Anachronist

by Andrew Hastie

  Shags took a large swig from a cheap plastic bottle of cider, the type where the sides caved in as you drank. When he finished, he belched so loudly that everyone laughed. It was contagious — even Josh in his dark mood couldn’t help himself. The drink reminded him of Caitlin’s invitation and he stood up.

  ‘You going?’ asked Benny.

  ‘Just remembered I was supposed to meet someone.’

  ‘What’s that? You got a hot date?’ said Lils with a wink.

  ‘Yeah. Something like that.’

  Josh walked away, but before he reached the gates Shags caught up with him.

  ‘We had a whip round,’ he said, emptying a handful of coins into Josh’s palm — it was probably all they had. ‘Have one on us, yeah?’

  Josh grinned his thanks and walked out of the gates, turning north towards the tube station. He needed to get to Highgate.

  12

  The Gig

  The Flask was in Highgate, which was far outside of his usual territory — Josh tended to stay away from the north side of the Thames. There were rules and borders that needed to be respected between the various gangs; moving outside of Lenin’s sphere of influence made him vulnerable. If one of the Kurdish or Albanian gangs caught him out alone, it would end very badly.

  The red bricks of the pub were turning orange in the warm evening sun as he walked up the street towards it. He could hear the happy chatter of people standing outside and slowed down, his resolve waning. The street was lined with very expensive cars, and his hand brushed instinctively along their paintwork as he considered his options. He could leave now in one of these fine motors and make it more of a business trip, or he could walk into a pub full of strangers to meet a girl he hardly knew.

  The outer courtyard was packed with an eclectic mix of people: drinking, smoking and generally enjoying themselves. There was a bar strung with fairy lights and lined with impatient customers waving twenty-pound notes at the flustered bar staff. Josh tried to count the donated cash in his pocket. It was certainly not going to go very far in this place, but still something made him stay.

  This was how the other half lived, he thought to himself, what people did when they wanted to relax while he was usually trying to break into their cars. Josh never bothered with the pubs on the Bevin estate. They had grilles over the windows and were guarded by doormen from the Russian mafia. Here he could be someone else, outside of Lenin’s world, at least for one evening. For one night he could forget about all the other shit.

  There was no sign of Caitlin, but there were posters for ‘Infinitum 12.016’ on the side of the bar, and some of the drinkers were wearing T-shirts similar to hers. The more he studied the crowd, the more he realised there was something unusual about some of them.

  Mrs B. would have called them ‘eccentric’, dressed in old-fashioned suits, with long coats and quirky beards. They were older than him, most in their late-twenties. As he admired their different styles, he began to wonder whether he should have made more of an effort with what he was wearing — there wasn’t a hoodie in sight.

  He was just beginning to wonder if he’d been stood up when he spotted her, or rather she spotted him. Caitlin appeared out of the crush and walked over to him with a pint of Guinness in one hand and a shot glass full of some dark spirit in the other. She looked like something from another age: her velvet coat was so long it nearly touched the floor, and her leather boots stretched halfway up her thighs. She reminded him of a pantomime he’d seen once.

  ‘Hi, medal collector — or was it metal detector?’ she said with a half-smile, handing him the shot glass. It smelt like rum.

  ‘Josh,’ he replied, realising he hadn’t told her his name. He should’ve given her a fake one, but he hadn’t thought through his cover story. He would have made a terrible spy.

  ‘Josh. Cheers,’ she said, clinking her glass against his. ‘I’m glad you could make it. Come and meet the gang.’ She grabbed his empty hand, turned on her heel and ploughed back into the throng. He was dragged along behind, trying to keep up with her as she slid between the revellers towards the main entrance to the pub.

  ‘I love this place,’ she said, letting go of his hand. ‘But it’s getting too bloody popular these days.’ She pulled open the door. ‘It’s nearly four hundred years old — it’s like going back in time.’

  As he stepped inside, Josh immediately knew what she meant.

  The interior of the pub was dimly lit by low-energy bulbs; each one looked as if it had been taken from one of the many old radio sets his grandad used to keep in the shed. The low, sagging ceiling was supported by worm-eaten wooden joists, which separated the space into a random collection of odd-sized rooms.

  Caitlin’s friends had commandeered a large side room, one that looked more like a Dickensian curiosity shop: two of its walls were made of bullseye glass panes, and the other was taken up entirely by shelves of old-fashioned glass bottles. Even the table that they were sitting round resembled something from a pirate ship that had been cut down to fit into the space.

  When they walked in, everyone was deep in conversation. In the centre of the table was cluster of empty glasses, Josh realised he wasn’t going to be able to stand them a round.

  ‘Guys!’ bellowed Caitlin over the noise, pushing Josh forward into the room. ‘This is Josh.’

  Some of them looked up and gave him a nod of acknowledgement; others blatantly ignored him.

  ‘Not another foundling, Cat?’ resonated a deep, well-spoken voice from behind them.

  For some reason, this seemed to suddenly attract the group’s attention. Josh could see from the expectant faces of Cat’s friends that this was the overture to an argument.

  ‘Josh, let me introduce Dalton Eckhart. Possibly the most arrogant, infuriating man in England.’

  ‘Why thank you, my dear,’ said Dalton sarcastically, holding his hand out to Josh.

  Dalton was a tall, handsome man, immaculately dressed in a dark tweed three-piece suit. He had a well-trimmed beard that made him look older than he was. Josh shook his hand firmly, trying to match the pressure that Dalton was exerting. There was a moment when something seemed to pass between them — he felt a tingling sensation creep along his arm like pins and needles.

  ‘Pleasure,’ Dalton added in a voice that was straight out of Eton. ‘One rarely ever gets to meet anyone from Caitlin’s charity work.’

  His expression was hard to read, but his eyes were studying Josh keenly, in a way that made you feel instantly inferior. Dalton let go of Josh’s hand.

  ‘Hi, I’m Sim,’ said a small voice next to Dalton.

  Sim was not much older than Josh and looked like a student, with a mop of shaggy blond hair. ‘Don’t take any notice of Dalton,’ he whispered as he placed a tray of drinks down on the table and shook Josh’s hand weakly. It was like holding a wet fish. ‘He has an innate ability to get under your skin. Thinks he owns the place.’

  ‘Well, actually, he kind of does,’ admitted Caitlin. ‘But that’s not the point. He’s still bloody rude.’

  ‘What did he mean by charity work?’ asked Josh.

  ‘Just ignore him. He’s a snob, trapped in the old ways. Still believes in a class system. Sim, I think a drink would be in order?’

  Sim handed them each a glass. ‘Dalton’s a total arse.’

  He gave Josh a Jack Daniels and Coke, one of his favourites — never having been a big fan of beer. He was about to ask how Sim knew when he remembered the little money he had. Apart from the change rattling around in his pocket, he only had his mum’s credit card and there was a high chance that it would be declined — particularly with the size of this group: there were at least eight or nine of them squashed round the table.

  ‘I should pay for this.’

  ‘Not a chance, you’re my guest,’ Caitlin replied, holding up her hand. ‘Anyway, Dalton’s buying so I’d make the most of it.’

  Caitlin pointed to each one of the group in turn and told Josh their names, b
ut the combination of the dope and the alcohol was making it difficult for him to concentrate. Dalton came back with two helpers carrying trays loaded with more drinks, and before Josh knew it he was feeling rather merry. After they had finished the second round, Caitlin went off to organise a third, leaving him with a table full of strangers.

  At first Josh had thought they all must be academics: they had that arrogant, carefree air of students and they all dressed strangely, as if they’d been to a vintage charity shop. He’d assumed it was all part of being a superfan of the band, since the pub seemed to be full of steampunks, but when he looked closer he realised how authentic Caitlin’s friends’ clothes appeared to be compared to the others.

  ‘So where did she dig you up from?’ asked one of the group, who Josh thought was called ‘Lisa’ or ‘Lyra’. She was very pretty, but had wild eyes that seemed to stare straight into your soul.

  ‘The library,’ he answered, still trying to think of a plausible cover story.

  ‘I bet they don’t see many of your type in there,’ she said with a grin — she was flirting with him.

  ‘Quite enough of that, Lyra,’ Sim remonstrated as he sat down between them. ‘Ignore my sister — she’s a total tart. Do you come from around here?’

  ‘No, South London. Never been this far north.’

  Lyra chuckled from behind Sim and said something under her breath that Sim ignored.

  ‘Never been to Highgate? It has the most famous graveyard in London. Karl Marx is buried there.’

  ‘And Milton,’ Lyra added.

  ‘And Faraday.’

  ‘Malcolm McLaren.’

  ‘And Rossetti . . .’

  The game continued round the table, naming various famous dead people that were interred in the cemetery until it came to Dalton. He took a long sip of his beer before he spoke.

  ‘Something you may be interested to know, Josh: there are actually fifty-nine soldiers of the Second World War lying dead in the cold earth of Highgate.’

  The silence was deafening. The game was spoilt, and all eyes had turned on Josh.

  ‘Why would I find that interesting?’ asked Josh.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe something to do with —’

  ‘Your interest in military history,’ interrupted Caitlin as she put down the tray of drinks. Her expression was difficult to read. Josh thought he saw a glint of a warning to Dalton, but couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Just time for one more before the gig starts,’ she said, handing out the drinks. Which, to everyone’s relief, gave them all an excuse to change the subject.

  Caitlin sat down next to Josh and raised her pint.

  ‘Cheers!’ she said as she tapped his glass. ‘Still glad you came? I know these guys can be a little eccentric so don’t take them too seriously.’

  ‘Did you tell him about the medal?’ Josh asked, staring at Dalton.

  ‘Of course not. I just said you were interested in the war. Don’t pay him any attention.’

  Josh couldn’t shake the idea that Dalton knew about what had happened with the medal.

  ‘So what are you into?’ asked Caitlin. ‘Other than war memorabilia?’

  ‘Cars.’ He thought it was wise to stay as close to the truth as possible.

  ‘What, like a mechanic?’

  ‘No. Like designing them.’ He couldn’t help himself — the lie just created itself instantly, driven by his need to impress her.

  ‘Wow. Which course?’

  ‘CAD at Coventry. It’s supposed to be the best in the country.’

  She looked impressed. ‘Good for you. I would never have taken you for a student.’

  ‘Really? What did you think I was, then?’ he asked, taking a drink to calm his nerves.

  ‘Oh, you don’t want to know. It was silly really.’

  ‘You can’t drop that bomb and walk away.’

  She looked down into her lap as if embarrassed. ‘Well, I thought that maybe you were a thief and that you had stolen the medal.’

  ‘Yeah I get that a lot. Something about my swarthy complexion.’ He screwed up one eye and pulled a face.

  ‘Ignore me,’ she giggled, ‘and stop that — you look ridiculous!’ She hit him on the arm.

  ‘Now tell me something about you,’ he said, rubbing his arm as if it hurt.

  ‘Nothing much to say. Studying History at Oxford. I work in the library during the summer, stay with my godparents in Camden. Drink too much, smoke too much, the usual kind of stuff.’

  He wanted to ask her about boyfriends, but knew better than to go there. He would have to wait for her to make the first move. She was way out of his usual league, and he needed to play it cool.

  ‘What’s Oxford like?’

  ‘Beautiful, and full of brilliant people — they make me look completely stupid.’

  ‘I can’t believe that,’ he said, making a mental note never to go there. ‘I bet you know loads of things.’

  ‘Ha. You think so? Ask me a question.’

  He thought for a moment, then the years of having to endure his mother’s quiz shows finally came in useful.

  ‘Which English king was the last to die in battle?’

  Caitlin nearly spat out her drink. ‘Blimey, I was expecting something a little more easy to start!’

  ‘Do you want an easier one?’ he asked, apologetically.

  ‘No. No. It’s fine. Has to be something in the fifteenth century — give me a second.’ She screwed up her eyes and caressed the dragon pendant on her necklace.

  ‘Do you want a clue?’

  ‘Shh!’

  ‘I’m going to have to hurry you.’

  ‘Wait. I know this.’ Her hand waved about in the air. ‘It was Bosworth, which means...’ Her fingers counted out against her thumb. She opened her eyes. ‘Richard the Third!’

  He clapped his hands together. ‘You’re good. That was a third-round question. Even my mum had difficulty with that one.’

  ‘Is your mother a historian?’ Caitlin asked eagerly.

  ‘No,’ he laughed, ‘more of a collector of useless facts. An armchair expert.’

  She shook her head. ‘No such thing as a useless fact. She sounds like a very clever lady.’

  She was once, he thought to himself, and I think she would like you very much.

  Josh wanted to spend more time with Caitlin, but she’d made some lame excuse to go off and argue with Dalton. He managed to glean more about her from Sim, how she was an adopted sister. He wouldn’t go into details about what had happened to her parents, but she had lived with his family since she was ten. Sim was obviously a maths genius, who was about to start working at a highly respected institution that Josh had never heard of. He also figured out that Sim really liked the little dark-haired girl in the corner, whose name was Thea, and that he was too shy to ask her out.

  From his accent Josh assumed that Sim had been to private school, but in other ways he really wasn’t that different from him, and Josh couldn’t help but like the guy.

  Apparently the band was about to start. Caitlin finished the argument with Dalton and tried ineffectively to get everyone to leave the ‘snug’ and make their way through to a large room at the back.

  Dalton, who looked rather sheepish after Caitlin had finished talking to him, took control and marched them all out in military fashion.

  Josh stayed back, but Caitlin caught his arm.

  ‘Ready for some dancing, then, medallion man?’ she asked with a slightly inebriated snigger.

  ‘I was going to shoot off actually.’

  ‘Why?’ She looked genuinely surprised.

  ‘It’s not really my thing.’

  ‘So what is?’

  ‘Not this. You’re all public school and loaded — I’ve got about a fiver in change.’ The truth slipped out before his drunken brain had time to filter it.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Josh. They like you.’ Then she saw his doubtful expression. ‘Well, Dalton doesn’t like anyone other than himself s
o don’t take any notice of him.’ Her eyes narrowed.‘Stay for a couple of songs — they really are awesome live.’

  The sounds of a guitar tuning up rose over the chatter, and the bar began to empty.

  ‘I tell you what.’ She held out her hand as if they were making a bet. ‘If you make it through the first set, I’ll help you find a collector tomorrow. For your grandfather’s medal?’

  He’d totally forgotten about the damn medal. Somehow it had slipped his mind. He took her soft, delicate hand and shook it gently.

  ‘Deal.’

  13

  Necropolis

  The sound of the last song was still buzzing in his ears as he followed Caitlin and the others out into the cold night air. It was way past midnight; the sky was a clear dark velvet, lit only by a full moon, which painted the landscape in silvery tones.

  The pub crowd had emptied out onto the street and were either standing staring into the pale light of their smartphones or heading towards the high street in search of taxis. They were like some strange circus troop singing and dancing their way into the night. Josh watched them go, undecided as to whether he should follow them. But he was still buzzing from the gig, and there was nothing to go back home for — at least, nothing he cared about right now.

  Caitlin and her friends had broken away from the main group and disappeared down a side street. When Josh caught up with them, he could see that they were heading for a church. Its silvered steeple stood out against the curtain of stars like a gothic ice sculpture. Josh had no idea where they were going or what they were planning to do, which suited him. He didn’t want to think about anything.

  As they walked through the churchyard, he caught up with Sim.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Josh whispered.

  ‘Another party!’ Sim said with a grin. ‘A special one.’

  ‘In a graveyard?’

  Sim smirked. ‘Kind of.’

  At the back of the churchyard was a tall brick wall; it was covered with ivy and stretched away in both directions. The group made for a dark, shadowy part of the wall and seemed to vanish into it. As Josh got closer, he saw there was a door, a wooden gate bound with rusted iron, and at its centre was a symbol, a snake devouring its own tail.