minutes. ‘Oh sorry, Jack,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘I’m such a clumsy mare.’
By mid-afternoon, Kathleen was getting face-ache. It was hard trying to look thrilled to bits all the time about being at the beck and call of the punters, and the minutes seemed to be crawling by today. It didn’t help that it was quiet – far too nice a day to be sitting in a smoky bar – but with those that were in were all sitting chatting, full glasses in front of them, at least it meant she could nip out the back for a pee and a quick ciggie, her dad not allowing her to smoke behind the bar – it was either out in the bar or in the toilets.
She headed out into the foyer. It was Terry Harris, one of the regulars, who was a long-distance lorry driver – a job that, to Kathleen, always sounded so appealing. He must be here at this time because he’d just finished a local job. He was feeding coins into the one-armed bandit, and he turned when he heard her. ‘Alright, lass?’ he asked her.
Kathleen felt herself colour. She always did when she saw him because he was so ridiculously handsome. To her, anyway. And tragic. He was only young, but already a widower, his wife having died in a house fire a couple of years ago. Everyone felt sorry for him; some of the older ladies would sigh every time he passed. ‘Oh, hello, Terry,’ she said, ‘I’m just nipping out back.’ She gestured. ‘But I can get you a pint first, if you like.’
He shook his head, and gripped the machine’s arm, curling his long fingers around it. ‘No, love, I’m alright for a bit,’ he told her. ‘You go on.’
She turned to go, happy to hide her blush, but then he called her back. ‘I’ll wait for you here actually,’ he said. ‘If that’s alright.’ He looked suddenly awkward. ‘Only, there’s summat I wanted to talk to you about.’
Kathleen left him then, feeling the heat in her face as it collided with the cold air coming from the ladies’ loo. She stood a moment before lighting her Woodbine, looking at her face in the mirror above the sink, wishing she’d put on a bit of make-up, sorted her ponytail out a bit better and just generally looked better. Made that bloody silk purse out of the sow’s ear that was stood in front of her, in its dowdy blouse and skirt.
She lit her ciggie. She wished she could stop herself blushing at the sight of him, but she never seemed to manage it. It was something she didn’t seem to have any sort of control over. It was a stupid crush – she knew that. He was thirty-three, for God’s sake! – and she fervently hoped now she was seventeen she’d grow out of it. But there was just something. Something about his face, the way he smiled, the way he’d let his wavy hair grow. Be longer than hers soon, she reckoned. She liked that. That and the aura of sadness, despite his smiles. And there was a connection, too. Because Terry worked with her Aunt Sally’s Ronnie, who was his best mate.
Kathleen took a drag on her cigarette and watched the smoke weave above her. Perhaps that was mostly what she liked about Terry. The tragedy. That he was injured. Mentally scarred. Like a hero out of a book. Because no one else seemed to see in him what she did. Monica certainly didn’t. She’d said he wasn’t much of a looker. But then neither was Mr Rochester, was he? And there was just something about him that always made her heart flutter. It was fluttering all the harder now. What could he possibly want to talk to her about?
She finished her cigarette, had her pee, washed her hands and hurried out again. Terry was where she’d left him, but now he was staring out towards the road, hands in the pockets of his jeans.
‘I’m back!’ she said brightly, glancing through to the bar to check for customers, but nothing much seemed to have changed.
But Terry’s expression when he turned around was serious, and she wondered what on earth he could want her for. She hoped he wasn’t after a sub because Irene had made it clear that they weren’t lending any more money out to the punters. Not until some debts had been repaid, at least. But not from him. And she doubted it would be that, in any case. He might not dress up much but Kathleen had a hunch that was because he didn’t want to. Not because he was on his uppers. He had a solid, full-time and doubtless well-paid job. He ran a Cortina, as well as the juggernauts he drove.
Maybe he had a message from her Auntie Sally, then. She’d like that. But then he’d be smiling, wouldn’t he? And he wasn’t.
At least she was no longer blushing. ‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘What is it you wanted to talk to me about?’
Again, he looked awkward. ‘Well, I don’t know if I should be telling you this,’ he said, ‘but it’s about your Darren.’
Kathleen felt her heart sink. She should have guessed. Her bloody stepbrother! Did he have any shame at all? Pound to a penny he owed Terry money. She pulled a face, waiting for the inevitable. Darren really needed to sort himself out! ‘Go on, then,’ she said. ‘What’s he done now?’
Terry stared at Kathleen for a long moment, as though he wasn’t sure how to start. For so long that she had to drag her eyes away. ‘Well, I might as well just come out and say it,’ he told her finally. ‘After all, it’s no secret he’s got gambling fever, is it? Thing is, Kathy, I think he might be getting in over his head.’
The blush returned with a vengeance. Terry was the only person since her mum had died who had ever called her Kathy. She wondered if he even realised. Probably not. She waited for him to continue.
‘Only I’ve been hearing tales, love,’ he said gently. ‘Serious shit, actually.’ He lowered his voice and glanced behind her. ‘I think he must be planning a robbery or something. He’s been trying to get hold of a gun.’
‘What?’ Kathleen was confused now. A gun? Their Darren? She shook her head. ‘You must have that wrong, Terry. Surely. Our Darren is a prat but he’s no need to go out robbing. He gets all he wants from bloody Irene! You know that. Everybody knows that. A gun?’
Terry shook his head and she could see how troubled he obviously felt. He meant it. He might be wrong, but he meant it. ‘I’m not mistaken, Kathy,’ he told her, as if reading her mind. ‘He’s definitely been asking about where he can get hold of one. I’ve been told by more than one person. So it’s either a robbery …’ He paused. ‘Or he needs it for protection. Either way, he’s getting himself involved with some bad people.’ He touched her wrist. ‘Love, I’m telling you because you need to warn him.’
The rest of the shift passed as quickly as the first half had dragged, Kathleen’s mind in a whirl, trying to process what Terry had told her. Trying to fathom what her stepbrother could possibly want a gun for, trying not to think about quite how much money trouble he might be in. It must be bad – Terry was right; he had gambling fever pretty badly. But was it that much worse? How much did he owe that he couldn’t get it from his mam? Where Darren was concerned she’d do anything … But then she wasn’t made of money, was she? So could it be true? That he was getting a gun so he could go and rob someone at gunpoint? Or getting it for someone else? Who were these bad people Terry was talking about? Did he know them?
She wished she’d asked him. And protection. What was that all about? Did that mean he owed money to the sort of people who might hurt him? Because there was no doubt his addiction had been steadily getting worse, so much so that perhaps he’d been driven to borrowing from people he’d no business going near. And struggling to pay them off? These days he never had a penny to call his own and he was bleeding her dad and Irene of the pub’s takings most weeks.
So what should she do? The idea of facing Darren himself seemed impossible. He’d just tell her to bugger off and mind her business. She knew he would. So perhaps she should tell her dad and Irene what
