sweat-suit who turned and looked straight at him.
The dancer resumed her slow gyrations and Murray made his way to the bar, readjusting his rucksack. He’d always liked Lyn. Would meeting her after his defection from Jack’s exhibition really be worse than a drink in this dump? But talking to her would mean talking about his brother, and he couldn’t face that yet.
The music slid into a series of judders. The dancer ignored it for a moment, then when no one moved to remedy the noise shouted, ‘Malky, are you going to fix that CD or do you want me to start fucking breakdancing?’
The barman roused himself from his newspaper, took the disc from the player and wiped it against a bar towel.
‘I’d like to see you fucking moonwalking. On the moon.’
His voice was too low to reach the stage, but one of the men laughed and the girl threw the barman a look that promised later suffering.
‘You’ve blotted your copybook there,’ the man said.
The barman shrugged his shoulders and slid the disc back in the machine. Sade started singing about a smooth operator and the girl began weaving her hips, keeping her movements close and contained, as if dancing inside an invisible box.
Murray slid his hand into his jeans pocket and found a two-pound coin.
‘Coke, please.’
The grey man on the bar stool turned and gave him the smallest of smiles. His voice was low, but Murray had no trouble hearing him over the beat of the music.
‘Are you a member, sir?’
Murray took in the uncarpeted floor, the couches draped with cheap cotton throws, the stubbled bartender back in the sports page of his tabloid.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘No problem. I can sign you in.’
‘Cheers.’
He hoped the man wouldn’t expect a drink in exchange.
‘There’s a ten pounds entrance fee for non-members.’
Murray felt his eyes drifting back towards the stage. He forced himself to look at the bouncer.
‘I wasn’t planning on staying.’
‘Fair enough.’ The man slid from his stool and put a firm grip on Murray’s elbow, but his tone was as courteous as Professor Fergus Baine correcting a departmental rival’s slip in literary theory. ‘I’ll see you to the door.’
‘I mean I’m only stopping a minute.’
‘In that case it’ll be a tenner.’
‘The thing is,’ Murray gently disengaged himself and leant against the bar, striving for a mateyness he’d long known was outside his repertoire, ‘there’s a girl I want to avoid.’
The barman raised his eyes from the paper.
‘I ken the feeling.’
Murray smiled at him, keen to win an ally.
‘So if you’d just let me stop here for a moment, three minutes at the most, you’d be doing me a huge favour. I’m happy to buy a drink.’
He opened his palm, revealing the two-pound coin within. It looked pathetic and he closed his fingers round it again.
‘No problem.’ The bouncer’s voice was slick with the complacency of a school bully extorting dinner money from a swot. ‘You can stay for as long or as short a time as you want, but the fee remains the same, ten pounds.’ His smile showed surprisingly white teeth. ‘We accept all major credit cards.’
Murray wondered if Lyn and her companion had already passed by, but there had been a vintage vinyl shop between them and the pub. The man in the wheelchair had looked the type to linger at its window.
‘I’m happy to buy a pint, but you can’t really expect me to pay ten quid for one drink?’
The bouncer put his hand back on Murray’s elbow.
‘Be more like fourteen quid, mate, the drinks aren’t free. Anyway, it depends how much you want to avoid her.’
They were approaching the exit now. Murray made one last appeal.
‘What harm would it do?’
‘Immeasurable, mate.’ The man nodded towards the girl on stage. ‘Strictly-Cum-Dancing would report me to the boss, and I’d be out on my ear.’ He opened the door. ‘Nothing personal.’ And gave Murray a gentle shove out into the
The dancer resumed her slow gyrations and Murray made his way to the bar, readjusting his rucksack. He’d always liked Lyn. Would meeting her after his defection from Jack’s exhibition really be worse than a drink in this dump? But talking to her would mean talking about his brother, and he couldn’t face that yet.
The music slid into a series of judders. The dancer ignored it for a moment, then when no one moved to remedy the noise shouted, ‘Malky, are you going to fix that CD or do you want me to start fucking breakdancing?’
The barman roused himself from his newspaper, took the disc from the player and wiped it against a bar towel.
‘I’d like to see you fucking moonwalking. On the moon.’
His voice was too low to reach the stage, but one of the men laughed and the girl threw the barman a look that promised later suffering.
‘You’ve blotted your copybook there,’ the man said.
The barman shrugged his shoulders and slid the disc back in the machine. Sade started singing about a smooth operator and the girl began weaving her hips, keeping her movements close and contained, as if dancing inside an invisible box.
Murray slid his hand into his jeans pocket and found a two-pound coin.
‘Coke, please.’
The grey man on the bar stool turned and gave him the smallest of smiles. His voice was low, but Murray had no trouble hearing him over the beat of the music.
‘Are you a member, sir?’
Murray took in the uncarpeted floor, the couches draped with cheap cotton throws, the stubbled bartender back in the sports page of his tabloid.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘No problem. I can sign you in.’
‘Cheers.’
He hoped the man wouldn’t expect a drink in exchange.
‘There’s a ten pounds entrance fee for non-members.’
Murray felt his eyes drifting back towards the stage. He forced himself to look at the bouncer.
‘I wasn’t planning on staying.’
‘Fair enough.’ The man slid from his stool and put a firm grip on Murray’s elbow, but his tone was as courteous as Professor Fergus Baine correcting a departmental rival’s slip in literary theory. ‘I’ll see you to the door.’
‘I mean I’m only stopping a minute.’
‘In that case it’ll be a tenner.’
‘The thing is,’ Murray gently disengaged himself and leant against the bar, striving for a mateyness he’d long known was outside his repertoire, ‘there’s a girl I want to avoid.’
The barman raised his eyes from the paper.
‘I ken the feeling.’
Murray smiled at him, keen to win an ally.
‘So if you’d just let me stop here for a moment, three minutes at the most, you’d be doing me a huge favour. I’m happy to buy a drink.’
He opened his palm, revealing the two-pound coin within. It looked pathetic and he closed his fingers round it again.
‘No problem.’ The bouncer’s voice was slick with the complacency of a school bully extorting dinner money from a swot. ‘You can stay for as long or as short a time as you want, but the fee remains the same, ten pounds.’ His smile showed surprisingly white teeth. ‘We accept all major credit cards.’
Murray wondered if Lyn and her companion had already passed by, but there had been a vintage vinyl shop between them and the pub. The man in the wheelchair had looked the type to linger at its window.
‘I’m happy to buy a pint, but you can’t really expect me to pay ten quid for one drink?’
The bouncer put his hand back on Murray’s elbow.
‘Be more like fourteen quid, mate, the drinks aren’t free. Anyway, it depends how much you want to avoid her.’
They were approaching the exit now. Murray made one last appeal.
‘What harm would it do?’
‘Immeasurable, mate.’ The man nodded towards the girl on stage. ‘Strictly-Cum-Dancing would report me to the boss, and I’d be out on my ear.’ He opened the door. ‘Nothing personal.’ And gave Murray a gentle shove out into the
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