier?’ she asked. ‘Someone told me about him.’
Startled by the unexpected question, Big Eddie’s first thought was to fob her off. He decided against.
‘Yeah, in Afghanistan. A Para.’
‘A what?’
‘Paratrooper.’
‘Got injured, didn’t he?’
‘I pay you to tend bar, not tittletattle.’
The TV flashed up a photo. Hundreds of weary people sitting cross-legged on the cargo floor of a gigantic military transport aircraft. It cut to women in hijabs holding high a tricolour flag as they marched and chanted.
Donna kept looking at Big Eddie, insistent. He could see she wouldn’t let this go, shrugged.
‘Yes, lost a leg.’
He watched Donna’s eyes widen.
‘It ok if I go’n clear his glasses?’
Big Eddie looked down at the gleaming bar top. If his one customer wanted company he’d seek it out. Then again, his table was a mess and a smiling face might cheer the gloomy sod up a bit, break his cycle of drink, newspaper, TV, garden. Big Eddie, seasoned by long experience of reading his customers, had also spotted the pattern.
‘Yeah, go on then.’
Donna made her way down the bar. Her trainers creaked on the Victorian wood floor but the guy seemed surprised when she leaned over his table.
‘Can I clear your empties?’
Danny paused, thought, grunted. She saw his eyes were red tired.
‘Do me a favour?’ His voice was rough-edged, a hoarse whisper.
‘Sure.’
‘Could you get me three whiskies.’
‘We don’t do table service now Covid’s over.’
‘Just this once, eh?’
Donna liked the weary smile.
‘Well… we’re not busy. Suppose it’s ok. Just don’t try running me ragged when this place is mental.’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘Ok, triple whisky, was it?’
‘No, three singles, three glasses.’
Donna’s face showed her puzzlement but she nodded and returned to the bar as the TV reported door to door searches, rumours of persecution and punishment. It cut back to haggard hoards sitting in the hot dust outside Kabul Airport, waiting.
Big Eddie had been watching Donna clear the table.
‘How’s he doing?’
‘Bit weird. He wants three single whiskies.’
‘Give ’em to him.’
‘You sure?’ Donna asked. ‘He’s pretty pissed.’
Big Eddie gave a little weary laugh. ‘I’d trust that guy pissed more than I would most people sober. Give him his shots.’
Reluctant, Donna poured the drinks and carried them to the far table by the garden window. The guy didn’t seem to register her arrival.
She retreated to the bar and stood beside Big Eddie. On Sky, another MP, voice angry and breaking, talked about his military service and the impact the retreat would have on those who had been involved.
Looking up at the TV, Big Eddie and Donna jumped as an empty spirit glass cracked onto the aged table top like a rifle shot. Almost immediately a second empty glass banged onto the table.
Their heads snapping round. They saw the solitary drinker raise his third glass high. He paused. He mouthed something. Sank it in one. Slammed it down on the table.
Donna, alarmed, looked up at Big Eddie who quickly shook his head. The TV speeches were drowned by the shriek of Danny’s chair grating on floorboards, shredding the quiet of the room. He rose unsteadily, holding the back of another chair to fine tune his balance. Danny looked round as if unsure, for a moment, where he was, then walked slowly and carefully the length of the room. When he reached the bar he gripped the edge and they did the guy greeting.
Big Eddie gave a brief nod. ‘Danny.’
Danny nodded in reply. ‘Bob’.
Then he added, ‘Single scotch.’
‘You sure, mate?’
‘One for the road, eh,’ said Danny, pushing a couple of tenners across the bar top. ‘For the singles. Forget the change. Stick it in the Legion pot.’ He jerked his head towards a charity box.
Donna poured a single scotch from the line of optics on the shelf behind them. She handed it to Big Eddie who placed it on the bar.
Danny picked it up. Glanced over his shoulder at the continuing TV news debate. Sank the shot in one. Banged the glass hard on the bar.
‘Another dead soldier.’
He looked towards the dazzle of daylight shining through the frosted glass of the pub’s street windows.
‘Oh well, crack on, eh.’
Big Eddie and Donna watched Danny weave his way unsteadily to the street door.
Donna leaned over the bar to see if he walked funny. He didn’t.
Big Eddie thought he looked wounded but it wasn’t the leg.
They listened to the sound of his boots on the pavement outside steadily fade as the pub door hissed shut behind him.
Someone on the TV was talking about the alpaca again.
©BILLTODD 2021
MEET DANNY LANCASTER
■ Danny Lancaster fought in Afghanistan, lost a leg. Coming home he found life tough among civilians who had no idea. Restless, the adrenalin still pumping, he tried his hand as an investigator for hire – flexible rates, all offers considered. You can meet Danny in seven crime thrillers. The first ebook is free. The rest are 99p/99c each – https://www.billtodd.co.uk/danny-lancaster-books/
