Seven Daze by Charlie Wade Page A

anywhere you want to go tomorrow? You know, anything you want to do?”
    “Oh, that’s the other thing. I’ve got a really early start Sunday; got to work would you believe. On a Sunday. So anyway, I’m going to have to get to sleep early ...”
    Jim knew it’d been too good to be true. She’d seen through him. Her next line would be, “you’re really nice and all that, but ...”
    “So I was thinking,” she said, “are you free tomorrow afternoon instead?”
    He gasped. Had she really said that? “Yeah,” he replied, forgetting about his ten grand debt.
    “Good. I was thinking, perhaps, I mean say if you’re not interested, but, there’s an art exhibition at the South Bank I’d like to check out. I mean, if you don’t want to then say. I don’t mind. I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but one of my clients was talking about it and it sounds good.”
    “No, that sounds great,” he lied.
    “Excellent. Look I’m just about to hit the underground. I’ll have to say goodbye.”
    “Okay. Shall I ring tomorrow morning then?”
    “Yeah. Okay, got to go. Bye,” she replied.
     
    A change of clothes, gloves and a wipe down of the cards took Jim fifteen minutes. Within an hour he was outside the Queens Arms. He was concerned he’d bump into Charlotte at the tube station, but luckily he didn’t. The East End was different at night. Jim wasn’t scared, but he understood how some may be. Daylight still clung to the streets, but the grime and dereliction made it darker, sinister.
    Jim wondered what the world was coming to with all these thieves, muggers and fraudsters around. Harry would have a similar view. “Streets ain’t safe no more,” he’d say. “Was a time when you didn’t have to worry about being mugged, but now it’s as regular as taking a dump.”
    The Queens Arms was busier than the previous day. Jim was surprised just how busy considering its other life as a sleepy, daytime pub. Looking at some of the clientele, well-dressed young people, he guessed they’d stopped for a pint before moving on elsewhere.
    Seeing Tim By Four and the plasterer playing pool, Jim nodded then headed for the bar. A clear tension surrounded the group in front of the bar. Already half drunk and with plenty of spare seats around, they’d set their stall on blocking other people rather than having a quiet drink. The group of young lads, maybe too young to drink, seemed to gain pleasure in hindering others. Jim almost felt he had to ask permission to get through. Greeted with looks that said, “Not from these parts are you?” Jim held his nerve and struggled through. Things had changed in this country. It wasn’t just London but everywhere. Respect had gone.
    Feeling old, he got his warm pint and moved to the pool table. The lads at the bar were staying well clear of that area. Maybe Tim and them had had dealings before. Maybe there was some respect left, but you had to earn it. It wasn’t just given anymore.
    “Alright lads,” said Jim.
    “Jimbo,” said Tim. “Putting your name up then?” He pointed at a chipped blackboard with incorrectly spelt names dangling from the wall. Jim nodded and scrawled his name under the last. The split grain of chalk made it look like jjm.
    Though Tim was playing with Mick, someone called “Danny Boy” was up next though the word “boy” had been written with a different hand to Danny.
    “How’s tricks?” said Mick.
    “Yeah, not bad. Mustn’t grumble. Yourself?”
    “We gave up at lunchtime and came here. Brickies are taking too long; dossing round most of them.”
    “Not bothered though, are we?” said Tim. “Still get paid, see.”
     “Can I have a word, Tim.” Jim knew it sounded too serious. He should have waited or worded it differently. “Do you know any, er, fences, mate?”
    Tim scrunched his nose up and shook his head. “I’m trying to keep out of trouble.”
    “I know, mate. I won’t, you know, involve you. I’m just in a sticky patch.