'Could we move on?' asked Austen, unmoved by the fun being had all around.
Tom peered through his sunglasses at Austen's impatient face. 'Of course.' He walked uncertainly onwards, unable to delay their approach towards Victoria station.
Turning right at York Street, they were soon passing the Athenaeum, a glorious building constructed in the Venetian Gothic style at the height of Manchester's domination of the cotton industry. Tom slowed down, pointing out the Ionic columns supporting a cathedral-like dome. 'I especially like the brickwork; the red colouring has led to the term “Slaughterhouse Gothic”. Manchester has got some of the best examples you'll find anywhere.'
Austen looked at his watch. 'Fascinating. And now it's a pub.'
His dismissive tone picked at Tom's frayed nerves. 'Not any old pub. It's increasingly the pre-match choice of Manchester City's firm. Go in there on a Saturday with a red shirt on and you'll probably come back out with a broken glass stuck in your face.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Not you personally. 'Tom smiled. 'I mean Man U fans in general. Though a southern accent wouldn't do you any favours either.'
Austen's eyes narrowed but he couldn't tell if it was a genuine piece of advice or a piss-take.
'Anyway,' said Tom, emotions alternating between a fluttery elation at having got away with a jibe at his client and heart-sinking dread at the prospect of reaching Victoria station. 'Here we are at the top of King Street.'
They looked down the long, straight road lined with designer stores. In front of each plate glass window were stone blocks and posts. Designed to look like seats, they were actually placed there to stop ram raiders.
'So where's Victoria from here? It's almost lunchtime,' said Austen.
'You're right,' said Tom quickly. 'Why don't we grab a bite now before everywhere fills up?'
Austen looked around uncertainly. 'Well…' 'It's on me. What do you prefer? Traditional pub or contemporary bar?'
'Traditional, I suppose.'
'Do you drink bitter?' asked Tom, stepping into Mr Thomas's Chop House. Austen nodded.
'Two pints of Landlord, please.'
After walking the length of the narrow bar, they entered the seating area at the back of the pub, dark wood tables glowing faintly in the light shining through ancient-looking panes of frosted glass. A young man in a shirt and bow tie showed them across the black and white tiled floor to a table.
After turning his mobile off, Tom opened his menu and looked down the list of dishes. 'I don't know why I even look — I always go for their home-made corned beef hash.'
Austen continued looking at his menu. 'Well, given the name of this place, I had better go for the pork chops.'
After ordering their meals, Tom excused himself and headed downstairs for the toilets. Looking at his watch he saw, to his dismay, that it was only midday. Even if he stretched lunch out to a couple of hours they'd still have over an hour to get to Victoria station, and it was now only a five-minute walk away. He stood just inside the door, wondering what to do. The sound of water trickling into a cistern made him want to urinate, so he stood in front of the urinal. But his stomach muscles felt too tight and, apart from a few measly drips, his bladder refused to empty.
Looking down, he saw the usual lumps of discarded chewing gum in the bowl and his gag reaction hit him without warning. Walking backwards and zipping himself up at the same time, he retreated into the only cubicle, sat down and felt inside the pocket of his jacket for the powder. Unable to find it, he stood up and ferreted through the rest of his pockets before realizing that he'd left it in the top drawer of his desk.
He crumpled back down on to the toilet, pressing the tips of his fingers against the back of his neck and rotating them round and round. Erratic surges of panicky emotion were playing with him — acute nervousness, crippling fear and the odd spark of inexplicable elation.
Suddenly he became convinced he was being watched. Fearfully, he looked up at the top of the cubicle. But no one was there. He took several deep breaths and began to follow the advice of the therapist from when he'd become ill a few years before.
One, two, three, four, five, six… his heartbeat began to slow a bit and the feelings of panic eased… seven, eight, nine, ten.
Back in the pub a crush of office workers had appeared and Austen was sitting at the table, looking uncomfortable at being alone.
'Cheers!' said Tom, sitting down and clinking his glass against Austen's. He sucked down over half his pint in one go, abruptly aware of how thirsty he was. Austen was staring at him oddly, and Tom began to feel uncomfortable. Was there a scrap of toilet roll stuck to his forehead? A bogey hanging from his nose? Casually, he brushed the back of his fingers across his nostrils. Now Austen was actually smirking at him. 'Er, Tom — is it a bit too bright in here for you?'
Tom looked up, lips vacillating between an uncertain smile and a trembling grimace. It was a dim pub. What did he mean? 'Sorry?'
Austen tapped the bridge of his nose. 'Your sunglasses. You haven't taken them off yet.'
Relief flooded him and he let out a burst of laughter shrill enough to cause several other diners to look around. 'Totally forgot they were on!' He slipped them into the breast pocket of his jacket.
Austen sat there with an expectant look on his face, happy to play the client's role and wait to be entertained.
Needing something to do, Tom fished his cigarettes out. 'Smoke?'
Austen shook his head disapprovingly.
'I'll just squeeze one in before the food arrives.'
He was barely two drags in when the waiter reappeared with their plates. 'Isn't that always the way?' observed Tom, stubbing his cigarette out. Smoke swirled across Austen's food and Tom tried to fan it away with his other hand. Next he unwrapped his knife and fork, knowing his appetite wouldn't stretch further than a few mouthfuls. Gingerly scooping up some mashed potato, he popped it into his mouth and looked at Austen as he sawed through a pork chop with his knife. The layer of white fat between the rind and meat quivered and bulged as the knife pressed down. Tom felt the muscles in his throat start to spasm.
He gulped some beer as Austen put it into his mouth and began to grind with his molars, a frown slowly coming over his face. Eventually he picked up his napkin and said, 'Sorry, can't get my teeth through the rind — too rubbery.' He hooked a forefinger and thumb into his mouth and pulled out a long strip of mangled gristle.
Tom had to look away, the press of conversation at his back getting closer and closer. He kept his eyes averted until he heard Austen place his knife and fork on the plate.
'Very good,' he remarked, unwrapping a stick of X-treme gum and popping it into his mouth. Tom could feel the pinpricks of sweat breaking out on his upper lip as he tried to control his feelings of nausea.
The waiter stepped over. 'Dessert? We have bread and butter pudding on the specials board.'
'Oh, go on then,' said Austen, with a conspiratorial smile. 'You've tempted me.'
Horror struck, Tom watched as Austen plucked the lump of gum from his mouth and dropped it in the ashtray.
He vomited all over the table, gouts of still-foaming beer that flooded Austen's plate, then bounced up, spattering his chest and arms. Even before the spew finished, Tom had lost it. His heart was racing uncontrollably and an overwhelming sense of disaster bore down on him. Gasping for breath, he staggered to his feet. At the other end of the narrow pub sunshine shone through the open door with the promise of fresh air and open space. The source of light became the sole focus of his vision: he had to be out in it at all costs. He began a headlong charge for the door, shouldering other drinkers, knocking drinks from hands. A waiter loomed up in front of him, plates of food balanced in each hand, his silhouette obstructing Tom's view of the door. The heel of Tom's hand connected squarely with the man's chest, and he flew backwards in a shower of chips, peas and gravy-covered slices of meat.