I’d stayed in the pub longer than I should have. The place filled up, got into party mode. Stretch limos dropped off loads of hen-night scrubbers. The choicest Scousers and Cockneys — munters that had seen more action than Chuck Norris.
They yelled at the barman: ‘What about a Slow Screw? Can you do that?’
He lapped it up. Had them all buying pints of Strawberry Blonde.
Some of these old pterodactyls were clearly on a mission to play away from home. To a one, they were old slags. Tarts in microminis and white stiletto shag-me-shoes, fishnets that hardly disguised the network of Stilton-like veins. And plunging decollete necklines that offered eyefuls of wrinkly DD cleavage.
The worst of it though was they all had tans. Sunbed tans. Tans that tighten and brighten younger skins but on older ones, merely darken the tractor tracks that have been driven all over their faces through the years.
‘What about a Creamy Punani? Can you give me one of them?’
The Irish had arrived. Joined by a mob of Geordies. Green leprechaun hats jostled for attention with giant inflatable bottles of Newcastle Brown.
It was time to leave.
I got up, made for the door. The bar staff changed CDs, put on Steely Dan’s Reeling in the Years.
I listened to the first line as I walked. The rest of the crowd joined in, shouting more than singing.
‘Your everlastin’ summer you can’t see it fading fast.’
I thought, ‘Was I the only one in the place getting the message?’
Outside I fired up a B amp;H. Not a bad smoke. I wondered if I could stick to these. ‘Christ, can I stick to anything?’
I only had a few hundred yards to go to the Shandwick. The wind cut like bad memories as I plugged my mouth with the cigarette and crossed the road.
On the way up the steps a bloke in a top hat, grey overcoat, put out a hand.
‘Yeah? You got a problem?’ I said.
No words. Just the index finger of a black leather glove pointed at the tab.
I took it out, crushed it underfoot.
‘I could have given you an ashtray,’ he said.
‘I could have given you a slap.’
Inside I turned down my collar. An open fire blazed hot as a blast furnace. Keeping this temperature must have been pushing up the cost of coal. I swerved past the main desk and headed for the stairs to Nadja’s room.
Sure, the bar called. When did it not? But I’d put this off for long enough. I kept a hand on the Glock as I climbed.
I wanted to make an entrance, thought about blowing the lock off the door. But it was only a fantasy. Likewise, I knew there’d be no Puerto Rican maid in the hall, a set of keys conveniently secreted about her person.
‘Calm, Gus, calm,’ I told myself. ‘Remember why you’re here.’
It was time to get with the programme.