identify him. Or her. Not to do this.
Still . . .
I walked on past Lauders without breaking stride or looking back. I walked on to the shops under the concert hall, looked in the window of one and pretended to study whatever was there. I stood. A minute. A long minute. I shrugged and turned away. I walked back where I’d come from. I walked into Lauders.
I knew Little Man would be in there but I didn’t look for him. I went to the bar and asked for a pint of heavy.
The barman didn’t say anything but poured it. I didn’t say anything but paid him.
I looked in the mirror and caught myself. Me. Still me.
I sipped at my pint. I sipped again before I looked round.
Fat guy. Drunk guy. Old guy. Another drunk guy. Little Man. I gulped my pint and looked away.
He was sitting on a stool with the two near-neds standing beside him. They were still talking close, fast and quiet. Little Man’s hands were signing for the deaf. There were nods and shakes of the three heads. Little Man jumped off his stool. I was ready to move but he only went as far as the toilet.
One minute later, one of the near-neds followed him. The other stood looking around, standing guard from outside. I watched in the mirror.
Two minutes later, the near-ned and Little Man came out. I saw Little Man had a moustache of sorts. A streaky fair line above his lips. He looked like a ferret. A ferret that had eaten a mouse. I didn’t like Little Man.
I know, I know. I didn’t like Carr. Now I didn’t like Little Man. It didn’t matter. Coincidence. I wasn’t trying to convince myself or make it easier. I just didn’t like them. Little Man had a beaten dog face. Beaten and ready to bite. He had something funny about one of his eyes, a squint or something. He looked like someone you wouldn’t turn your back on but that was OK because I had no intention of doing so.
He was grinning all over his face, his mouse-eating grin. Little Man knocked back the last of his drink, a vodka and Red Bull, and called for another. He necked it in two seconds flat.
The near-neds disappeared, huddling close, leaving Little Man to look around the pub as voddie and RB number three or four arrived in front of him.
It was swallowed slower than the one before but was ended with a shrug and a final slug of vodka. Little Man was finished.
He got off his stool. Said his goodbyes to the barman and left.
I sat. Unsure. Unprepared. I needed to wait. I needed to follow. Couldn’t do both.
Shit.
I felt my heart racing again. I hated the indecision, the not knowing, the hesitancy of choice. Shit.
My teeth were clenched. Damn. I could almost feel the beads of sweat start to form. I felt panic and hated myself for it. Every second wasted was a second lost, every second lost was a waste. Make a fucking choice. If I let him get a start then he had umpteen choices of which way to go. If I rushed after him it might look odd. People might look.
Shit. I was going. I turned and left by the door he had.
I looked left to the concert hall. I looked right back up the street. I looked up and down Renfield Street.
There. Was it? Maybe a hundred yards down Renfield. Yes. Was it? I was sure of it. A short, spiky head bobbed and pushed among those next to it. Little Man.
I started to rush after him but slowed myself. Fucking CCTV. I made sure I was quicker than him but no more than I needed.
Thirty yards. Yes. Twenty yards. Definitely. Him. Number thirty-six. Number three. Little Man. My man.
He went into two other pubs. Five vodka RBs. One more toilet visit. Lots of hand speak, lots of mouse-eating grins. I hated Little Man.
He pushed his way out of what turned out to be his last pub and made his way back up towards the bus stop on Hope Street across from Molly Malones. He went into the chip shop there and came back out, supper in hand, swaying a bit waiting for his bus.
I was behind him, clinging to the wall of the Savoy Centre and hoping for shadow. I’d wait. Unprepared but
Still . . .
I walked on past Lauders without breaking stride or looking back. I walked on to the shops under the concert hall, looked in the window of one and pretended to study whatever was there. I stood. A minute. A long minute. I shrugged and turned away. I walked back where I’d come from. I walked into Lauders.
I knew Little Man would be in there but I didn’t look for him. I went to the bar and asked for a pint of heavy.
The barman didn’t say anything but poured it. I didn’t say anything but paid him.
I looked in the mirror and caught myself. Me. Still me.
I sipped at my pint. I sipped again before I looked round.
Fat guy. Drunk guy. Old guy. Another drunk guy. Little Man. I gulped my pint and looked away.
He was sitting on a stool with the two near-neds standing beside him. They were still talking close, fast and quiet. Little Man’s hands were signing for the deaf. There were nods and shakes of the three heads. Little Man jumped off his stool. I was ready to move but he only went as far as the toilet.
One minute later, one of the near-neds followed him. The other stood looking around, standing guard from outside. I watched in the mirror.
Two minutes later, the near-ned and Little Man came out. I saw Little Man had a moustache of sorts. A streaky fair line above his lips. He looked like a ferret. A ferret that had eaten a mouse. I didn’t like Little Man.
I know, I know. I didn’t like Carr. Now I didn’t like Little Man. It didn’t matter. Coincidence. I wasn’t trying to convince myself or make it easier. I just didn’t like them. Little Man had a beaten dog face. Beaten and ready to bite. He had something funny about one of his eyes, a squint or something. He looked like someone you wouldn’t turn your back on but that was OK because I had no intention of doing so.
He was grinning all over his face, his mouse-eating grin. Little Man knocked back the last of his drink, a vodka and Red Bull, and called for another. He necked it in two seconds flat.
The near-neds disappeared, huddling close, leaving Little Man to look around the pub as voddie and RB number three or four arrived in front of him.
It was swallowed slower than the one before but was ended with a shrug and a final slug of vodka. Little Man was finished.
He got off his stool. Said his goodbyes to the barman and left.
I sat. Unsure. Unprepared. I needed to wait. I needed to follow. Couldn’t do both.
Shit.
I felt my heart racing again. I hated the indecision, the not knowing, the hesitancy of choice. Shit.
My teeth were clenched. Damn. I could almost feel the beads of sweat start to form. I felt panic and hated myself for it. Every second wasted was a second lost, every second lost was a waste. Make a fucking choice. If I let him get a start then he had umpteen choices of which way to go. If I rushed after him it might look odd. People might look.
Shit. I was going. I turned and left by the door he had.
I looked left to the concert hall. I looked right back up the street. I looked up and down Renfield Street.
There. Was it? Maybe a hundred yards down Renfield. Yes. Was it? I was sure of it. A short, spiky head bobbed and pushed among those next to it. Little Man.
I started to rush after him but slowed myself. Fucking CCTV. I made sure I was quicker than him but no more than I needed.
Thirty yards. Yes. Twenty yards. Definitely. Him. Number thirty-six. Number three. Little Man. My man.
He went into two other pubs. Five vodka RBs. One more toilet visit. Lots of hand speak, lots of mouse-eating grins. I hated Little Man.
He pushed his way out of what turned out to be his last pub and made his way back up towards the bus stop on Hope Street across from Molly Malones. He went into the chip shop there and came back out, supper in hand, swaying a bit waiting for his bus.
I was behind him, clinging to the wall of the Savoy Centre and hoping for shadow. I’d wait. Unprepared but
Similar Books
