The Outcast Hours

by Mahvesh Murad

  “Do you have stomach problems? This is very good for restoring your Yang. Have you had chills, or rheumatoid pains?”

  “Sometimes, yes. At work.”

  The woman pushed a red paper bag across the counter with CHINAHERBAL in gold letters on it. The label read ‘Fu Zi—Monkshood—Wolf’s Bane—Dog’s Bane—Old Woman’s Hood—Tiger’s Bane—Radix Lateralis Aconiti’

  “Take one gram with breakfast, one with your evening meal. You may take one if you cannot sleep, but do not exceed four grams in a day. Drink with wine for a nicer taste.”

  Bette took it. The woman smiled.

  “You will feel so much better. You will notice straight away.”

  Paying cash, Bette tucked the bag into the inside pocket of her leather jacket, thanked the woman and turned her collar up. It was raining in earnest now.

  The Hare and Hounds had been a rural coaching inn, until the city grew and swallowed the village. The beams across the ceiling lent it a fading country charm, but the new Elephant’s Breath paint spoke of gentrification, and money. For years it had been filled with factory workers and students, thirsty and noisy; happy to swap pennies for pints and pork snacks. Now it attracted city boys and hipsters, minor celebs from the media monolith down the street; commuters having one last pint to miss the crowds.

  It was, despite renovation, still most notable for its original front window. The central panel was circular, and showed a hare, in silhouette, chasing a pack of baying hounds over a hill against a huge full yellow moon. Local history scholars said the hounds would have been chasing the hare originally, but that the restorer must have changed it when hare coursing was made illegal. Either that or nobody noticed. Whichever it was, the brewery had put it on everything.

  Bette pushed the door open and a wall of sound assailed her. A TV above her was showing financial news, and someone had put Coldplay on as well. The pub was busy already, and it wasn’t yet seven. One of the booths had a stag party in it, with a dozen men taking it in turns to roast the red-faced groom. Snatches of their anecdotes drifted out into the rest of the bar, only to be drowned out by the gales of honking cheers which followed.

  Bette slipped through the crowd, head down, turning to fit through the smallest of gaps. Still cold and damp from the night outside, she was enveloped in the smells of the drinkers. Musky cologne, sandalwood and leather, the metallic tang of stale beer, a sweet gust of bourbon as someone spoke. She pressed between the different smells of smokers and vapers; men drenched in aftershave, and men drinking alone, reading their papers. She saw eyes turn toward her, she saw winks and knowing looks. She felt hands on her waist as someone let her go by, she heard a conversation quieten, and then, as she passed them, erupt into laughter.

  A fat, white-haired man rested his laptop on a shallow ledge, a wire leading down to a socket somewhere, a spreadsheet scrolling before him. He switched to a different document as she walked by, and she saw his desktop was a picture of Rihanna, lounging on the beach, sandy and sultry and forty years his junior.

  A woman stood with a crowd of men in suits, holding a glass of white wine. The men talked loudly amongst themselves. The woman, who was not short, still seemed smaller than them. She held her glass close to her, and watched the man who was speaking. Sometimes she smiled thinly. Mostly she just watched. As Bette made her way to the end of the bar, the woman glanced up at her, and rolled her eyes. A minute gesture, over in a second. The woman once more watching her colleagues, smiling her thin smile. Bette hung her jacket in the pub’s disabled toilet—and baby changing—safe behind an ‘out of order’ sign on it so old the sharpie was fading. It was also where they kept the vacuum cleaner and the marketing tat the brewery sent. She felt in her pocket for the red paper packet, but she left it there, for now.

  “You’re late.”

  Ben was the manager, three years younger than her, a lad with small eyes and choppy highlights pushed into somewhat of a quiff. He had flames tattooed around one wrist which he was going to elaborate on until it was a “full Japanese sleeve”. He was just waiting to find the right place apparently.

  Bette looked at the clock. “No, I’m not. It’s only five to.”

  Ben’s small eyes lit up.

  “Ah! But what did I say at the last staff meeting? About changeover? I said that all staff should arrive fifteen minutes before their shift starts so that any information from the previous shift can be passed on before their shift begins. This is to stop the need for chat during a shift, and give our customers a more focussed and efficient service brigade.”

  Bette looked into his small eyes.

  “Yes. And I said I would if I got paid for it. And you said we wouldn’t, as it wasn’t part of our shift. And I said I won’t do it. Because I’m not getting paid for it.”

  Ben’s small eyes narrowed even more.

  “Do I have to remind you of the terms of your contract which clearly state that you must make every effort to be present for all shifts allocated for you, and any extra hours as requested by your team leader? That time is for your colleague to pass on information about their shift, and for an expedient changeover.”

  Bette held his gaze.

  “Emma, who does Thursdays and Sundays, lives so far away that she would have to get the bus an hour before the usual one, just to get here fifteen minutes earlier. That means another hour of childcare to pay, and a wait when she arrives—just to be told the Peroni has run out and the pan in the gents is blocked up again. It’s ridiculous. I won’t do it.”

  Monkshood—for pressure in the workplace.

  Ben’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson, which somehow made him look even younger. He was about to reply when Bette saw a man at the bar, holding out a twenty, talking over his shoulder to his gang of mates at a table some way away.

  Bette turned on her heel just as her manager seemed about to speak, and stood waiting for the man to turn around. When he did, he beamed and looked her up and down with appreciation.

  “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? Yes, you are very much indeed! Isn’t that lovely!”

  “What can I get you?” Bette asked, setting her jaw. Dog’s Bane and Wolf’s Bane. She could see the red and gold packet in her mind’s eye.

  “Ohohoho! Oh now, that’s the question isn’t it? What can you do for me? Indeed!”

  “I’ll give you more time to choose then,” Bette said in an even tone. She turned away to the glasswasher, which had finished its thrumming. The boiling steam made her flinch as she lifted out a heavy basket of pint glasses, and carried them back to the bar. Monkshood, Wolf’s Bane, Old Woman’s Hood.

  The man with the twenty was still watching her, but now Ben went to serve him instead.

  “I’m sorry sir, what can I get you?”

  “Don’t worry son, I like a girl with spirit!” He smiled at Ben unpleasantly. Ben nodded, as if this was the most natural thing in the world and moved on to serve someone else.

  Bette finished unloading the hot glasses and returned the basket to the end of the bar, only to find the man with the twenty still waiting for her. He ordered this time, but when she took the note, he tugged it just out of her reach. She had to wait and take it when he let her. Bette slammed the till drawer shut as loudly as she could, and put his change on the bar in a puddle of beer. Tiger’s Bane, Dog’s Bane. Old Woman’s Hood to restore my Yang, and take away my pains.

  Jay arrived at eight. He started later than the others because he had training. Jay was good at football apparently. He had been at The Academy when he was a kid, and now he was training for the real deal. Jay was getting Ben tickets to one of the big games of the season.

  Jay was, Bette knew, not a footballer at all, but a habitual liar who supplemented his wages by selling various controlled substances in the smoking area outside the front of the pub. Bette had no concrete proof, but Jay’s rounds of the pub definitely had more to them than collecting used glassware, and he was on very friendly terms with the twitchiest members of their cl
ientele. Bette didn’t care about the dealing, except she was sure that Ben paid Jay from seven and not eight. She was equally sure that if the till ever came out light, Ben would blame her and not Goldenballs.

  Bette let Jay serve a gang of rowdy blokes, who got him to sing with them before they would order. Ben was in the back doing a stock-take, so she went out to collect glasses and wipe down tables. She stacked up the pint pots until they were taller than her. As she reached up to put a last glass on the top, the man in front of her reached out and squeezed her breast. He leered at her, and then laughed; a cloud of foul breath in her face.

  Bette brought the pint glass back down, and tightened her fingers around it, at face height. Her eyes staring into his. Her mouth a straight line. She frowned.

  “Watch it Shagger, she’ll bloody glass you!”

  The group erupted into complete hysterics and they banged their pints on the table and bellowed incoherently. “SHAGGER! SHAGGER! FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!” their eyes sparkled, they clashed their pints together; they licked their lips.

  ‘Shagger’ laughed too, but he took a step away from Bette. As she turned, she heard him speak very quietly.

  “Fucking Dyke Bitch.”

  She felt her ears redden as she walked back to the bar. She quietly dismantled the tower of pint pots into the empty basket. Fu Zi. One gram to be eaten with dinner, to relieve your stress at work.

  It was nearly nine before there was any kind of a lull. Bette tidied up. Jay had left his area in disarray, and was showing Ben a clip on his phone at the other end of the bar. Bette cleared bottles, she gathered glasses, she wiped down, she tipped the drip trays into the wastage bucket, she emptied the bin. She refilled the crisps, noticed that two optics were empty, and then pushed the big wheeled recycling tub into the back room.

  She went to the disabled toilet for a piss, and, as she sat there, she could smell the mop bucket, the box of urinal cakes, the stale dust of the hoover. Her foot slipped slightly on a pile of leaflets which were damp from being next to the toilet. ‘BOOK NOW FOR YOUR WORK’S CHRISTMAS PARTY!’. They had the hare chasing the hounds across the full moon, but had left off the hill, so they were more like flying reindeer. The hare’s ears and legs were long, and the hounds’ tails were curled under as they ran away.

  She reached the red packet down from her leather jacket. She opened it. There was a fine brown powder with a faint earthy smell. It was very dull to look at. The label was only marginally more interesting.

  Wolf’s Bane. Tiger’s Bane. For stomach complaints and rheumatoid aches. How much is a gram? I bet Jay would know.

  Bette could hear the hubbub in the bar outside and thought of Shagger and his mates. She thought about the man with the twenty. She thought about whoever squeezed her bum on the bus. She pressed her bruises again. They still hurt.

  She had been grabbed by a customer in the smoking area at the front, just the week before. He had pushed her against the back of the shelter, away from the road, and kissed her, pinning her against the wall with his knee and his hands, and pushing his tongue into her mouth. She had struggled, but he was stronger than she was. His thumbs had dug into her arms. She could see past his ear, to where three men sat drinking. One had looked over with only mild interest. He had stared her in the eye for a moment, and then continued his conversation. Bette had been saved by the arrival of Jay, who was ostensibly also on the hunt for empties, but was quite probably distributing Spice instead. The man had jumped back, and let go of Bette, then, laughing as he did it.

  “Just a bit of fun mate! You know how it is!” Jay had looked at Bette, and then back at the man. He had nodded, and picked up some glasses. Bette had run to the disabled toilet and been violently sick. She had told Ben she had a vomiting bug and got the bus home. She had called in sick the next day too, and spent the day in bed. Ben texted her that he would have to let her go if she missed any more shifts, as per her contract which allowed only two sick days per year. So she went back to work.

  Jay wouldn’t meet her eye. She hadn’t seen the man who kissed her since, but the man who saw it happen had been in every day. When he ordered his drinks, he always stared directly at her breasts. He didn’t look away when she spoke to him, only when she put the drink down on the bar.

  She put the red packet down the side of her bra, where the curve of the padding covered the bulge.

  When she came out, the pub was heaving, Jay and Ben were both serving, and Ben shot her a glare as she arrived behind the bar.

  Bette’s attention was dependent on which of the customers were acting like pricks, which meant she swerved the stag party at the far left completely. They were honking and hooting incoherently, shouting the words ‘Fanny Batter’ over and over again at the poor stag, who looked as if he might vomit. She could understand why.

  Instead she served three hipsters. Two had topknots, one had a tattoo on his chest, and the third had a moustache which must surely have been attached to his nose along with his tortoiseshell glasses. One of them refused to look her in the eye at all and addressed a point above her head, one stared at her breasts the entire time, and the other waited until she bent to get his Microbrewed 6.8%ABV Liquorice and Beetroot Stout out of the fridge, and then stared at her arse. None of them gave her a tip.

  She served two salesmen in shiny suits, with spray tans and estuary accents, who called her Darlin’ every third word. She served the woman she had seen before, who ordered a white wine spritzer, and said to keep the change. The stag party hadn’t noticed that they weren’t getting served as they had moved on to looking on their phones to find a strip club nearby. One of them was shouting they should just get Ubers but their debate was hampered by being shitfaced.

  She collected the empties from the bar in front of her, and herded them towards the glass washer. It had two full baskets by it, and a basket of steaming clean glasses wedged precariously to one side. Jay was still serving at the other end and she couldn’t see Ben. She served the last few waiting, and was picking up the basket of hot glasses, when someone spoke loudly behind her.

  “Fucking disgrace in here… I told you we should’ve gone to the Cock and Trumpet. The service is so much faster in the Cock.”

  She turned to see a man in his sixties, piercing blue eyes, grey hair swept back and a Harley Davidson leather jacket which was left open—he clearly could not zip it around his gut. He was staring right back at her and smiled a sarcastic, clearly practised smile, all teeth and cold dead eyes.

  “I’m so sorry darling, I was joking of course! How appalling of me, No? I beg your pardon.”

  The last phrase was accompanied with a flourish of one arm and a small bow.

  Bette unpacked the hot glasses onto the shelves, carefully. She put the basket down before turning back to the man. A gram with breakfast. No more than four per day.

  “What can I get you?”

  His eyes drilled into hers. All his fake bonhomie was gone, and she could see her deliberate delay had been noted.

  “I will have two bottles of a decent Pinot Grigio. Something around twenty quid, not that shit you give the cattle, and three balloons of cognac.”

  “How many glasses do you need for the wine?” Bette did not smile.

  He turned and gave Bette a view of the people stood behind him. She could see three young men and two young women. They all seemed slightly nervous, their eyes fixed on the dead-eyed man buying their drinks. Their cheeks were flushed, all smiling and on the verge of giggles. Clearly, they were impressed to be with this man, whoever he was.

  “What shall I tell her? That the whole lot’s for me?” his voice was hammy again, a pantomime for their benefit. Maybe he was an actor of some kind. She had seen Nigel Havers once, and she had served one of the blokes from Holby City last month, but he rang no bells at all. They all roared with laughter.

  She put six glasses with the bottles and the three cognacs. He paid on his card. Michael R Langford. She had never heard of him. Maybe he was a director then, or
a playwright? She placed the EPOS handset on the bar. The prompt on the screen asked if he wished to add a gratuity. He didn’t. Michael R Langford whipped his card out as soon as it completed.

  They took themselves away to a booth where the men let Michael R Langford sit at the back of the booth. The girls sat either side of him, and then the men filled the banquette to either side. She could see him making great show of pouring the wine, tasting it, and pretending to vomit a little. Gales of laughter all round.

  It was after midnight by the time Bette was able to stop again. Three hours of serving at the bar, of faces trying to catch her attention, of changing barrels, of carrying crates and collecting glasses. The till was groaning with money, and Jay had been given a fifty-pound tip by one of the stag party. Bette thought either they’d put an extra zero on the end and then been too embarrassed to say so, or he was giving them more than pints for their money.

  Ben had left half an hour ago, as he was going on a Tinder date and needed to get the bus. He had left Jay the keys to lock up as Jay was there first in the morning. This left Jay and Bette to serve, clear and clean down, put up chairs, and get rid of the punters. It was a Wednesday, only the very determined were left.

  Michael R Langford was still in his booth, as were the girls and two of the young men. The Hare and Hounds stayed open until one, even on weekdays, so they had over half an hour of drinking still to enjoy. They all looked drunk now, the girls especially. Michael R Langford was tipping the last drops of the fourth bottle on the table into a glass and stared at it petulantly, the sulky child routine grotesque on his craggy old face. As Bette passed with her cleaning gear, he looked up and shouted.

  “A little service if you please, miss! A little service for me and my fine young companions! We must strike while the iron in their blood is hot! Make hay while the sun shines in their eyes! What did Sam Beckett say? ‘They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more’, let us not rob these sweet young children of that glimmer of light!”