Golden Hour (Part 1)
There was no way I could get decent pictures from outside the pub, and aware I was beginning to look out of place loitering on an empty street, I slipped the camera under my coat and went in. The difference in temperature caught me by surprise, it was hot out on the street, and the absence of the sun pricking my skin as I walked through the entrance was like being doused with water.
My senses were alive; while my eyes adjusted to the gloom, details clamoured for attention. The air was cool, scented with stale alcohol and disinfectant. Glasses chimed behind the bar as a man, cloth over his shoulder, stacked them like a fairground coconut shy. Half way reaching for another, the thought better of it and approached the other side of the bar. I didn’t see the target at first, though if David’s information had been accurate, he would be in here somewhere. All I could hear was one half of a conversation coming from an alcove, my vantage point that I couldn’t get a good look without going past the awaiting barman first. “What will it be?” I glanced along the pumps, across the unfamiliar named ales. “Coke?” “Pepsi.” Not a question, but an assertion. “Yeah, that’ll be fine.” I took out the twenty-pound note that I’d been given from petty cash: For expenses, and this was one of those expenses. If they expected it all back, they were sadly mistaken, first assignment, I was going to do my best. I’d been asked to get a photo of the ‘Hospital Ghoul of Sacred Heart,’ and given his location. While he hosed first syrup then water into a glass, he watched me, so I didn’t have chance to turn around until he opened the till. There he was! Joe Mancer. Sitting at a corner table. His outline was rough, hair receding at the temples, and whiskered face creased with shadows. The heel of his hand pressed against his forehead, making the flesh around white with compression. His eyes were pinched closed, but he was nodding, slowly as the man opposite talked to him. “Never understand it, but it’s a lot different now.” “Yeah,” Joe said. “There used to be a time when you could leave your door open, no bugger’d come in, respected other people’s places. We did in my time.” “Yeah,” Joe repeated. “But now, now, I couldn’t. Some days I wonder whether I’ll come back to an empty flat, will have forgotten to lock the door and someone will be in.” I put my coat on the barstool next to mine and turned back to the display that the barman was building. He was decorating the glasses by putting bags of peanuts on them. I sipped my drink. It wasn’t Pepsi. The liquid fizzed and popped against my teeth, and I swear that I could taste the top layer of enamel as it went down the back of my throat. Keep it low key, blend in, was the advice that Vincent, the senior editor had offered. I glanced around the bar, no one in, hard to blend in when there was no one else to blend in with. I turned against the bar, occasionally looking at the door. “I could’ve taken my watch, put it outside and left it. You know what? It would’ve still been there when I got back from work.” The next problem would be how the hell would I take a photo? I might be able to get away with a ‘selfie’ on my smart phone, but the resolution sucked. From this distance, the people over my shoulder could have been anyone. The large DSLR would have been perfect for it, but not without revealing who I was. Since there was no one else in the room, if I happened to look over, it would be out of curiosity, right? One look wouldn’t harm, would it? As the one-sider conversation continued, my eyes ping-ponged across the bar, taking in the worn upholstery on the backs of the chairs, the cracks in the plaster beneath the windowsills to the small occupied seating area. A large golden Labrador was looking at me, eyebrows temporarily peaking as its eyes met mine. It saw me looking, and its tail swished against the man’s leg. I’ve always liked dogs, not in an unrealistic way, I know that they are biddable, usually, and that they need to be respected, but it goes two ways. The animal’s coat was clean, cleaner than the bare wooden floor where it lay. A memory of sharing ice cream with aunt Jean’s border collie popped into my head. I must have smiled; the dog responded by wagging its tail even more, thumping against the man’s leg and he peered over the table to see. Joe lowered his hand, blinking across the table, then all three were staring at me. “He’s a nice dog,” I said. The older man’s face lit up. “Donny, his name’s Donny, or The Don.” I picked up my coat, careful to keep the camera in the folds and walked across. “How old is he?” I asked. “Seven, give or take,” the man responded. I bent down and stroked the soft velvet fur behind Donny’s ear. The animal’s head lifted from the floor pushing against my hand as I moved it away, trying to keep into contact with it as long as possible. Its wet nose grazed the tips of my fingers, and it huffed contentedly. “Friendly,” I remarked. “He is, had him since a pup, just loves to be fussed.” The man reached down, both hands working either side of the dog’s mane. “You like that don’t you my boy, yes you do.” By now its tongue was out was panting with excitement at all the attention, mouth open, paws up on a barstool. “Hank, Hank Greyson.” “Brad Johnson,” I said. The old man thrust one hand into his coat, pulling out a wallet. Broken fragments of dog biscuit rained to the floor, which Donny briskly vacuumed up, leaving drying half-moon licks that faded on the wooden floor. He took some photos out of his wallet. “Ah, it’s kind of goofy. I hate it when people pull out pictures of their grandkids, but humour me. I here I am. It’s a bit sentimental, but here’s what he looked like when I got him.” There was a picture of him holding out a ball of small fluff, like a trophy, the dog’s tongue planted to the side of his face. After I’d seen it, he showed it to the dog, who snuffled disinterestedly. “Long time ago wasn’t it.” At the sound of his master’s voice, the dog looked up. Hank stoked his chin. “What’s a matter boy? Not time to go yet, one more. Don’t often get chance to do this do we, not many people to talk to in those parks are there?” “Can I buy you a drink?” I asked. “Yeah, sure.” To Joe, “Do you want one, Joe?” “No thanks.” “Really?” Hank said, “missing an opportunity. To have a drink with friends.” “I don’t have any friends.” Joe replied. “Well, you should find some.” Hank turned to me, smiling, “he’s a grumpy sod.” “Hank, it’s either you or your dog that’s pissed on my floor, again!” Hank stopped, looked under the table. I leant back, looked at Donny, who huffed, then at the stain the liquid that was leaking from Hank’s shoe. The left flare was protruding, pushed out by something that also looked to be leaking. The barman strode across, dropped a handful or paper towels on the table and retreated behind the bar to scowl. “I’ll sort this when I get back.” Hank rose, waved Donny down and hurried to the toilets. Joe dealt the paper towels over the puddle and settled back into his corner, wincing. “You okay?” “Headache.” A faint smiled played across the corner of his lips, “believe it or not, I actually have a screw loose.” His hand curled up to his forehead and traced a scar below his hairline. “Titanium plate, three screws. This one, here, that’s playing up.” “I’ve some paracetamol if that might help.” “Thanks.” I reached over for my coat, hand hesitating for that split second while I had to move the camera out of the way, remove a half-used blister pack of pills from my pocket and hand it across to Joe. He popped out three pills, chewed them before taking a mouthful of Hank’s beer. “Might be psychosomatic, but feels like they work faster if I chew them.” “What happened?” “I think one of them has worked its way free.” “No, I mean how did you get the plate in your head? If you don’t mind me asking.” “I stopped a chest of drawers from falling over with my head.” “Painful.” “Yeah, it was.” His eyes narrowed, his voice chilling: “How do you know my name?” “I…” I didn’t get chance to answer.
