Brewer grabbed the end of Edna’s mop.
“Stop jabbing me, woman! What are you on about?”
“ ’Im!” She pulled the mop free and waved it toward Rossett, who was rising, hand emerging from his inside pocket. Rossett smiled warmly at Edna, further enraging her, so that she now wielded the mop pole like a musketeer’s rapier in his general direction.
“Are you still going on?” said Rossett as he rose from behind his desk. Edna’s eyes bulged and the mop pole froze for the briefest of moments before she prodded Brewer with it again.
“Did you ’ear that? He’s a bleedin’ disgrace! To think that tongue has spoken to the old king, Gawd bless ’im!”
Edna was shrieking now, and for a moment Rossett thought Brewer would produce his sap and set about the woman to quiet her down. Instead, Brewer eased himself back into Rossett’s office, defending himself only with strategically placed elbows covering his tender ribs.
“Stop it! Calm down at once! If you don’t stop shouting I’ll have you ejected from the building!”
Using Brewer as a shield, Rossett stepped out of the office. A few heads had popped out of offices along the corridor, and he shrugged in reply to their puzzled glances. Behind him he heard Brewer trying to placate the cleaner as he backed out of the office. Rossett walked toward the exit, pleased that for the first time that day he wasn’t the center of attention. He pushed open the door that led to the stairs and started to jog down them, toward the car, toward peace and quiet.
Chapter 15
ROSSETT WASN’T A fan of pubs. They reminded him of the times when he was a detective before the war. Long, smoky afternoons stretching into nights like a contented cat. Colleagues and criminals and a tone-deaf pianist playing a half-dead piano in the corner of the room.
Pubs reminded him of the happy times, when he had joined in with the songs, enjoyed the rowdy laughter that erupted from groups of good friends, watched lovers holding hands under the table, and always had a pint waiting for him before he’d got his coat off.
Rossett wasn’t a fan, but he needed a drink, and he needed one badly.
Rossett knew that needing a drink and wanting a drink were two very different things. He knew that wanting a drink nudged your brain and cocked its head toward the bar with a cheeky smile and a wink, and if you were in the mood you joined it for a pint.
But needing a drink was an altogether different sort of character. Needing a drink squeezed your head and poked at your eyes; needing a drink scratched at your throat and choked your tongue till it felt swollen and flopped around your mouth like a dead carp in a bucket. Needing a drink was a demon that wouldn’t leave you alone until you were lying on the floor, begging for mercy, tears flowing, grasping for something that had gone away.
Needing a drink was a bastard, but right now, Rossett needed a drink.
He stared at the pub. It was called the Harp, and although it was close to Wapping it didn’t see many coppers pass through its doors. That was why Rossett drank there when he had this painful thirst. Nobody to see him falling down and suffering silent tears as he was propped in the corner by someone who felt pity for the drunk that he was.
He liked the Harp, with its leaded frosted windows and its averted gaze. It didn’t talk about him the next morning because it didn’t remember him.
He stared at the windows. The light-colored glass was lit from inside, and he could see the outlines of people, almost make out the pint glasses held in their hands, laughing and joking, calling to him. He looked down at his own hands and thought about Jacob. The boy had reached for them and held them that morning, clinging on for dear life, grasping tightly the hand of a man who had let him slip away.
He needed a drink.
He was going to have a drink.
Rossett got out of the car and crossed the pavement toward the pub. Breathing hard, he pushed open the door and immediately felt at home with the smoke and the sounds he’d hated moments before.
Just a couple, he told himself, until I get some petrol.
“What can I get you, love?” The barmaid smiled.
“Bitter and a Scotch.”
“Ooh, you mean business.”
“I’m not stopping long.”
With big brown eyes she smiled at him, knowing he would be. She’d heard it all before, seen the look, the lick of the lips, the leer of the alcoholic hopping off the wagon that was taking him home.
Rossett already had some coins waiting on the bar before she finished pouring the pint, and by the time the whiskey turned up the pint was half gone.
“Tough day?”
“Yeah.” Rossett looked around the pub with a half turn, scoping the room quickly and expertly.
“You work local?”
He took another drink and put the almost-empty pint glass back down on the bar before reaching for the Scotch.
“Another pint.” He killed the conversation and then drank the Scotch in one swift drain of his glass. He shook his head as he felt the burn in his throat and chest. The barmaid returned and looked at the empty glass as she placed his pint on the bar.
“Another?”
Rossett nodded as the barmaid picked up the glass, her turn to shake her head.
He leaned his right elbow on the bar and took another look around the pub. He could feel the alcohol relaxing him, easing its way through his bloodstream like mercury. He exhaled deeply and took a more measured sip of his pint as the barmaid put the Scotch on the bar. He paid her without speaking and just nodded when she returned with his change.
The bar was half full, thick with smoke and noise. It hadn’t changed in the year or so since he’d last been there. Most of the clientele were dockers, big burly hard-drinking men who started their days early and grafted hard for their money. The remainder were heavy drinkers who had slipped down the road, coming to rest in the bottom of a glass.
He sipped his pint and looked around for a table. The long narrow bar was filling up as people sought shelter from the night. Table space was at a premium, so if he wanted to sit down he was going have to share, and he wasn’t in the mood for sharing. He was never in the mood for sharing.
He sipped his pint and turned back to the bar, where the big brown eyes were waiting.
“I’m glad to see you’ve slowed down a bit, I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to keep up.”
Rossett nodded, regretting standing right next to the pumps. The barmaid finished pouring a pint and took it to a waiting customer up the other end of the bar as Rossett took out his cigarettes and lit one. He placed both elbows on the bar and stared at his pint for a moment, feeling the weight of the sovereigns pulling at his raincoat pocket and his conscience. He took a drag of the cigarette and washed down the smoke with the last of his bitter before waving his glass down the bar, hoping to catch those brown eyes.
He thought about Jacob and wondered if the child was okay.
“Bitter?”
Rossett looked up into those brown eyes again and nodded, thinking they reminded him of someone.
“I am, but can I have a drink as well?” The brown eyes smiled at his bad joke. “You must get sick of looking at miserable drunks,” Rossett said, aware that the drink was making him talk, taking his edge off.
“I get sick of looking at any kind of drunk, but at least the miserable ones keep themselves to themselves.”
“What’s your name?”
“Barbara, what’s yours?”
“Another Scotch, thanks.”
Barbara smiled and waited for Rossett to pay for the foamy pint that she had placed in front of him. He fished out some coins.
“Have one yourself, Barbara, so I can say sorry for being a miserable rude drunk.”
Barbara smiled and took the money to the till. She dropped some coins into her own glass and returned with the change and p
laced it next to Rossett’s pint.
“Been a bad day for you then?”
“Very bad, very very bad, if I’m honest.”
Rossett swirled the Scotch around its glass on the bar and then smiled at Barbara before picking it up and drinking half of it in one gulp. This time it didn’t burn too much. This time it went down easy, and somewhere deep inside an alarm triggered in Rossett, telling him he was getting drunk.
He decided to ignore it.
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”
“I let someone down, Barbara. I let them down badly.”
“They’ll understand. Can’t you explain tomorrow?”
“No, because he is gone, gone for good, never to be seen again. He needed my help, and I let him down.” As Rossett spoke he waved the glass in front of him.
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”
“It is.”
“It’s just the drink talking. You’ll see, it’ll be better in the morning after you’ve had a sleep.”
“Lovely Barbara, you really have no idea, do you?”
Rossett finished the Scotch and tilted the empty glass toward her. He noticed her frown. She took the glass and poured another measure, taking the money from his change on the bar.
“You’re going to get drunk.”
“That’s the plan.”
“You should go home to your family.”
“I should, but I can’t, so I won’t.”
Rossett smiled sadly, and Barbara shook her head and made her way up the end of the bar. He watched her go and drank some more bitter; he’d scared her off, just as he always did when he was drunk. They liked him at first, but then his pain scared them away as it floated to the surface, buoyed up by the booze.
“I couldn’t even look after a child,” he said softly.
“Kids, eh? They drive you bloody mad if you let them.”
Rossett turned and found a docker standing next to him at the bar. The big man was waiting to be served and had overheard him muttering.
“What?” Rossett stood up from leaning on the bar and stared at the docker, who smiled back.
“I was just saying, kids . . . they drive you bloody mental if you let ’em. My two lads are grown up now. But they still drive me barmy sometimes. I say to them, ‘Why don’t you piss off and get your own place?’ But they never listen.”
Rossett tilted his head and took a sip of his beer as Barbara smiled at the docker and took his empty glass to fetch another drink.
“How many you got?” The docker smiled at Rossett again.
“None.”
“Count yourself lucky, mate. They bleed you dry.”
“Do they?”
“Yeah, once you got ’em you can’t get shot of ’em. Always looking for something. Lads are the worse, mind. My two never leave me alone. You, mate, are a very lucky man. If your missus ever wants kids you tell ’er what I said.”
“My missus is dead.”
The big man froze, not expecting the bluntness of Rossett’s reply.
“Eh? Oh, I’m sorry, guv, I didn’t know.” He stared at Rossett, looking for a rescue from his embarrassment, but he didn’t get one.
“So is my son. They were blown up, the pair of them. Bang . . . gone. Never seen again. They found bits, mind, but nothing you could look at and say ‘that’s them.’ No face or anything, just bits and pieces lying round here and there . . . that’s all.”
The docker stared at Rossett, then looked around the bar for rescue. He didn’t get one and turned back to Rossett.
“I don’t know what to say, mate.” He shook his head. “Bloody Germans.”
“It wasn’t Germans, mate. It was the English that did it. Pram full of explosives. BOOM!”
Rossett waved his hands in the air as he shouted “boom” and a few people in the bar looked around. The docker looked at Barbara and then back at Rossett. His mouth moved silently before he picked up his pint from the bar.
“I’m sorry, mate.”
“Why don’t you just piss off?” Rossett replied.
The docker nodded and turned to go.
“I’m sorry, mate.”
Rossett didn’t reply. He turned back to the bar, rested both elbows on it once more, and stared at his beer.
“I think you’ve had enough.”
Rossett looked up to Barbara, who had made her way down the bar toward him. She was wringing a towel in her hands. Rossett reached into his pocket, produced his warrant card, and flicked it toward her before dropping it back into his pocket.
“I think you need to get me another Scotch.”
It was getting dark.
Chapter 16
ROSSETT COULD FEEL the gloom surrounding him. He felt like a man climbing a mast on a sinking ship, barely able to keep ahead of the rising sea of depression. It always happened when he was deep in drink; it was why he hated boozing at home. He wanted to maintain a distance from his revolver and the chair by the window, where he’d sat too many times in the past, scared that that toothpick lamppost and the grime on the window would be the last thing he would ever see.
He wasn’t sure how many drinks he’d had, but he knew he was drunk. He guessed he could still drive, although he would have to bank on the fog still being outside and slowing everyone else down enough for them to avoid him. He’d smoked half a pack of cigarettes, drunk a belly full of bitter, and spilt a fair few glasses of Scotch. He’d be sorry in the morning, but then, he was sorry every morning.
He stared at the inch of bitter left in the bottom of his glass and then looked around the bar, in full swing now, offices and businesses closing having brought in a few more on their way home. Someone burst out laughing a few feet away and he felt someone else push into his back as he tried to squeeze past. It was time to go and get the petrol from Charing Cross.
He swallowed the last of the bitter and slid the change off the bar into his pocket, brushing his hand against the pouch full of sovereigns, there again, there to remind him.
He took the change out of his pocket and tapped it on the bar. Barbara looked down from the other end, and he nodded to her and left it as a tip. She smiled but looked like she didn’t mean it. He didn’t smile back.
Rossett turned to leave and walked straight into the broad back of one of the dockers. It felt like he had hit a stone wall. He placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and tried to push his way past. The docker didn’t give way; he just turned slowly, pushing against Rossett’s hand, scowling at him.
“You’ve just knocked my pint all over me.”
Another night Rossett would have raised his hands and apologized. He might have even put his hand in his pocket and bought the man a pint.
But not tonight.
Tonight he stared at the docker and thanked God, because tonight, just when he needed it, tonight he was going to have a fight.
Rossett stared at the man, maybe in his late fifties, broad of shoulder and thick of back from hefting weights all his working life. He was holding his pint glass in his right hand and Rossett could see the stain of spilled beer across his chest. He smiled.
“So what?”
“So what?” The docker looked at Rossett, confused, and then at his friends, who, by now, were also staring at Rossett.
“So what if I spilled your pint?”
“So what?” the docker repeated, thrown that the conversation was not going as he expected.
Rossett stared at the docker for a moment and then subsided inside. The man wasn’t a fighter; if he had been they would already be on the floor. The man was just having a pint on his way home from work. Rossett’s anger ebbed like a wave on the shore, and he regretted the way he had reacted.
“I’m sorry.” Rossett spoke softly, and the docker looked even more confused as he stepped to one side to allow Rosse
tt to pass.
“Yeah, well, be more careful, all right?”
Rossett nodded and passed through the group and out the door, pausing on the pavement to take out another cigarette.
Maybe I’m not as drunk as I thought, he said to himself as he lit up, or maybe I’m going soft in my old age? He looked up and down the street. It was dark and the fog was down, thick and heavy and smelling of dirty riverbank and soot. He thought about leaving the Austin, then remembered he had to get the fuel before he went home and wondered if he should eat something before driving over to Charing Cross.
He heard the door swing open behind him as the sounds of the pub grew loud, then faded again, causing him to look back over his shoulder as he put his match to the cigarette.
The docker he’d knocked into was staring at him.
Rossett stared back. Maybe he’d got the man wrong: maybe he was a fighter after all, or maybe he had been whipped up by his friends and had had to come out to save face. Either way, the urge to fight had gone from Rossett, and he half smiled at the man and shook his head by way of apology.
“I think I’ve had too much, pal. I’m heading home.”
The big man stared back, and Rossett noticed the balled fists and the swollen chest. He took a few steps away from the docker to get a reaction space and then turned side on as he spoke, taking the cigarette from his mouth as he did.
“I’m sorry about knocking into you. It’s been a hell of a day. Let me buy you another drink?” Rossett pointed to his pocket but didn’t put his hand in; he knew better than to be caught by an onrushing man while reaching for his wallet.
“Not so tough now, are you?” The docker lowered his chin as he spoke, fists still tight. He took a deep breath and a half step forward.
Rossett held out an open hand and took an equal step back toward the Austin, maintaining the distance between them.
“I don’t want to fight.”
“You should have thought of that.”
The Darkest Hour Page 11