by Nick Bryan
She tried, but Zoë got weird about it after a few minutes. Even the library could only kill a couple more hours. So she went home at lunchtime on Saturday, as the wind whipped harder outside.
Could she make it up to her loft without confrontation? Angelina got one foot on the bottom stair before her Mum emerged from the kitchen. Eyes staring as ever, usual look of recent crying around her face.
“Hi, Mum.” Another stupid impotent wave — must stop doing that.
“Angelina. Are you… are you okay?”
“Yeah. I was fine. You saw on the news? Never in any danger.”
“Except when you were in the house with the murderer for twenty minutes.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” Angelina dropped to the ground floor, groaning. “Because it doesn’t, okay Mum?”
“Are you going back there on Monday?” She spoke and at a measured, careful pace, determined not to lose her temper.
“Hope so, as long as Hobson’s okay. Are you going to try and stop me?”
“No.”
“Right. Look, I’m sorry I threatened you and stuff, okay? That was… that wasn’t good of me.”
“No, look,” tears again, “I know I get worked up sometimes, but it is only because I worry. There is real danger too, I don’t think I’m being hysterical.”
“I know.”
“If this is really what you want, okay, but can you at least try and stick to less dangerous cases?”
“I suppose so.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
They paused for a while, then Angelina instigated a hug. Her observations of past conversations suggested that would bring proceedings to a close. Sure enough, she was soon on her way back upstairs.
Maybe Angelina was biased, but her apology had been way better than her Mum’s. More sincere too.
As she flopped backwards onto the bed in her personal loft conversion, Angelina wondered if it was time to move on. If her real parents would understand her more. If Hobson was the right guy to help her find them.
She’d have to get her feet properly under the table first.
*****
Hobson obtained access to the Inspiration Gestation Station by calling the building owner until he agreed to open the building up on a Sunday just to end the phone calls. After taking a huge dose of painkillers to stop his leg complaining too much, he jumped on the train over there.
Tell the truth, he could have met Tony at a more mutually convenient pub last night. Still, what use is a horrific injury if it doesn’t get favours out of your friends?
He rolled up outside the IGS and looked around. He’d been told someone would meet him to open the doors. Sure enough, Jacq ran up from the street behind him a minute later, breathless and falling over herself to get there on schedule.
“Mister Hobson! Sorry! Running late! My local Overground was closed!”
“Building owner got you out of bed? Sorry ‘bout that, just want to take a look at something.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble, Mister Hobson.”
“Just Hobson, c’mon.”
Jacq shrugged as she rooted in her bag for the building key. “Calling people by surnames just seems strange to me,” she said, “sorry about that.”
“Stop apologising, too. So you’re still alright? Not gone back to crying on a sofa?”
“No sir. No point in that, I told you. Don’t want people to think I’m silly.”
“Good girl. Like your spirit.”
She might’ve blushed, hard to tell against her already-flushed cheeks. “Thanks, Mister Hobson.”
Jacq pulled the key out, opened the front door and they stepped into the darkened reception. Hobson was hit by a flashback to last week’s bloody night when Matt died, but shook it off with a twitch.
The lights flickered on, and Jacq dashed behind her reception desk, dropping her massive bag on top of it. Immediately, she seemed more comfortable. “Did you want me to turn the lift on for you, Mister Hobson?”
“No worries thanks, I’ll take the stairs. Gotta size the place up, see if there’s any furniture worth saving.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m moving in, Jacq. Taking over the old Social Awesome office.”
“I thought you hated it here?”
“I do. But it’s much bigger. Also negotiated the chief twat of the building down way low, ‘cause I don’t care about working in a bloody murder site. Choi might not like it, I suppose, but she can man up.”
“Aha. Very clever.”
“Also, most of the pricks phoning offering me jobs live in this area. Gotta move with the times, Ms Miller. Now, if I give you some money, will you run out and get us both Subways?” He paused. “Or is that demeaning?”
“No, I like Subway, and it’s better than just waiting around here.” She grinned.
“Good. Bring it up when you’re back.”
Jacq seized her bag and ran round the desk to pluck the money from his hand. Within seconds, she locked the door behind her again. Another quick smile before she dashed down the pathway. Hobson shook his head, unused to dealing with this kind of cheer.
Putting it out of his mind for now, he barged through the door to storm the stairs. There was another reason he’d obtained this office: Edward Lyne had reams of interesting paperwork still in his filing cabinets. Hobson wanted all of it; there were leads to follow up, and the building manager had agreed to turn a blind eye for a while.
Most crucial of all was a large folder labelled JOHN HOBSON. He’d glimpsed it the other day when he and Choi had searched the place. Looked like a full account of his life to date, covering incidents that even the police shouldn’t know about. He wasn’t letting Lyne’s personal effects out of his sight until he’d solved that mystery.
HOBSON & CHOI
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The Left Hand Is Always Right
In the cheap pubs, the old men sat, nursing their pints and muttering to themselves. Anna could see why they ended up here — obviously didn’t have the money to plant themselves in a trendy gastropub all day.
A few were clearly here with mates, but others merely permanent items of the pub’s sticky furniture. The Left Hand wasn’t even a regular venue for Anna, just too horrible, but she still recognised some of them. Big old men, small ones, real ale or cheap lager, some sticking to the bar, others sharing their table with a free newspaper they’d read six times.
Once she got chatting to her friends, maybe knocked back a couple of drinks, Anna could ignore them. The dark mutterings under their breath, the way their eyes sometimes flicked up to her. But there was a problem with her strategy. She was stuck alone at a table in the back half of the pub, nice and visible in the middle, nursing a drink and getting twitchy.
All Chloe’s fault. The only reason she ever came to this rathole was because it was near Chloe’s house and she couldn’t always persuade her friend not to be bone idle. Most times, Chloe at least did Anna the favour of turning up on time, after making her haul her arse over from Wood Green.
But she wasn’t here, and showed no sign of arriving. Messages went unanswered, one phone call went straight to voicemail. Probably still at work or asleep on the sofa.
It was Tuesday night, so the old men were really swarming. Or perhaps there weren’t enough young people to dilute them.
Anna glanced up from her mobile and took another tiny sip of her wine, nursing it until Chloe arrived to buy her an apology drink. As she raised her eyes to get the glass, they panned around the room. At least two of the scary guys were staring at her. From under their hats, above their beards, inside their red faces.
No sign of any pricks, so she’d never know. Just the two staring old men. Anna glanced back at her mobile, just because. Maybe there would be an interesting post on Facebook. It had to happen eventually.
She kept looking up at the two of them, wary like prey in the jungle, waiting for either to make a move.
Nothing stirred. Seemed still. Kept without motion.
But they probably thought her constant checking up on them was weird.
Still no word from Chloe.
As she jerked up to take another look, there was a gentle clunk behind her.
Anna wasn’t sitting with her back against the wall, of course. She took a table with space behind it specially to avoid getting trapped, then didn’t keep an eye on the weak spot until now, rolling around to see an entirely new muttering, decrepit male.
She’d half-seen him when sitting down, then directed all her attention at the rest of the pub where the majority nested.
This guy was wearing a ratty shirt, browning around the edges, as if left in a puddle for too long. The jeans were going the same way, trapped forever in place due to circumstances. He was in a wheelchair, not one of those electric mobility scooters, but a metal frame, propelled by arm strength alone. His hair was straggly and thinning, eyes sunken. Fingers gripped his drink as tight as possible.
Not as old as the rest, early forties maybe, but just as ruined. Maybe more so, serious scarring around his face.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, after it became clear she wasn’t going to make a sound. “Are you waiting for someone?”
“Yes,” Anna replied, keen to send him on his way. “My friend. She’s late.”
“Ah, well, that’s rude isn’t it?”
He was pushing against the walls of her innate Britishness. She could say Look, go away, but that would to be rude. Not to mention he was disabled, so she could probably beat him up if need be. He wasn’t too creepily old, looked like he might even have been attractive before he turned to ravaged alcoholism.
Not to mention, she’d seen him and then disregarded him as a non-worthwhile non-threat, probably because he was in a wheelchair. So she was probably a terrible person.
Working through that maelstrom of guilt, she let it go for now. At least he might pass the time.
“I suppose so.”
“Definitely,” he said, eyes sparking up a little as he realised she wasn’t telling him to fuck off and die. “I’m Danny.”
“Hi, I’m Chloe,” Anna nodded. That’d teach the cow for being late.
“Hi Chloe. So, how are you?”
“I’m fine. Bit tired.”
Terribly rude of her not to ask after his welfare, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Add it to the guilt list. Where the fuck was Chloe?
He chuckled.
“You looked terrified, don’t worry. I’m not some lunatic.”
“Sorry,” Anna said, still unable to stop her muscles tensing.
“Ah, Chloe, it’s okay. Everyone looks at me like that. Honestly, if I met me before I was like this, I’d do the same Oh-God-please-just-disappear eyes I’m getting from you.”
“Okay,” Anna nodded. And then, unable to think of much else to say: “Sorry.”
On that, he burst out laughing, and fair enough. She tried to make eye contact with the barman, but he was right up at the other end.
“Like I said, I used to be acceptable.”
“Right.” Anna smiled. “And then what happened to you?”
“This place, actually. Want to hear about it?”
Anna paused. Even though he looked like he lived behind a chip shop, Danny was at least coherent. They were out in public, she could scream if he misbehaved. And in her experience, drunks love to tell a lengthy story. Hopefully that’d keep him talking long enough for Chloe to get here.
Not to mention: yes, he’d managed to get her just a little curious.
“Okay then,” Anna nodded. “What happened?”
*****
“I was in my late twenties in the early 2000s, you may not know what that was like — probably still at school. There were lots of bright-coloured shirts, hair gel. Not like nowadays, where being fashionable means dressing out of a skip.
Was as if the world only just discovered being shiny, y’know? So we were determined to glisten all the time, even if it made us look greasy. I was getting old, of course, late twenties and all, maybe that’s why I didn’t get into that.
In a damp-looking world, people try to moisten themselves out of age. The guys have smooth chests and rock-solid hair, the girls wear so much make-up, you can see your face in it.
Of course, you keep going to the cool bars, being a matte person just marks you out. You’re a guy out in the club — sorry, da club — on a Friday night in the very early twenty-first century, you’re not anyone if your hair doesn’t stick at least an inch off your head.
But I already had a girlfriend, so who cares about clubbing anyway? Stephanie. She was ill. Doesn’t matter how, really. She was ill. We lived together, because we both had enough of our families, and it was nice. She did a bit of work now and then, when she could, but I was doing the bulk of the earning.
I’d done bar work, I’d done office temp admin stuff, often-times I’d done both at once. This was pre-recession, y’know? Even when you were a drifting nobody, you could hit that magic sweet spot. Always enough work to go around, always paid enough to both cover the bills and go out every so often without feeling like you were stealing from your family.
Steph came out with me sometimes, it was alright. Worst comes to worst, you can just snog in the corner of the bar and people don’t seem to care about your hair as much. Helped she was nice-looking, I suppose. People are shits, aren’t they?
One day, I was in this pub we’re in right now, The Left Hand, and it was what it is, you know? Long, thin, dirty. I was with some mates who were going on to a club and I’d just finished another run of temping. It hadn’t gone well — it often didn’t, at new places. I was just tired, you know? The end of my twenties, best years of my life according to some in the drunk community, and I just stopped caring.
Sometimes, when it’s late at night and I’m drunk, I think about how that happened to me. Was it the shit jobs? The not-entirely-there relationship? Was I too young and restless to be the breadwinner? I dunno.
Anyway. I was in this place, and I needed money. Saw a bit of A4 stapled up behind the bar — before job vacancies went online, y’know — and gave them a shout. Funnily enough, since I had bar experience unlike the other great unwashed scum, I got the job without much trouble. Life was easy. People could get away with anything. But the real question is, Chloe, do you know what kind of place this is? Can you imagine what it used to be like back in the old days?”
*****
“Of course, we didn’t know how good we had it, did we? Whenever I came into this pub, it was rammed. Everyone had mad disposable income back then, but we’re British, we still didn’t want to spend it. Why have a big night out when you can go to your local cheapo chain pub and do beer and burger for a fiver?
Monday nights, cheap drinks. Thursday nights, cheap curry. Every night, cheap something. I loved it. Pub was always full, which hid the fact half the clientele were scumbags. But make no mistake, this is not a good place. People might overhear, so I hope you’ll forgive my whispering.
I remember the day I realised. I’d been working here about three weeks, I was pretty into the rhythm. Broke a few glasses, everyone in the pub applauds like we’re back at school, and you don’t do it again. Never enjoyed that feeling of everyone looking at me.
I didn’t have a day job and I wasn’t a fucking failure, so I was already heading up the ranks. They wer
e throwing so many shifts at me, I was almost ready to buy a new phone. Not a smartphone of course, we didn’t have that shit yet, but I was well up for one of those hinged clam shell motherfuckers, y’know?
Sorry, you’ve managed to catch me just as I tip over the edge of drunk, and that’s usually when the real swearing starts.
So one day in that third week, I got out of bed, kissed Steph, put my boring clothes on and went to sell pints to broke-down drunks. Because half the time during the day, that’s all you get in here. A few lunch office twats, the occasional crowd of students and loads of mental pissheads.
We were much more open-minded about serving teenagers back then. After all, this was the early twenty-first century. Britain’s town centres were dens of decadence, every cunt with a pub his own tin-pot Caligula. Whereas the youth of today gotta go to the park to drink pre-mixed gin and tonic in plastic wine glasses with milk-bottle tops. Poor little shits.
Right then, that day, I was working at the bar, pulling pints for people who probably had no liver, when the boss comes over to me. And this guy, Micro — you must’ve seen him if you’ve been in here at all, right? Massive bastard — huge guy. Bigger now than he was back then, but still, that one has never been thin. People blame the food here for him getting that size, but pretty sure it’d have happened anyway.
He expects us to put some effort in, but he’s decent to work for as long as he doesn’t think you’re taking the piss. I was working the ale handle, trying to milk the last drops out, when Micro came over, rubbing against the bar as usual.
‘Hey, Danny,’ he said, ‘just so you know, got some important guys coming in later. Serve them whatever they want, be charming, okay?’
‘No worries, Micro,’ I said, all smooth like, ‘but how will I know them?’
‘Group of men, mostly bald, mostly tracksuits. Let me know if you’re not sure.’
There wasn’t much doubt in the end. They turned up, about ten of them, looking fresh off the clone production line, if you know what I mean? Scary fuckers, Chloe. Scary.