bars with Belgian beer and Paddy MacFuckertyâs theme pubs, all that.â He licked the ends of his fingers, spread out his arms. â This is going to be as close as you can get to a proper old pub. A local. I told you on the phone itâs a restoration job, didnât I? But itâs not just about restoring the features and what have you. Itâs about an abiding faith in something. About restoring a bit of . . . what dâyou call it . . .?â
âCommunity spirit?â
He pointed. âSmack on. Plus, itâs a decent earner, tell you the truth. Half a dozen of these places, turn each of them round in a month or two, flog them back to the brewery. Canât go wrong.â
âStill got the flats, though? I thought you had the contract to do up that block in Deptford.â
âOh yeah, never busier.â He leaned back on his chair, looked around. âJust had to take on a few more chippies, sparks, painters, whatever.â
âAnd . . . other business?â
The man rubbed his hands against the sides of his jeans, sucked at something in his teeth. âCome on. Since when do we go there, Paul?â
âOnly asking, mate.â
The man picked up his smoothie bottle and held it close to his face with the label facing Paul. He smiled. âUntil proven guilty, Paul. You know that.â
Paul swept the discarded shells and inedible pieces of prawn into the plastic bag; dropped in the empty bottles. âYou said youâd thought about it,â he said. âWhat I was asking.â
âI did. I have.â
âSo, what can you give me?â
Clive was back loitering behind the bar. He was asked to take the rubbish away and keep himself busy.
âYouâre not going to like it, Paul.â
âWhy is this such a big deal? Iâdâve thought youâd be only too happy to give me some names. Youâve got no love for any of these bastards.â
âItâs not about love. Itâs about honour.â
âYou serious?â
âYouâre asking me to grass.â He held up a hand as Paul started to protest. âEnd of the day, thatâs what it boils down to.â
âItâs a favour,â Paul said.
âThatâs never been how it worked with us.â His face asked the question before his mouth did. âHas it?â
Paul sat back, smoothing down the plastic sheeting with his palms, taking a breath. âWhat about some smaller stuff, then? Just bits and pieces.â
âSame thing applies.â
âIâve got to give the brass something , for Christâs sake. Let them think Iâm still doing some work.â
âThere are no gradations with this stuff.â
âFine. I get it.â
âYou canât be a bit of a grass; same as you canât be a bit pregnant. All you can be is a bit of a cunt.â He waited until Paul looked up at him. âIâm sorry, but thatâs how it is.â
Paul nodded, but heâd stopped listening. He knew he wasnât going to get what he wanted. He suddenly found himself thinking about Helen, about where she was going today.
The door from the street banged open suddenly and a kid walked in; sixteen or thereabouts and out of it. He looked around, confused.
âCan you get a drink in here or what?â
The man at the table turned towards the back room, but Clive was already on his way over to the door, shaking his head and waving his arms in front of him. âSorry, mate, the place isnât open yet.â
The kid started shouting about how the door was open, asking if he could just use the toilets, then threatening all sorts as he was pushed back out onto the street.
Clive threw the bolts top and bottom and turned back to his boss. âMy fault. I never locked it after Mr Hopwood came in.â
The apologyâs acceptance was lost in the explosion of glass as the brick came through the window and the scream of chair
Naomi Mitchison Marina Warner