I take my time and count eight people, including a handful of teenagers playing pool in the back alcove, near the toilets. I stand in front of the beer taps, waiting to be served by a barman who can’t be bothered to look up from The Racing Post.
Bert McMullen is at the far end of the bar. His crumpled tweed jacket is patched at the elbows and adorned by various badges and pins, all related to buses. In one hand he holds a cigarette and in the other an empty pint glass. He turns the glass in his fingers, as if reading some hidden inscription etched into the side.
Bert growls at me. “Who you gawpin’ at?” His thick mustache appears to sprout directly from his nose and droplets of foam and beer are clinging to the ends of the gray-and-black hairs.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.” I offer to buy him another pint. He half turns and examines me. His eyes, like watery glass eggs, stop at my shoes. “How much did them shoes cost?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Gimme an estimate.”
I shrug. “A hundred pounds.”
He shakes his head in disgust. “I wouldn’t pick ’em up with two shitty sticks. You couldn’t walk more ’an twenty mile in them things before they fall apart.” He’s still staring at my shoes. He waves the barman over. “Hey Phil, get a load of these shoes.”
Phil leans over the bar and peers at my feet. “What d’you call them?”
“Loafers,” I answer self-consciously.
“Gerraway!” Both men look at each other in disbelief. “Why would you want to wear a shoe called a loafer?” says Bert. “You got more bum than brains.”
“They’re Italian,” I say, as if that makes a difference.
“Italian! What’s wrong with English shoes?”
“Nothing.”
Bert presses his face close to mine. I can smell baked beans. “I reckon anyone who wears shoes like that hasn’t done a proper day’s work in his life. You got to wear boots, kid, with a steel cap in the toe and some grip on the bottom. Them shoes of yours wouldn’t last a week in a real job.”
“Unless of course he works behind a desk,” says the barman.
Bert looks at me warily. “Are you one of the overcoat gang?”
“What’s that?”
“Never get your coat off.”
“I work hard enough.”
“Do you vote Labour?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Are you a Hail Mary?”
“Agnostic.”
“Ag-fucking-what?”
“Agnostic.”
“Jesus wept! OK, this is your last chance. Do you support the mighty Liverpool?” He crosses himself.
“No.”
He sighs in disgust. “Get off home, yer mam’s got custard waiting.”
I look between the two of them. That’s the problem with Scousers. You can never tell whether they’re joking or being serious until they put a glass in your face.
Bert winks at the barman. “He can buy me a drink, but he can’t fiddle ass around. ’E’s got five minutes before he can bugger off.”
Phil grins at me. His ears are laden with silver rings and dangling pendants.
The pub has tables arranged along the walls, leaving a dance floor in the center. The teenagers are still playing pool. The only girl among them looks underage and is dressed in tight jeans and a singlet top, revealing her bare midriff. The boys are trying to impress her but her boyfriend is easy to spot. Bulked up by weight training he looks like an abscess about to explode.
Bert is watching the bubbles rise to the head of his Guinness. Minutes pass. I feel myself getting smaller and smaller. Finally he raises the glass to his lips and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows.
“I wanted to ask you about Lenny Morgan. I asked at the depot. They said you were friends.”
He shows no emotion.
I keep going. “I know he died in a fire. I know you worked with him. I just want to find out what happened.”
Bert lights a cigarette. “I can’t see how it’s any of your business.”
“I’m a psychologist. Lenny’s son is in a spot of bother. I’m trying to help him.” As I hear the words I feel a pinprick of guilt. Is that what I’m trying to do? Help him.
“What’s his name?”
“Bobby.”
“I remember him. Lenny used to bring him down the depot during the holidays. He used to sit up back and ring the bell to signal the driver. So what’s he done?”
“He beat up a woman. He’s about to be sentenced.”
Bert smiles sardonically. “That sort of shit happens. You ask my old lady. I’ve hit her once or twice but she punches harder than I do. It’s all forgotten in the morning.”
“This woman was badly hurt. Bobby dragged her out of a cab and kicked her unconscious in a busy street.”
“Was he shagging her?”
“No. He didn’t know her.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“I’m assessing him.”
“So you’re trying to get him banged up?”
“I want to help him.”
Bert snorts. Headlights from the road outside slide over the walls. “It’s all gin and oranges to me, son, but I can’t see what Lenny has to do with it. He’s been dead fourteen years.”
“Losing a father can be very traumatic. Perhaps it can help explain a few things.”
Bert pauses to consider this. I know he’s weighing up his prejudices against his instincts. He doesn’t like my shoes. He doesn’t like my clothes. He doesn’t like strangers. He wants to snarl and push his face into mine, but he needs a good enough reason. Another pint of Guinness has the casting vote.
“You know what I do every morning?” Bert says.
I shake my head.
“I spend an hour lying in bed, with my back so fucked up I can’t even roll over to reach my fags. I stare at the ceiling and think about what I’m going to do today. Same as every day, I’m going to get up, hobble to the bathroom, then to the kitchen and after breakfast I’m going to hobble down here and sit on this stool. Do you know why?”
I shake my head.
“Cos I’ve discovered the secret of revenge. Outlive the bastards. I’ll dance on their graves. You take Maggie Thatcher. She destroyed the working class in this country. She closed down the mines, the docks and the factories. But she’s rusting away now— just like those ships out there. She suffered a stroke not so long ago. Don’t matter whether you’re a destroyer or a dinghy— the salt always gets you in the end. And when she goes I’m gonna piss on her grave.”
He drains his glass as though washing away the bad taste in his mouth. I nod to the barman. He starts pouring another.
“Did Bobby look like his father?”
“Nah. He was a big pudding of a lad. Wore glasses. He worshiped Lenny, trailed after him like a puppy dog, running errands and fetching him cups of tea. When Lenny brought him to work, he’d sit outside of here and drink lemonade while Lenny had a few pints. Afterward they’d cycle home.”
Bert is warming up. “Lenny used to be a merchant seaman. His forearms were covered in tattoos. He was a man of very few words, but if you got him talkin’ he’d tell you stories about his tattoos and how he got each one of ’em. Everybody liked Lenny. People smiled when they spoke his name. He was too nice a bloke. Sometimes folks can take advantage of that…”
“What do you mean?”
“You take his wife. I can’t remember her name. She was some Irish Catholic shopgirl, with big hips and a ripcord in her knickers. I heard tell that Lenny only screwed her the once. He was too much of a gentleman to say. She gets pregnant and tells Lenny the baby is his. Anyone else would have been suspicious, but straightaway Lenny marries her. He buys a house— using up all the money he’d saved from going to sea. We all knew what his missus was like: a real Anytime Annie. Half the depot must have ridden her. We nicknamed her ‘Number Twenty-two’— our most popular route.”