The Adjustment League by Mike Barnes Page B

says, “What happened to the little girl?” Not sure how he should deliver it, straight-man-firm or sombre-gently. It comes out an awkward mix.
    Sip of the Earl’s black.
    â€œJust because I invited you in for a kiss doesn’t mean I’m going to let you fuck me ragged.”
    Instantly, Father pauses in his dime-rubbing and Mother in her counter-wiping—their heads come up and they look at each other, not at me. Perhaps as much notice as they ever have to give in the place, it’s a pretty placid neighbourhood for all the posturing. My Grand Inquisitor settles up and leaves.
    Â§
    The daughter flinches at my touch on her arm. For all the skill a barmaid—any maid—hones at forcing down distaste, she can’t keep all of it out of her face.
    â€œThis round is on me.” I give her three twenties. All I got out of the ABM on the way here, all I was sure the account would cover. Ken will have to come through tomorrow. “Be sure to tell them it’s for the Wyvern wake.”
    When she heads back with their tray of pints and wine glasses, I order my third tea. Mother sets this one down with a clatter. Looking up, I see a shaven-headed monk whose zazen is dime-rubbing, regarding me with mild regret.
    Strange how just being in a bar induces drunkenness. Prepares the way for it—opens some kind of loose-hinged door and invites it in. Even on a string of teas. Memories, of course, but not just. Something more like spectral auras housed in wood, glass, upholstery, carpets, cushions. Even in sinks and toilet bowls. Spirit armies fighting to leave the body, face-punch free of its good sense.
    When the touch on my shoulder comes, it’s light, almost apologetic. So is the voice—deep, but quiet. “Look, I don’t know what the idea is exactly. We’re just trying to have a few drinks and a conversation.”
    I let him finish before I turn. Then we both see what there is to see. From my side: thick, curly hair tumbling to broad shoulders. Only a little silver in it yet. Fleshy, well-formed nose. But reddening with alcohol use, hairline red vines scrolling out into the cheeks. Not yet the ruddy blasts of the lifelong drinker—but a start on them. Dark, sad eyes which would attract many women, some kinds anyway. A taller, darker Roger Daltrey gone to seed. The kind of guy women, if they go for him, don’t say I like him or I’m attracted to him . They say I’m smitten , maybe with a girlish hand twirl recalled from Drama Club. He’s honey to that kind of fly.
    â€œThere’s no idea,” I say. Oddly enough, it’s the truth. There isn’t. The procedure is to toss out actions in advance of the idea, see if you can tempt it to show itself. It passed this way, you sense, too swiftly to catch. Bits of its own scent may bring it back around.
    â€œThat’s good, because when the round came with a mention of a wake I wondered—”
    â€œOh, no need, no need. Never wonder. It’s exactly the way to do it, I think. And what Maude would have wanted. Celebrate the life, don’t dwell on the passing.”
    Something turbid comes twisting up slowly in his dark eyes. Really dark, brown where it verges on black. Something muddy, something glum, something heavy and inertly strong and barbed, comes spiralling up slowly from its home, like a catfish dragged up from the bottom of a pond. It wants to thrash at something. Which isn’t me, though I may have to do.
    â€œWhatever it is you’re implying… Who are you anyway?”
    â€œNobody. A friend of Judy’s.”
    The thing at the surface sinks back down, not all the way. Hovers at a depth. The blue cable-knit sweater he’s wearing makes him look huge.
    â€œA friend of Judy’s. That would explain a lot. My brother said she had a new one sniffing around.”
    â€œYou can’t help it when you catch some smells.”
    And go back to sipping my tea.