Doug returned to the computing lab, but found he
could no longer concentrate. No matter how hard he tried to apply his mind to
the computing assignment, it kept returning to the increasingly baffling
circumstances of Kal’s suicide. After a few hours of very slow progress he
decided to give up. He felt like getting drunk.
In the kitchen, Brian was finishing a plate of
pasta. “Was that Cindy I heard up here earlier?” he asked.
“Yeah, she turned up again this morning. We had some lunch and then she left.
Hey, would you have guessed she was an accountant?”
Brian raised his eyebrows. “Well I could tell she was smarter than the average
Essex girl. Is that what she told you then?”
“You don’t believe her?”
“Do you?”
Doug thought for a moment. “I don’t really know.” Then he smiled. “I’m not sure
I really care though.”
Brian cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. “You did, didn’t you?”
Doug nodded, his smile widening. “It was amazing. I can’t get her out of my
head.”
“Fantastic body!”
Doug frowned. “Yeah, you bastard.”
Brian heaped the last fork-f of pasta into his mouth and licked his lips
with a grin.
“Hey, fancy coming into town tonight? Jock and a couple of the lads are meeting
for a few pints and a curry.”
“You know what? That’s exactly what I fancy tonight!”
“Cool, we’re meeting at The White Hart around eight.”
“Let’s go early and get a few jars in before they arrive. They have a happy
hour from six until seven, don’t they?”
“Jesus. You are desperate aren’t you? Okay then. Just give me twenty minutes
and we’ll go.”
As they waited at the bus stop on Boundary road,
the sun was already sinking over the fields to the west, turning the sky
blood-red.
“It’s going to be a good night, I can feel it,” said Doug.
“Too bad we won’t remember any of it by tomorrow morning,” Brian said, with a
snigger.
“But that’s the beauty of hedonism. We revel in the moment, for tomorrow we
could die,” said Doug theatrically. They looked at each other for a moment as
they both thought of Kal.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah - Everyone dies, but not everyone lives, right?”
“Exactly! Hey - here’s our bus. On time for once.”
The White Hart was crowded as usual and it took a
good ten minutes before Doug managed to attract the attention of the barmaid.
“Four pints of bitter please love!” he shouted across the din.
“Not expecting the others yet are you?” asked Brian from behind.
“No, just thirsty,” replied Doug. “…and tired of waiting to be served!” he
said, raising his voice. The barmaid ignored him and started pulling the pints,
her eyes scanning the crowd for the next customer on her seemingly arbitrary
priority list. A forest of arms desperately started waiving tenners while she
skilfully avoided eye contact and continued serving.
“Sorry love, must be hell when it’s crowded like this,” said Doug, suddenly
feeling sympathetic. A fleeting smile flashed across the barmaid’s disgruntled and
somewhat chubby features, but did little for her general appeal.
“At least it makes the time pass quicker,” she said flatly. “That’ll be five
twenty.”
“So that’s why you were so keen to get the first round in,” said Brian. “Happy
hour prices! If you think that by getting two rounds at once, you can avoid
paying full whack later though, well…”
“Ah, stop whining you big wuss. There’ll be plenty of time for you to get ‘em
in before all this happiness runs out.”
Brian looked at the barmaid and then back at Doug. “I think it may already be
too late for some,” he said, making Doug stifle a laugh as he thanked her, and
passed over two of the pints.
They picked their way precariously through the
crowd and out to the small terrace at the side where Doug immediately started
to roll himself a cigarette. Brian looked on with amused disdain. “And you
wonder why I kick your arse in the gym,” he said.
“In your dreams, loser!” said Doug punching Brian hard on the upper arm.
“Ouch! You bitch!” cried Brian in a camp voice.
“Yeah, whatever!” sighed Doug as he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. It
was his first in several hours and he savoured the brief buzz it delivered.
“Oh, that reminds me,” said Brian. “Kal’s funeral is set for next Friday, did
you hear?”
“No, where is it?”
“Up at his folks in Wolverhampton apparently.”
“Shit, all the way over there. Are you going?”
“Don’t know. I suppose we should.”
“Ever been to a Hindu funeral before?”
“No, you?”
“No.”
“You don’t think they’ll burn him on a funeral pyre do you?
“That’s not funny Brian.”
“No, seriously. Didn’t you hear about that old dear in the news? They built a
big bonfire in the back garden and put her on it.”
“No way!”
“Seriously, they barbecued their granny!”
“You’re sick!”
“I’m just telling you what I read.”
“I think you’ll find this one will be a crematorium job.”
“Hope so.”
“Is anyone with a car going up there?”
“Not sure! Maybe Susan.”
“Susan? Not that girl from the party!”
“Yeah, that’s right, the nurse you were trying to chat up while I was doing
Cindy!”
Brian quickly stepped back in anticipation of another punch, but Doug just
glared at him.
“Sorry mate, that was below the belt…if you know what I mean.”
“You can be a real cunt sometimes, do you know that? She was a nurse then, you
say?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t find that out. You were chatting to her for at
least twenty minutes.”
“I guess I was more drunk than I thought. I remember she was quite fit though.”
“Not a patch on Cindy, but yeah, not bad.”
This time Brian didn’t step back and Doug landed a sharp knuckle blow on
Brian’s other arm causing him to cry out in pain.
“Shit Doug. That one really hurt! …Guess I deserved it though,” he added.
“Too right!”
“Listen if I get another round, will you stop thumping me?”
“I’ll certainly thump you if you don’t buy another round!” offered Doug.
They each drained their remaining beers and Brian headed for the bar with the
four empty glasses. Looking over his shoulder, he called back in his best comic
Arctic explorer voice, “I may be some time!”
Doug grinned. You could always rely on Brian to cheer you up. It had something
to do the way his slight Cockney accent always seemed at odds with his often
verbose choice of words. That combined with a razor sharp intellect and a
rather black sense of humour always made him good company.
After a few minutes Brian reappeared with Taff,
Jock and Mike from the rugby club. “Found these reprobates loitering at the
bar!” he said.
Jock, the bullet-headed prop-forward from Glasgow slapped Doug on the back of
the head, causing the cigarette to fly from his mouth. “How’s yer head?” he
asked jovially.
“It was okay before you did that, you big tartan buffoon!”
“You should have seen him at the bar after the match on Wednesday,” said Mike,
the slim and slightly weasely looking winger from Yorkshire. “That police
tight-head…”
“The one I accidentally elbowed in the eye!” interjected Brian, proudly.
“Yeah him, anyway he starts like making fun of Jock’s accent!”
“Ooh shit!” said Doug. “You didn’t start a fight with a copper did you?”
“I just gave the fat bastard a wee push!” said Jock.
“Yeah, a wee push that sent him crashing across two tables full of glasses,”
added Taff.
“No way, then what happened?” asked Doug.
“Then I got on with my pint,” replied Jock, “and the pig never bothered me
again.”
“Yeah, well that might have had something to do with his team mates holding him
back, and suggesting that hospitalising a student half his age might not be the
best course of action for a policeman to follow,” added Brian. They all
laughed. Three more pints and several colourful reminiscences later, the five
staggered noisily off in search of curry.
As they made their way up the High Street, Doug
paused for a moment to roll another cigarette. Removing the pouch of tobacco
from his jacket pocket, he peered through the large etched glass window of the
wine bar, outside which he was standing. There, seated in a booth at the back,
dressed in a red evening gown and sipping what appeared to be champagne was
Cindy.
“Hey guys, I’ll catch you up later!” he shouted after the others.
Returning the pouch to his pocket, he walked inside. Cindy, now fiddling with
her mobile phone, failed to see him enter. He had reached about half way across
the room, and was just about to call out to her, when a short wiry man dressed
in a black, expensive-looking designer suit, and sporting a goatee and ponytail,
sat down in the chair opposite her.
Doug froze. It was the same man he’d seen talking to Kal at the party - the
Russian sounding guy of whom Bullock had produced a photo. What did he say the
name was? Markov - that was it. He considered continuing over anyway, and
introducing himself, but as he watched Cindy, he noticed a tension develop in
her face. Was it fear? Not exactly, but she didn’t look comfortable either. He wondered
whether this was the donor of her black eye, now seated across the table from
her.
“Can I help you, sir?” asked a voice beside him.
Doug turned around quickly to hide his face from Cindy and the Russian, and
addressed the waiter who was eyeing him rather suspiciously. “No, I think I’ll
just have a drink at the bar thanks.”
Doug positioned himself on a stool at the end of
the counter, so the side partition of the booth hid him from Cindy, but gave an
oblique view of Markov. He picked up the menu card and ordered the cheapest
bottled beer he could find. “So much for happy hour,” he muttered to himself.
In a rack on the wall beside him was a copy of the Times, which he opened for
extra camouflage. Pretending to read an article on the edge of the page, he
studied Markov. The man had deep-set dark eyes and pointed features. His skin,
pallid, almost to the point of translucence, seemed stretched so tightly over
his skull, it put Doug in mind of some grotesque shrink-wrapped vegetable.
There were dark shadows around the eyes and under the cheekbones, and the
corners of his mouth were drawn back into a tight-lipped sneer. As he sipped
some colourless liquid from a shot glass, the man turned and scanned the other
faces in the bar. His movements bore the jerky precision of a highly strung
greyhound and hinted of concealed power. He tried to pick up on the
conversation, but the acoustics in the wine bar were terrible. Any of the sound
not drowned out by the echoing ambient clatter of the other customers, was absorbed
by the booth. Of the occasional syllables to reach him, Doug could make no
sense. He removed the pointless wedge of lime from the neck of his Mexican beer
and drained its tasteless contents in one gulp. He ordered another and started
to flick through the newspaper for something of interest. This could prove an
expensive and ultimately futile exercise, he realised.
As he swigged at the fourth beer, trying to
determine what to do next, Markov slammed his glass onto the table and shouted
something in Russian. He then heard Cindy gabble something back in what sounded
like the perfect Russian retort. The man huffed and turned to leave. Cindy
spouted something else and emerged from the booth looking angry. Doug quickly
held up the Times, while downing the remainder of the beer. He heard the door
of the wine bar open and close, looking around the paper just in time to see
them walk away up the High Street. For a couple more minutes, he remained
seated, rolling a cigarette, then followed. By the time he stepped onto the
pavement, they were already two hundred yards ahead and walking fast, the
Russian holding Cindy by the wrist and apparently pulling her along against her
will. Doug started to follow, gradually quickening his pace. He stopped for a
second to light a cigarette.
“No, Stop!” he heard Cindy cry. The Russian let go of her wrist and started
gesticulating wildly. Cindy was pointing her finger at him with a jabbing
motion. Doug had no idea what they were arguing about, but it was clearly
getting heated. He continued walking towards them. The Russian pulled a mobile
from his jacket pocket and held it to his ear. He looked around briefly as
though trying to get his bearings, said something into the phone and returned
it to his pocket. He then looked at Cindy and slapped her across the face.
Doug felt his blood boil. “Oy, you!” he shouted, running towards them.
They turned to stare at the figure approaching up the hill, recognition dawning
on their faces as he neared.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you never to hit a woman?” he panted, now only twenty
yards away.
“Doug, no!” shouted Cindy, looking worried.
“Anyone ever tell you to mind own business?” the Russian said coldly with a
thick accent.
“Cindy, what are you doing with this Russian prick? Is he the one who gave you
that black eye?”
“Doug, Don’t. I can handle it. Please go away!” pleaded Cindy.
“You should take her advice young man, or I give you worse than black eye,”
said Markov.
“Oh yeah, you and whose army?” replied Doug, filling with Dutch courage.
Although the Russian was probably quite powerful, Doug had at least six inches
and forty pounds on him, and reckoned he could take him, if it came to it.
Markov started calmly walking towards him, removing a metallic object from his
trouser pocket and slipping it onto his knuckles.
“Sergei, No!” cried Cindy again.
Doug lunged at him, but in one fast and fluid motion, the Russian stepped
deftly aside and drove his fist impossibly hard into Doug’s right kidney
sending him spinning around, almost losing balance. The next blow smashed into
his left cheekbone with the power of a sledgehammer, emitting an audible crack,
the brass knuckles glinting in the light of the street lamp as they receded.
Doug hit the pavement and felt the flow of warm blood on his cheek. Looking up,
he saw the Russian crouch over him, fist raised, and the fire of sadistic
pleasure burning in his eyes. At that moment a small black object swung into
view, smacking the Russian on the side of the head and sending him wheeling
sideways, cursing loudly as he went. The weapon, which had made a surprisingly
loud thud on impact, turned out to be Cindy’s (evidently weighted) handbag,
which she now wielded defensively, ready once to be more swung into action, if
required. “Just leave him alone,” she pleaded.
Doug started to pick himself up, touching his cheek gingerly with the tips of
his fingers and wincing. Markov sprang to his feet, felt the side of his head
and then turned his attention to Cindy.
“You gonna pay for that, bitch!” he said, stepping towards her and clenching
his fist again.
“If anyone’s goin’ae pay, it’ll be you, ya skinny little bastard,” came a
familiar Glaswegian accent from behind. It was Jock, closely followed by Brian,
Taff and Mike. “If you don’t get yer ugly little head out’ae here pronto, I’m
goin’ae rip it off and shit down ye neck!” he continued.
“And you don’t want an angry Scotsman with bowels full of curry and lager to be
shitting anywhere near you, believe me,” added Brian, helpfully.
The Russian stood his ground as though seriously considering whether to take on
the five young rugby players single-handedly, when a black Range Rover with
tinted windows screeched to a halt at the curb-side. The front doors opened and
two very large, bearded men lumbered out, wearing dark trousers and matching
black bomber jackets. One of them reached inside his jacket, but Markov shook
his head, and the man dropped his hand back to his side. Markov glared once
more at Cindy and the students, and let himself into the back seat of the Range
Rover. The other two got into the front and the vehicle sped away. Cindy rushed
over to Doug, who was beginning to sway with dizziness, and put her arm around
him for support. “Here, hold this against your cheek,“ she said, producing a
white handkerchief from her bag.
“I think he broke my face,” said Doug dabbing it softly against the gash and
then staring, bewildered at the quantity of blood. The others looked on in
silent shock.
“Guys, this is shindy!” slurred Doug, rubbing his right kidney and feeling
faint. “Shindy - this is…this is…” He then passed out.