The Girl Who Tweeted Wolf (18 page)

She kept looking up at the two of them, wary like prey in the jungle, waiting for either to make a move.

Nothing stirred. Seemed still. Kept without motion.

But they probably thought her constant checking up on them was weird.

Still no word from Chloe.

As she jerked up to take another look, there was a gentle clunk behind her.

Anna wasn’t sitting with her back against the wall, of course. She took a table with space behind it specially to avoid getting trapped, then didn’t keep an eye on the weak spot until now, rolling around to see an entirely new muttering, decrepit male.

She’d half-seen him when sitting down, then directed all her attention at the rest of the pub where the majority nested.

This guy was wearing a ratty shirt, browning around the edges, as if left in a puddle for too long. The jeans were going the same way, trapped forever in place due to circumstances. He was in a wheelchair, not one of those electric mobility scooters, but a metal frame, propelled by arm strength alone. His hair was straggly and thinning, eyes sunken. Fingers gripped his drink as tight as possible.

Not as old as the rest, early forties maybe, but just as ruined. Maybe more so, serious scarring around his face.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, after it became clear she wasn’t going to make a sound. “Are you waiting for someone?”

“Yes,” Anna replied, keen to send him on his way. “My friend. She’s late.”

“Ah, well, that’s rude isn’t it?”

He was pushing against the walls of her innate Britishness. She could say
Look, go away,
but that would to be rude. Not to mention he was disabled, so she could probably beat him up if need be. He wasn’t too creepily old, looked like he might even have been attractive before he turned to ravaged alcoholism.

Not to mention, she’d seen him and then disregarded him as a non-worthwhile non-threat, probably because he was in a wheelchair. So she was probably a terrible person.

Working through that maelstrom of guilt, she let it go for now. At least he might pass the time.

“I suppose so.”

“Definitely,” he said, eyes sparking up a little as he realised she wasn’t telling him to fuck off and die. “I’m Danny.”

“Hi, I’m Chloe,” Anna nodded. That’d teach the cow for being late.

“Hi Chloe. So, how are you?”

“I’m fine. Bit tired.”

Terribly rude of her not to ask after his welfare, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Add it to the guilt list. Where the fuck was Chloe?

He chuckled.

“You looked terrified, don’t worry. I’m not some lunatic.”

“Sorry,” Anna said, still unable to stop her muscles tensing.

“Ah, Chloe, it’s okay. Everyone looks at me like that. Honestly, if I met me before I was like this, I’d do the same
Oh-God-please-just-disappear
eyes I’m getting from you.”

“Okay,” Anna nodded. And then, unable to think of much else to say: “Sorry.”

On that, he burst out laughing, and fair enough. She tried to make eye contact with the barman, but he was right up at the other end.

“Like I said, I used to be acceptable.”

“Right.” Anna smiled. “And then what happened to you?”

“This place, actually. Want to hear about it?”

Anna paused. Even though he looked like he lived behind a chip shop, Danny was at least coherent. They were out in public, she could scream if he misbehaved. And in her experience, drunks love to tell a lengthy story. Hopefully that’d keep him talking long enough for Chloe to get here.

Not to mention: yes, he’d managed to get her just a little curious.

“Okay then,” Anna nodded. “What happened?”

*****

“I was in my late twenties in the early 2000s, you may not know what that was like — probably still at school. There were lots of bright-coloured shirts, hair gel. Not like nowadays, where being fashionable means dressing out of a skip.

Was as if the world only just discovered being shiny, y’know? So we were determined to glisten all the time, even if it made us look greasy. I was getting old, of course, late twenties and all, maybe that’s why I didn’t get into that.

In a damp-looking world, people try to moisten themselves out of age. The guys have smooth chests and rock-solid hair, the girls wear so much make-up, you can see your face in it.

Of course, you keep going to the cool bars, being a matte person just marks you out. You’re a guy out in the club — sorry,
da club
— on a Friday night in the very early twenty-first century, you’re not anyone if your hair doesn’t stick at least an inch off your head.

But I already had a girlfriend, so who cares about clubbing anyway? Stephanie. She was ill. Doesn’t matter how, really. She was ill. We lived together, because we both had enough of our families, and it was nice. She did a bit of work now and then, when she could, but I was doing the bulk of the earning.

I’d done bar work, I’d done office temp admin stuff, often-times I’d done both at once. This was pre-recession, y’know? Even when you were a drifting nobody, you could hit that magic sweet spot. Always enough work to go around, always paid enough to both cover the bills
and
go out every so often without feeling like you were stealing from your family.

Steph came out with me sometimes, it was alright. Worst comes to worst, you can just snog in the corner of the bar and people don’t seem to care about your hair as much. Helped she was nice-looking, I suppose. People are shits, aren’t they?

One day, I was in this pub we’re in right now, The Left Hand, and it was what it is, you know? Long, thin, dirty. I was with some mates who were going on to a club and I’d just finished another run of temping. It hadn’t gone well — it often didn’t, at new places. I was just tired, you know? The end of my twenties, best years of my life according to some in the drunk community, and I just stopped caring.

Sometimes, when it’s late at night and I’m drunk, I think about how that happened to me. Was it the shit jobs? The not-entirely-there relationship? Was I too young and restless to be the breadwinner? I dunno.

Anyway. I was in this place, and I needed money. Saw a bit of A4 stapled up behind the bar — before job vacancies went online, y’know — and gave them a shout. Funnily enough, since I had bar experience unlike the other great unwashed scum, I got the job without much trouble. Life was easy. People could get away with anything. But the real question is, Chloe, do you know what kind of place this is? Can you imagine what it used to be like back in the old days?”

*****

“Of course, we didn’t know how good we had it, did we? Whenever I came into this pub, it was rammed. Everyone had mad disposable income back then, but we’re British, we still didn’t want to spend it. Why have a big night out when you can go to your local cheapo chain pub and do beer and burger for a fiver?

Monday nights, cheap drinks. Thursday nights, cheap curry. Every night, cheap something. I loved it. Pub was always full, which hid the fact half the clientele were scumbags. But make no mistake, this is not a good place. People might overhear, so I hope you’ll forgive my whispering.

I remember the day I realised. I’d been working here about three weeks, I was pretty into the rhythm. Broke a few glasses, everyone in the pub applauds like we’re back at school, and you don’t do it again. Never enjoyed that feeling of everyone looking at me.

I didn’t have a day job and I wasn’t a fucking failure, so I was already heading up the ranks. They were throwing so many shifts at me, I was almost ready to buy a new phone. Not a smartphone of course, we didn’t have that shit yet, but I was well up for one of those hinged clam shell motherfuckers, y’know?

Sorry, you’ve managed to catch me just as I tip over the edge of drunk, and that’s usually when the real swearing starts.

So one day in that third week, I got out of bed, kissed Steph, put my boring clothes on and went to sell pints to broke-down drunks. Because half the time during the day, that’s all you get in here. A few lunch office twats, the occasional crowd of students and loads of mental pissheads.

We were much more open-minded about serving teenagers back then. After all, this was the early twenty-first century. Britain’s town centres were dens of decadence, every cunt with a pub his own tin-pot Caligula. Whereas the youth of today gotta go to the park to drink pre-mixed gin and tonic in plastic wine glasses with milk-bottle tops. Poor little shits.

Right then, that day, I was working at the bar, pulling pints for people who probably had no liver, when the boss comes over to me. And this guy, Micro — you must’ve seen him if you’ve been in here at all, right? Massive bastard — huge guy. Bigger now than he was back then, but still, that one has never been thin. People blame the food here for him getting that size, but pretty sure it’d have happened anyway.

He expects us to put some effort in, but he’s decent to work for as long as he doesn’t think you’re taking the piss. I was working the ale handle, trying to milk the last drops out, when Micro came over, rubbing against the bar as usual.

‘Hey, Danny,’ he said, ‘just so you know, got some important guys coming in later. Serve them whatever they want, be charming, okay?’

‘No worries, Micro,’ I said, all smooth like, ‘but how will I know them?’

‘Group of men, mostly bald, mostly tracksuits. Let me know if you’re not sure.’

There wasn’t much doubt in the end. They turned up, about ten of them, looking fresh off the clone production line, if you know what I mean? Scary fuckers, Chloe. Scary.

They come up to the bar and they say: ‘Pint of lager, please.’ ‘Pint of lager, please.’ ‘Pint of lager, please.’ Again and again, same inflections, same five pound note, same slight European accent. I couldn’t place it, so I didn’t even try. Especially back then, easier to ignore anything foreign looking, treat them like everyone else. If you acknowledged it, you were probably being racist. And like I said, I was too tired to really care.

I served them all. There was one guy with a thin covering of hair, he spoke with a deeper accent and he was all: ‘Be wanting a pint of lager, if you please.’

Weird. So I gave him his drink and smiled, Mr Hairy gave me this terrifying sneer in return, then he and his mates went into the corner. They were passing bags of white stuff around like they were tossing lettuce on a market stall. Turns out, The Left Hand was one of the only places in London where that happens, totally open. I mean, not so much nowadays. The old ways were too opulent for this shitty world.

Apparently there was a Left Hand discount where everything was half the street value.
Half!
I mean, get the feeling it was inferior product, but still, that’s fucking weird.

So they came, settled in for a while, customers lined up by their booth, except pretending not to queue. Sat at the adjacent tables, always checking whether it was their turn yet. Every so often, someone looked over at me and I pretended to be cleaning something. Then I smashed a glass and got another round of applause. Didn’t help me fade into the background, but still, they came and thanked me on the way out.

And that was how I first realised this place is the home of affordable commercial crime. Once you’ve seen it, all the subtle signs get obvious, y’know? One time, some woman with a bag over her head and rope around her hands got led through the bar to the back, but nothing huge, y’know?

Shit just happened. One time, my old temp agency called and offered me a new gig slinging paper in an office again. I should’ve said yes, obviously. Might’ve avoided a whole compost heap of bad stuff. But I didn’t, because in a world where everyone was a greasy twat who did nothing so they could do nothing, this was interesting. I even started drinking in The Left Hand when I wasn’t working, in case I saw something cool.

Once, I bumped into Mr Hairy, the leader of the bald drug squad, and he shook my hand and gave me a less scary smile. Then he said: ‘My name is Joseph, hello.’

I told him my name, he said it was good to meet me and that was it. Steph was on a downturn in her health, so suited us both for me to keep busy. Fine as long as I was around for a quick sympathy shag when she felt better on weekend mornings

I guess Micro and Joseph must’ve noticed I was on the scene a lot, taking an interest. One day, they came and offered me a little extra evening work.”

*****

“I’d had this sort of offer at other jobs — ‘We’ve got a private function on, would you work it for a bit more money?’

In this case, it was after regular pub hours, starting at midnight, but that was fine for me as long as I had a decent nap that afternoon. Steph was just gonna be asleep anyway.

This being The Left Hand, it wasn’t some company Christmas party. We shooed the pissed plebs out at eleven o’clock sharp, then started setting up. Nice network of tables off to the side, few sausages on sticks and pies, a straight passage through the middle to the beer garden, where the action was.

Micro was hustling around the kitchens, that was his domain. He shoved in and out of those flapping double doors every few minutes, wearing an apron that resembled a greased-up tent. He shouts, throws, looks like he might sit on you if you fuck with him. There were rumours they weren’t just cooking food in the kitchens, there was big-time narcotics prep going on there. Might make sense, y’know? Might explain why there’s a gleaming jungle of metal cylinders and pipes, but all the actual meals come from the microwave?

I don’t know, though. I was never allowed in there. Micro was strict about who could spend any real time in the kitchen — I just took food from the heated shelf outside it. The guys who worked in there had tight white uniforms and shrivelled up faces, like cadavers or something. Zombie chefs!

I’m just fucking with you. Micro was strict, though. Like, when I tried to get into the kitchen because some dickhead was throwing a shitfit about their food, he damn near rugby tackled me. And a bodyslam from someone that size isn’t a punch you forget. May just have been to stop me contaminating their product, but I like to think it was to save me from fucking myself up too.