A Twist in the Tale by Jeffrey Archer Page A

his looks which had
attracted me in the pub that night.
    I had first
come across Roger in the Cat and Whistle, a public house situated on the corner
of Mafeking Road . You might say it was our local.
He used to come in around eight, order a pint of mild and take it to a small
table in the corner of the room just beyond the dartboard. Mostly he would sit
alone, watching the darts being thrown towards double top but more often
settling in one or five, if they managed to land on the board at all. He never
played the game himself, and I often wondered, from my vantage point behind the
bar, if he were fearful of relinquishing his favourite seat or-just had no interest in the sport.
    Then things
suddenly changed for Roger - for the better, was no doubt how he saw it - when
one evening in early spring a blonde named Madeleine, wearing an imitation fur
coat and drinking double gin and its , perched on the
stool beside him. I had never seen her in the pub before but she was obviously
known locally, and loose bar talk led me to believe it couldn’t last. You see,
word was about that she was looking for someone whose horizons stretched beyond
the Cat and Whistle.
    In fact the affair
– if that’s what it ever came to lasted for only
twenty days. I know because I counted every one of them. Then one night voices
were raised and heads turned as she left the small stool just as suddenly as
she had come. His tired eyes watched her walk to a vacant place at the corner
of the bar, but he didn’t show any surprise at her departure and made no
attempt to pursue her.
    Her exit was my
cue to enter. I almost leapt from behind the bar and, moving as quickly as
dignity allowed, was seconds later sitting on the vacant stool beside him. He
didn’t comment and certainly made no attempt to offer me a drink, but the one
glance he shot in my direction did not suggest he found me an unacceptable
replacement. I looked around to see if anyone else had plans to usurp my
position. The men standing round the dartboard didn’t seem to care. Treble
seventeen, twelve and a five kept them more than occupied. I glanced towards
the bar to check if the boss had noticed my absence, but he was busy taking
orders. I saw Madeleine was already sipping a glass of champagne from the pub’s
only bottle, purchased by a stranger whose stylish double-breasted blazer and
striped bow tie convinced me she wouldn’t be bothering with Roger any longer.
She looked well set for at least another twenty days.
    I looked up at
Roger – I had known his name for some time, although I had never addressed him
as such and I couldn’t be sure that he was aware of mine. I began to flutter my
eyelashes in a rather exaggerated way. I felt a little stupid but at least it
elicited a gentle smile. He leaned over and touched my cheek, his hands
surprisingly gentle. Neither of us felt the need to speak. We were both lonely
and it seemed unnecessary to explain why. We sat in silence, he occasionally
sipping his beer, I from time to time rearranging my legs, while a few feet
from us the darts pursued their undetermined course.
    When the
publican cried, “Last orders,” Roger downed the remains of his beer while the
dart players completed what had to be their final game.
    No one
commented when we left together and I was surprised that Roger made no protest
as I accompanied him back to his little semi-detached. I already knew exactly
where he lived because I had seen him on several occasions standing at the bus
queue in Dobson Street in a silent
line of reluctant morning passengers. Once I even positioned myself on a nearby
wall in order to study his features more carefully. It was an anonymous, almost
commonplace face but he had the warmest eyes and the kindest smile I had
observed in any man.
    My only anxiety
was that he didn’t seem aware of my existence, just constantly preoccupied, his
eyes each evening and his thoughts each morning only for Madeleine.
    How I envied
that girl. She had