by Peter Ackers
"LOCKED IN A ROOM WITH …"
The front of the pub had a six-feet high hedge gashed open by a lich gate. I creaked the iron gate open, ducked under the sheet of cobwebs spanning the top of the stone arch, and went down the path. Despite the large sign over the door and a couple of benches in the garden (and a scattering of small plants each held upright by a wooden splint with a tip filed needle-sharp for some illogical reason), it was obvious this place was someone’s converted house. It was a two-story building, quite tall, and it stood alone, propped up by a wide buttress on either side, almost like giant wings folded away. A dome atop the building, for a head, would have completed the image of a gargantuan stone bird.
The entrance was a single door with a frosted glass window. Behind the window hung a sign whose words were large enough to just make out through the frosting: CLOSED.
I began to doubt this was a public house at all. It looked just like someone’s house, and what typical pub closed at 10.00 p.m.? I turned to go, suddenly feeling like a trespasser.
A security light over the door flicked on, exposing me, then another in the hall beyond the door. But my movements couldn’t have triggered it, since I was now heading away from the door. I turned in time to see a black humanoid shape behind the glass. It unlocked the door, which promptly swung inwards.
“You need a quick swallow, cock?” said the shape as it stepped out onto the step.
I had yet to get used to the term “cock” as a greeting. I wasn’t sure if people up here knew the other meaning for that word.
The man in the doorway was young, maybe early twenties, like me. But he was taller by a few inches, maybe 6’ 2”, and showed well-built tattooed arms in a grey tank-top. Misplaced against the image of his upper body were polished shoes and well-ironed corduroy trousers. A large belt buckle showed the outline of a snarling wolf in profile. His tattoos had a motorbike theme to them, and he suddenly looked like a Californian surfer-type turned hardcore biker. But this somewhat macho image only emphasised his baby-cute face and floppy short brown hair.
“Why else would you come to a pub, yeah?” Surfer-dude waved slowly, as you might in front of someone in a trance.
I snapped out of my own semi-trance. “Yes. Yes. But it looked closed.”
“We were. But not to all. Maybe not to you, yeah?” He pointed a finger at me as if it were a gun. “You’re locked in a room with a lawyer, a paedophile, and a nigger. You’ve a gun with just two bullets - what do you do?”
Thing with jokes like this is, when a black man is included and called a “nigger,” obviously it’s going to be some stupid unreal answer to make people laugh, and black people are often a butt of jokes. So straight away I knew what this guy expected of me, and it wasn’t a moral answer to a legitimate question. So:
“Shoot the nigger twice.”
The guy slapped the back of his hand into his palm, nodding at my answer, obviously pleased with it. But I wasn’t. Even then, I wondered why I’d even answered. Soon as this weird and maybe dangerous guy had said the word “nigger,” I should have turned tail and excused myself.
We swapped names and shook hands
“In you come, cock. Let’s get you a beverage, yeah?”
I stepped past him, into the pub.