by Ed James
Early lunchtime drinkers. How many of them would merge into all-day boozers?
At the next table, a guy in his forties lay back in his chair, soaking up the fresh sun. Shaved head, tat-shop Ray-ban clones, maroon T-shirt with a little fish logo, wiry hair poking out of his pale-blue shorts, and, of course, a whole canvass of tattoos, chief among them a red rose that climbed up his entire arm.
Squaddie, for sure.
Hmm . . .
Hunter finished the dregs of his pint and got up to stretch. The bright light bouncing off the guy’s glasses nearly blinded him. ‘Excuse me, mate?’
He lifted up his shades, his eyes barely open. ‘What’s that?’
‘Could you watch these seats for me?’
‘No worry, mate.’ Northern accent. Manchester. Maybe Liverpool or anywhere between. Rugby League country.
‘Cheers.’ Hunter trudged into the bar, ignoring yet another roar of laughter from the hen party. Even though the doors to the outside bar area were open, it was cool inside from the industrial air conditioning. Cool and dark. Took a while for his eyes to adjust. Long marble bar, a tattooed guy sitting at the far end, lost in his mobile.
Hunter nodded at the barman. ‘Two pints of Sagres, please.’
‘Coming up, sir.’ The barman flipped on the taps over two glasses. Short dark hair, designer stubble, practiced movements, but sulking like a teenager walking around a supermarket with his mum.
Hunter reached into his pocket, unfolded a sheet of paper, and placed it on the bar. ‘Do you recog— Sorry, do you know this man?’
The bartender huffed out a sigh as he flipped off both taps. ‘Listen, my friend, English police officers already ask about Harry Jack.’
Hunter gave a warm smile. ‘This isn’t about Harry.’ He tapped the photo again. ‘Have a look.’
The barman gave the tiniest glance at the photograph and shook his head slowly. ‘Sorry.’
‘Big guy.’ Hunter put his hand a few inches above his head. ‘Accent like mine.’
‘I see many people here, my friend.’ The barman dumped both glasses on the bartop, the handles facing out. ‘Six euro.’ A little nod at another customer.
‘Cheers.’ Hunter’s mobile rattled in his pocket. A text from Finlay.
SERIOUSLY MATE! NEED ANY HELP?
Hunter pocketed his phone and handed over a ten-euro note. ‘Keep the change.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ A smile sparked on the barman’s face. ‘I will watch for that man.’
‘Cheers, boss.’ Hunter carried the glasses by the handles and stepped out of the way as Chantal and a couple of the hens danced their way into the bar.
Chantal was a few steps behind and looked every inch as bored as Hunter.
He stepped back into the blinding light and put one beer on his table, one on his neighbour’s. ‘Thanks, mate.’
The neighbour slid his shades down his nose, frowning at the fizzing beer. ‘What’s that for?’
‘Looking after my seat.’ Hunter sat down and took a big gulp. Cold and crisp. Lovely. He rubbed at his wrist.
Chantal came out of the bar alongside the skinny girl, both ladies skipping like they were trying to convince each other they were having the time of their life. Neither seemed particularly convincing.
His neighbour frowned over the top of his shades. ‘Come on, die young?’
Hunter held up his right wrist, showing his tattoo. ‘It’s an army thing, mate.’
His neighbour shifted his chair, almost sparking fire from the slabs as he ground the legs forward. He offered a hairy hand. ‘Ricky.’
Hunter shook it, getting the old masonic thumb press for his troubles. ‘Craig.’
‘You a squaddie, too?’
‘Ex.’ Hunter almost winced. Shite. Keep up the cover. Can’t say you’re a cop, you daft bastard. ‘I’m in private security now.’ He took another sip of beer. ‘You?’
‘Still in, mate.’ Ricky’s eyes glazed over, like he wasn’t in southern Portugal any more. ‘Corporal. Just back from Syria. Brutal, mate, brutal.’
Hunter nodded. ‘Worse than Kandahar?’
‘You see action there?’
Another sip, the lump in Hunter’s throat almost throbbing. ‘Two Afghan tours plus one in Iraq. Trouble with Syria is the bloody Russians. I swear. In Afghanistan and Iraq, it was us against the bad guys. Too much pissing about in Syria, mate.’
‘Shitty business, innit?’ Ricky settled into his pint, clearing half in one long gulp. ‘Worst way to make a living, I swear. If I had my time again, I’d pay attention at school.’ He grinned. ‘Damn it, I’d actually go.’ He bellowed out a laugh.
‘Story of my life, mate.’ Hunter toyed with showing him the photo. Not yet. No point in seeming too keen. ‘Feels like I’m back on base, though. Seen a few squaddies round here already.’
‘Can’t bloody get away from them.’ Another gulp of lager, then Ricky’s expression darkened. ‘Tell you something. Got chatting to a bunch of lads yesterday evening. Matt, Matty, something like that and his mate. Big prick. Thought he was something. John? Sean? Some nobody name anyway.’
Hunter drank some beer, his pulse racing. ‘Aye?’
‘Pair of pricks pretending to be squaddies. Can you believe it? Cheeky bastards. Thought it would impress the birds or something.’
Hunter looked around the place. The walls seemed a good twenty metres or so further away than when they’d started drinking. ‘This was here?’
‘Yeah, right here.’ Ricky drilled a finger into the table and snarled into his pint. ‘Said they’d been in Kandahar, but the story didn’t stack up. I kept prodding at it, finding gaping holes in it. Arseholes.’
‘Didn’t they look the part?’
‘Well, they was big lads. Taller than you even. Muscly, you know?’ Another gulp. ‘But it’s all mirror muscles with these lads, right? Think they’re in the Premiership.’ He started lifting his arms like he was raising dumbbells. ‘Like that in front of the mirror for hours, mate.’ He scowled, darkness clouding his eyes. ‘I’m all about functional strength. Calisthenics and kettlebells. All a man needs.’
‘What do you sling?’
‘Sixteen kilo. You?’
‘Just upped it to two twenty-four kilos.’
‘Hardcore.’
‘Until I dropped one on my bedroom floor. My girlfriend’s making me put down towels in case they get too heavy. Doesn’t feel so hardcore when you’re swinging on Egyptian cotton.’
‘Ha! Tell me about it, mate. Twenty-four’s a lot.’ Ricky went back to his beer. ‘Anyway, this pair of pricks looked like they preferred a needle in the arse. Matty and Sean.’
‘Definitely Sean?’
‘I think so. Like that Bond actor.’ Ricky snarled. ‘Wankers. If I see them again . . . I swear.’ He wrapped his fingers round the beer glass like it was a neck.
Hunter took another sip and nodded. Sean Tulloch was here, then. Just, where?
He leaned forward and pushed the glass out of his reach, a futile attempt to slow down the day’s descent into long, dark inebriation. ‘Why do you reckon they were pretending to be squaddies?’
‘Just a feeling. Makes me sick.’ Another drink and Ricky didn’t have much beer left. He eyed Hunter. ‘Take it you’re not lying?’
Hunter laughed. ‘I’ve got the PTSD to show for it, mate.’
‘Right, yeah.’ Ricky’s stubbly eyebrows flicked up, a stray spike arcing its own way. ‘Don’t believe in it myself.’
‘It’s real, believe me.’ Hunter wrapped his hands around his beer. ‘So these blokes, fancy sorting them—’
Ricky shook his head, his eyes screwed tight behind his shades. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to get involved. I had a word in their ears and they pissed off, sharpish.’
Tulloch pissing off at a warning? That didn’t sound like him.
Then again, he knew the police were investigating him. Most likely didn’t want to get into any scrapes here.
The one crime the l
ocals would actually crack down on was fisticuffs in the street, since none of those squaddies and other pissheads could be trusted to respect the Marquess of Queensberry rules, or even to have heard of them.
If Tulloch was smart, he’d keep his hands in his pockets. If.
Hunter took another sip of beer. ‘Have you seen them today?’
‘If I had, they’d be in hospital.’ It looked like Ricky meant it.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Chantal
Chantal dumped the glass on the table and wiped her chin like she’d downed the shot.
Playing the odds here. Going to get caught sooner or later.
Their group was thinning out a bit, but still at least twenty-strong. No sign of them moving on from the hotel bar, either. Could this really be where all the action was?
She leaned forward to pick up her wine, sunlight bouncing off the glass. ‘So, you were saying about last night?’
Bekah looked like she was going to be sick. She licked her lips a few times and stuck her tongue out. ‘Yeah, there were these lads here. Big strapping sorts, you know?’ She puffed up her cheeks. ‘A couple of them were Scotch, like you. One of them kept asking me about my fanny. Can you believe it?’
‘I can believe anything.’ Chantal grinned at her, hoping it looked genuine enough. ‘Did you say they were squaddies?’
‘My brother’s in the army. They acted like him, bunch of wankers.’
‘I’m looking for a friend of my boyfriend’s. Did you meet anyone called—’
Another roar went up and a woman appeared with yet another tray. A bottle of some spirit lay on its side. Chunky and dark. Jägermeister. Nasty. The glasses were chunky tumblers, way bigger than single shot-glasses. The woman started tipping out measures, the size that a drunk aunt might give you at Christmas, though not in the Jain household.
Bekah snatched up two glasses and handed one to Chantal. ‘Here you go!’
Chantal took the glass. Sickly thick liquid sloshed over the side, running down her fingers. Horrible stuff.
The woman who’d bought the bottle joined them. Early forties, dyed-blonde hair and a crop top twenty years too young for her. She thrust out her hand. ‘I’m Kerry.’ Sounded Manc. When she smiled, her face lined like old leather. ‘You with the hen party?’
Chantal shook her head. ‘Bekah here grabbed me.’
‘Well, the more, the merrier.’ Kerry linked arms at her left elbow, Bekah took the right. ‘Here we go, girls!’
No getting out of this one. Chantal downed the shooter and hissed. Cloyingly sweet, like cough syrup. Disgusting. She put the glass down. Hope to all that was holy that this isn’t a huge waste of time.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Hunter
Ricky dumped two fresh pints down on the table. ‘Here you go, sunshine.’
‘Cheers, boss.’ Hunter was still halfway through his previous pint. Feeling it, already. Don’t let them stack up, you amateur. He checked over the other side of the bar area, shielding his eyes from the sun. The hen party was in full flow, as was the alcohol, and by the looks of it, Chantal was drowning in fake cheer. Seriously hope she’s getting something out of this, other than pissed.
He touched the beer to his lips and took a bite out of the crisp lager. ‘So, what are you doing over here? Holiday?’
‘On a month off, mate.’ Ricky pushed his shades up. ‘After the shit I’ve seen over in Syria, I thought I’d treat the wife to a nice little trip for my fortieth.’ Looked at least five years too late for that. Ricky slammed the glass upside down, like some sort of Viking. ‘Only thing is, our bloody son’s at home on his Jack Jones.’
Hunter frowned. ‘How old is he?’
‘Little bugger’s eighteen.’ Ricky growled at his empty glass, like that would refill it. ‘House’ll be a bloody bomb site by the time we get back.’ He lifted the fresh beer by the handle. ‘You?’
‘First holiday with my girlfriend.’ Hunter waved over at Chantal as she took a fresh shot glass. He got a wave before she started talking to another woman, much older than the waif who’d grabbed her.
Ricky smacked Hunter’s arm. ‘Jeez, mate! You’re punching above your weight there, aren’t you?’
‘Don’t say that to her.’ Hunter rubbed at his arm. Stung like a bastard.
Ricky aimed his finger like a rifle, straight at the woman next to Chantal. ‘See that bird she’s chatting to?’ He was pointing at a short woman in her mid-forties, blonde hair and a smile halfway to a snarl. ‘That’s me wife. Kerry.’ His eyes misted over. ‘She’s me best mate, man. Best thing in my life.’
‘I know the feeling.’
Ricky locked eyes with Hunter. ‘Do you?’ The deep intensity of the mad squaddie, trying to peer into the recesses of your soul, pull out any doubt over the statement, any hint of a lie. ‘Do you?’
Hunter nodded. ‘That’s how I feel about Chantal.’
‘Doesn’t sound that bad a name, mate.’ Ricky cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Oy! Get over here, you bitch!’
His wife rolled her eyes at Chantal and shouted back. ‘You’ll have to come over here, you daft bastard!’
‘No, you come here!’
TWENTY-NINE
Chantal
Kerry topped up Chantal’s glass again. ‘Here, you!’
‘You’re crazy!’ Bekah held hers out, thirsty for more.
‘Don’t talk to my husband about how crazy I am!’ Kerry joined in the countdown. ‘Five! Four! Three! Two! One!’
They linked their arms into Chantal’s and yanked them up, locking eyes with her. No choice but to down the drink. Flamed down her throat like heartburn. Feel like I’m going to vomit. She pulled her arms free, then dropped the glass on the nearest table. ‘That’s horrible.’
‘Thanks for that, love.’ Kerry bellowed with laughter. ‘I bought that.’
‘I mean, it’s too much. And I usually have it with Red Bull.’
‘Useless place has run out already.’ Kerry tutted. ‘Can you believe it?’ She tapped at her watch. ‘Not even one o’clock and there’s no Red Bull!’
‘It’s rubbish.’ Bekah burped into her hand, looking like she was going to be reacquainted with her lunch. If she’d even had any. ‘You’re not with us, are you?’
‘I am now!’ Kerry bellowed with raucous laughter. ‘No, I’m here with me husband.’ She nodded over to the other side. ‘See that bald bastard with that— Oooh, he’s lovely.’
Chantal clocked the object of her affections. Craig Hunter. ‘That’s my boyfriend.’
Kerry’s eyebrows flashed up and down. ‘What I wouldn’t give for . . .’ She gave him another long stare, then grabbed her bust. ‘Do you like my boobs? Got them for my fortieth. Me husband paid for them. They’re smashing, aren’t they?’ They barely moved when she shook them.
Bekah couldn’t take her eyes off them. ‘Can I have a feel?’
‘On you go, love.’
Bekah bit her lip as she honked the left breast. ‘Wow.’ She stared down at her flat chest. ‘I’ve thought about getting some tits.’
‘Best thing I’ve done.’ Kerry nodded at Chantal. ‘Do you want a feel?’
‘I’m good.’
‘Yeah, pair of tits like you’ve got.’ Kerry shook her head. ‘Wait till you have kids, love, then you’ll want to see what these are all about.’ She gave them another wiggle. ‘You’re not with this lot either?’
‘It’s mine and Craig’s first holiday together.’
‘Aw, that’s lovely.’
‘Aye, well. This is when I get to see how bad his personal hygiene is, right?’
Kerry slapped her on the arm as she roared with laughter. ‘Don’t you live together?’
‘Not yet.’
Kerry leaned over for the bottle and tipped a dribble into her glass. ‘Oh, Christ, it’s all gone!’
Chantal smiled at Bekah. ‘So, did you meet anyone called Sean?’
Bekah was struggling to keep both eyes open at the same time. ‘Didn�
��t get any names, sorry. They were lovely, though.’
‘Who was?’ Kerry sipped the spirit.
‘I’m looking for a friend of Craig’s.’ Chantal nodded over the way. ‘Supposed to be a surprise, but we can’t find him.’
‘Mum’s the word.’ Kerry tapped her nose.
Bekah coughed into her hand and swallowed something down. ‘We’re going to a club soon, if you want to come?’
Chantal looked at her watch. ‘It’s two o’clock.’
‘Is it? Well, we want to dance. Then we can come back for a siesta and hit it even harder later on. We were out till six this morning.’ Bekah stuck her arm in the air, fist clenched. ‘Whooo!’
‘You’re mental.’ Kerry grinned until her husband shouted something over at her. She bellowed something back. Words lost in another cheer from the hen party.
Chantal leaned in to Bekah. ‘Have you seen any of those squaddie lads?’
Bekah was too far gone. Fast train to Partyville, stopping at Dancefloor Snog and Kebab Central, terminating at Hold My Hair While I Spew.
Kerry nibbled at her lip and rested her head on Chantal’s shoulder. ‘Here, this lot are getting too crazy.’ Sickly shot breath. ‘It’s still happy hour, do you want to get some booze and head back to our fellas?’
Chantal nodded, then patted Bekah on the shoulder. ‘Come on.’ She whispered into the girl’s ear. Feel like a maiden aunt. ‘Go and get yourself some sleep.’
Bekah turned and walked off.
Kerry grabbed Chantal’s hand and pulled her into the hotel bar area, where she rested on the bartop like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
The barman smiled at her. He looked like he could come off the bench for Barcelona any second, slick hair and tight shirt ready for the cameras. One of those prospects who’d end up never making it in the big league, but would turn up in English football, swilling in the money. ‘What can I get you?’
