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Authors: John Lambshead
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like.”
“I shall.”
“My technique is to amuse them. Make the girlies giggle and you can laugh them right into bed.”
“A tenner says she’ll blow you out.”
“You’re on!”
One of the students stood up and pushed back his hair, and headed for the bar.
“Pint of ordinary, love,” he said.
“Coming up,” Rhian said.
She took down a glass and put it under the tap that sold ordinary bitter, the cheapest drink in the pub.
“Do you know what they call a sheep tied to a lamp post in Cardiff?” asked the student.
“A leisure center,” said Rhian, without lifting her head from her work.
“Oh, you’ve heard it,” said the student, disappointed.
“From the first day I came to London,” Rhian said wearily.
Rhian passed over his pint and received a five-pound note in return.
She opened the till and gave the student his change. He took it but then hovered, staring at her.
“Would you like to come out with me?” asked the student.
“A tempting offer, but I’d better refuse,” replied Rhian. “My doctor says that I shouldn’t go out with boys until he finds out what’s causing the rash.”
“Right,” said the student, backing off.
“She’s a lesbian,” Rhian heard him tell his friend back at his table.
The friend put his hand out. “You were blown out, pay up.”
“Forget it. All bets are off. You can’t expect me to pull a lesbian.”
“Rhian,” said Gary, appearing out of his office at the back. “Would you collect up some of the empty glasses and wash them, please? I’ll watch the bar.”
The evening passed quickly enough; it always did when the pub was full. It was hard on the feet but Rhian preferred to be kept busy. She hated the long slow evenings when nothing happened and she had to invent work to relieve the tedium. Evenings with nothing to listen to but the cheep-cheep of the fruit machine sneering at her.
Tonight, it was eleven before she knew it. Gary ushered the last punter through the door and threw a bolt with a firm motion.
“Check the Ladies for me, Rhian, then you might as well get off. We’ll finish clearing up tomorrow.”
Rhian left the pub by a side door, barely noticing that Frankie’s weird posy was still on her lapel.
Pools of light from irregularly spaced street lights formed isolated spots of civilization like imperial border forts strung along a barbarian frontier. Rhian pulled her coat a little tighter and walked briskly, heels clicking on the concrete paving stones.
An old hatchback pulled out of a side street and accelerated aggressively. Its small, high-revving engine screamed in bursts as the driver worked it through the gears. The youth in the front passenger seat lit a cigarette, illuminating the vehicle’s interior in a brief yellow flash that froze a moment of time. The driver stared intently ahead, focussing on extracting the last possible horsepower out of the modest motor. Two girls in crop tops displaying too much skin sat in the rear, large hoop earrings swaying as they bent forward over a mobile phone. They giggled at something on the screen in the way of girls the world over.
Rhian watched, feeling envious. The car was a cozy private bubble, separate from the dark cool street. She wondered whether the couples were on their way home from a night out or maybe they were going on to a club. The car disappeared leaving her an outsider, alone in the night.
She walked on.
Something trotted out from under the bars of a gate in the wall that enclosed Tower Hamlets cemetery. At first she thought it was a small dog, but it had a long snout, pointed ears, and a full tail.
The urban fox paused and looked at her, its eyes shining green in the street lighting. That’s how the hill farmers hunted foxes at night in her native Wales. They shone a spotlight across the fields and shot at green eyes hiding amongst the silver-eyed sheep and lambs.
The fox was so close that she could smell the rancid odor of its dank fur. The animal
“I shall.”
“My technique is to amuse them. Make the girlies giggle and you can laugh them right into bed.”
“A tenner says she’ll blow you out.”
“You’re on!”
One of the students stood up and pushed back his hair, and headed for the bar.
“Pint of ordinary, love,” he said.
“Coming up,” Rhian said.
She took down a glass and put it under the tap that sold ordinary bitter, the cheapest drink in the pub.
“Do you know what they call a sheep tied to a lamp post in Cardiff?” asked the student.
“A leisure center,” said Rhian, without lifting her head from her work.
“Oh, you’ve heard it,” said the student, disappointed.
“From the first day I came to London,” Rhian said wearily.
Rhian passed over his pint and received a five-pound note in return.
She opened the till and gave the student his change. He took it but then hovered, staring at her.
“Would you like to come out with me?” asked the student.
“A tempting offer, but I’d better refuse,” replied Rhian. “My doctor says that I shouldn’t go out with boys until he finds out what’s causing the rash.”
“Right,” said the student, backing off.
“She’s a lesbian,” Rhian heard him tell his friend back at his table.
The friend put his hand out. “You were blown out, pay up.”
“Forget it. All bets are off. You can’t expect me to pull a lesbian.”
“Rhian,” said Gary, appearing out of his office at the back. “Would you collect up some of the empty glasses and wash them, please? I’ll watch the bar.”
The evening passed quickly enough; it always did when the pub was full. It was hard on the feet but Rhian preferred to be kept busy. She hated the long slow evenings when nothing happened and she had to invent work to relieve the tedium. Evenings with nothing to listen to but the cheep-cheep of the fruit machine sneering at her.
Tonight, it was eleven before she knew it. Gary ushered the last punter through the door and threw a bolt with a firm motion.
“Check the Ladies for me, Rhian, then you might as well get off. We’ll finish clearing up tomorrow.”
Rhian left the pub by a side door, barely noticing that Frankie’s weird posy was still on her lapel.
Pools of light from irregularly spaced street lights formed isolated spots of civilization like imperial border forts strung along a barbarian frontier. Rhian pulled her coat a little tighter and walked briskly, heels clicking on the concrete paving stones.
An old hatchback pulled out of a side street and accelerated aggressively. Its small, high-revving engine screamed in bursts as the driver worked it through the gears. The youth in the front passenger seat lit a cigarette, illuminating the vehicle’s interior in a brief yellow flash that froze a moment of time. The driver stared intently ahead, focussing on extracting the last possible horsepower out of the modest motor. Two girls in crop tops displaying too much skin sat in the rear, large hoop earrings swaying as they bent forward over a mobile phone. They giggled at something on the screen in the way of girls the world over.
Rhian watched, feeling envious. The car was a cozy private bubble, separate from the dark cool street. She wondered whether the couples were on their way home from a night out or maybe they were going on to a club. The car disappeared leaving her an outsider, alone in the night.
She walked on.
Something trotted out from under the bars of a gate in the wall that enclosed Tower Hamlets cemetery. At first she thought it was a small dog, but it had a long snout, pointed ears, and a full tail.
The urban fox paused and looked at her, its eyes shining green in the street lighting. That’s how the hill farmers hunted foxes at night in her native Wales. They shone a spotlight across the fields and shot at green eyes hiding amongst the silver-eyed sheep and lambs.
The fox was so close that she could smell the rancid odor of its dank fur. The animal
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