so brief,’ he added, slurring badly. ‘So fragile. You never know when someone’s just gonna come along and snuff it out. You know, love, anything could happen to any one of us at any time.’ He gazed at her, trying to be profound – and in doing so, his eyes almost crossed.
She continued to feign interest, but said nothing.
‘“Out, out brief candle”,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not just talking about death, mind.’ He pointed a long, wavering finger at no one in particular. ‘You can bugger up your life in any number of ways. One moment of stupidity is all it takes, and nothing will ever be the same again. You might as well be fucking dead. Take me, for instance …’
Another bar server appeared; a youngish, Italian-looking chap. He’d been watching for several minutes, and had now decided to step forward.
‘Are you alright, Sir?’ he asked.
Somewhat relieved, the girl moved further along the bar, to serve another customer.
‘Me?’ Blenkinsop said, puzzled. ‘I’m alright. Well … as alright as I can be after what’s happened. You wouldn’t believe the things that are going on in my life.’
The barman, Andreas, who’d been working here for several years, was not unused to City men staggering in to drown their sorrows after losing their companies a fortune, so he did what he usually did, which was exactly what the girl had been doing: smile and nod, as if interested, and all the while have his mind on more important things, like who Arsenal were playing that coming Saturday.
‘Take me,’ Blenkinsop said again, trying to pick up the thread that he’d left hanging a few seconds ago, though to him those seconds seemed like hours. ‘Take me …’
‘Do I have to?’ the barman replied with a chuckle, trying to make a joke of it.
Blenkinsop stared at him, fuddled. As he did, his eyes again shifted out of focus and he swayed, almost falling off his stool. ‘No, I’ll … I’ll have another of these.’ He pushed his empty across the counter.
‘You sure about that, Sir?’ Andreas asked.
‘Listen, you’re on … you’re on good money working here. Yeah?’
‘Am I?’
‘Now listen, I’m paying your wages. If I want a drink, there’s no reason why I can’t have one. I’ve earned that right. Understand me? I earned it – it wasn’t my fault the way things worked out.’
‘Anything you say, Sir. Double G&T is it?’
‘Erm … better make it a treble.’
‘A treble?’
‘That means three.’
‘Okay. If that’s what you want, Sir.’ Andreas moved away.
‘Take me,’ Blenkinsop said again, loudly. ‘I’ve … I’ve really blown it, you know. I mean … life may get back to normal, but I don’t know when. And all through one crazy moment of uncontrolled … desire.’ He stressed the word ‘desire’, almost growled it. ‘That’s what it’s all about: lust, wanting … course there’s always a fucking woman involved …’
There was a sudden rattle of paper, so sharp that it even cut through Blenkinsop’s blurred thoughts. He glanced to his right.
The man the barmaid had gone to serve was sitting on a bar stool a couple of feet away. He had a pint of lager in front of him and was reading a copy of the Standard. He was no one familiar, but Blenkinsop was puzzled that he hadn’t observed the chap before – it was like he’d materialised from nowhere.
‘Erm … are we acquainted?’ Blenkinsop asked.
The man turned to look at him. He was in his late twenties, and of stocky build. His complexion was swarthy, his hair cut very short. His eyes were dark, unblinking. He didn’t say a word.
‘I was just saying,’ Blenkinsop mumbled, ‘how easily life can unravel. You know, if you make … bad choices.’
Slowly and deliberately, the man folded his newspaper, running his thumb and forefinger along the top crease, leaving it razor sharp. He laid the paper down. His eyes never left Blenkinsop’s confused face.
The barman now returned – thankfully, because for some reason the attitude of the newspaper-reading man had become a little unnerving, even to someone in a semi-stupor. Blenkinsop fumbled for his money and banged it on the counter. He took a big gulp, and sighed with relief. ‘Nectar … believe it or not, I needed that.’
But the barman had gone again, heading for the till. Blenkinsop glanced to his right – and it was a cold shock to see that the newspaper-reading man was no longer there. One or two punters were still in the pub, small huddles of them in distant corners, but the chap with the paper had vanished.
For some reason, Blenkinsop found this even spookier than having him at his shoulder. Had he just seen a ghost – one of London’s many pub-dwelling spectres?
He tried to snigger, but his throat had gone dry. An icy memory was stirring inside his head. A string of words, uttered to him the previous night, were now uttered to him again, this time in a disembodied but equally menacing voice: ‘From now on, we’ll be keeping you under covert surveillance. Not all the time obviously, but you’ll never know when we’re there and when we’re not.’
Suddenly Blenkinsop’s brow was damp with sweat. He yanked at his collar; another button popped open. He stood up quickly, too quickly – almost overbalancing again.
‘I wasn’t …’ he said aloud, his breath coming in short gasps. ‘I wasn’t admitting to anything, I …’
Of course there was nobody listening. He glanced back across the bar. The barman and barmaid now appeared to be cashing up. He looked at his drink; at least half of it remained, but he no longer had the stomach for it. In fact, he desperately needed fresh air. He grabbed his coat and briefcase and stumbled across the room – only to hesitate before going outside. As befitted the pub’s gin palace origins, the glasswork in the inner door was misted with ornate designs. Beyond it in the porch, a dark shape was waiting.
Blenkinsop peered at it, his heart knocking on the inside of his tightened chest. ‘I didn’t,’ he whispered, ‘I wasn’t …’
Fleetingly, he was fixed to the floor; he could go neither forward nor backward. At the same time the effects of intoxication were fading with extraordinary speed. He looked around and behind him. A couple of women seated at a nearby table had stopped their gabbling and watched him curiously. He gave them a feeble half-smile, and slapped around inside his jacket, pretending that he was checking for his wallet. When his hand alighted on it, he nodded to himself, looked again through the patterned portal, and seeing no figure in the porch now, ventured into it.
The pub’s front door was ajar, and, tentatively, he stepped out through it onto the pavement. Intermittent traffic was moving, but when he glanced left and right, there were no other pedestrians around. Lights were still visible in the upper floors of some of the higher buildings, but the rest of them were in darkness, while down here at street level a mist had formed, creating an eerie sodium-yellow gloom. It wasn’t unusual in this part of London, only a couple of miles from the river, but it was the
