Death & the City Book Two (14 page)

"We're just looking at your naked pictures," he teases.

I glare at Connor humorously, knowing it's a wind-up. Giving me a chance to think of a retort that a woman who might really be at risk of an embarrassment or humiliation by her partner would say.

"Well, I own the rights to those, so I'm afraid I will have to charge you," I joke. The barman just grins again.

"It's okay, it was worth it," he says, and heads back to his post behind the bar.

Connor puts his phone flat on the table as we sit back down, and pushes it towards me, so I can see what they were looking at. It's a CCTV clip on ViewTube of an alligator climbing out of a manhole drain, near a bus stop in the rain, and getting onto the waiting bus. To the terror of the passengers, who escape out of the emergency doors and windows like lemmings. Typical boy's entertainment. But I know Connor, and his ViewTube history already.

"One of yours?" I ask.

"Florida," he nods. "If you've got an outdoor pool, don't go swimming at night either."

"What I remember mostly from when I was there, was dolphins and manatees at the bottom of the garden. And sitting on the beach on the other side of the main road, watching Kennedy space launches every week," I tell him. "Always more often than you think."

"Yeah, there's a lot of satellites up there now, I imagine," he agrees. "Funny how there's never one over my house when I want a signal, though."

"Yeah, me too," I agree. "According to Warren we don't need it as much as some people."

He looks at me and nods.

"Can only be a good thing," he remarks quietly. "When the band starts, one of the pool tables might be free. Up for a couple of games?"

I nod, glancing back at the playing area.

"Hey, check out
Van Helsing
," I observe, seeing a figure in a black hat and trench coat leaning nonchalantly against the cigarette machine, watching the latest pool match. "Looks like he thinks it's Goth metal night."

Connor nudges my foot under the table with his.

"You're staring again," he points out. "Stop thinking you're at work."

"Force of habit. I can't help it. I never go into venues off duty. Not when they're open to the public, anyway," I admit, turning back to face him. "Plus I'm getting drunk. Which isn't really helping me stay focused on anything else, behaviour-wise."

"Why do you think you seem to revert to your work personality all the time?" Connor asks. "Is it a safety thing, or a sanity feature?"

I shrug.

"Just it's the one most in use, I guess," I reply. "Force of habit, like I said."

"We'll have to see about that, then," he says, thoughtfully.

He's got a point. I find continuity with anyone very difficult, except by having very little to talk about, as a rule. I'm too aware that only a very limited part of my brain is engaged with what's in front of me, giving the majority of my identity privacy and autonomy.

I can't switch personality in front of someone in a social setting, except into work mode, and having to play along in a new role is making my other self-monitoring sides restless, wanting to get up and walk away from what they consider to be a game, with no useful purpose or outcome for my sanity. It's a bit odd not having space to escape and analyse when he's right in front of me. It reminds me of when Manager Melanie first started seeing doorman Steve Jackman. Everything he said to her at work, she had to repeat to the next person she saw, needing feedback, or at least to show off a bit. It was the most non-private courtship I'd ever had the reluctant privilege to witness. Every look he gave her, every touch, every flirt, she had to share as if there was no part of her brain dedicated to privacy. It was only when she decided to start posting her titbits on Twaddle under the name
Sexy Mel Kitten Heels
and also starting a blog, with the aim of giving the widest possible audience her romantic scoops as quickly as was achievable, that Steve apparently put his foot down with an "It's me or your ego" ultimatum. So she was forced to limit gossip to whispering in corners to the V.I.P. girls, or me, if I couldn't get away. I hope now to be replaced by Mgr Diane, since she's migrated from Sin Street.

I realise that Elaine and I have shared the trials of being a single woman in mutual support. But it's not like Melanie's boastful glee of having something to talk about to absolutely anyone regardless of whether they have anything to share in return, just to increase her own public image. Plus a lot of stuff I don't share when I consider it to be private. It's just that I'm used to my own space when I'm not at work, able to figure out for myself what things mean, or in fact if they mean anything at all. I feel as though I want to get away and write things down in my diary to dissect them for myself. Which is probably not quite the same as Melanie feeling that whatever is happening between her and Steve is just fuel for her image as she relates to other people, not to him. If I was one of the billion or so internet bloggers sharing my innermost views and experiences, instead of locked in my head with each of my personalities competing and torturing myself about them, I'd be the same.

The difference to me is like checking the
News
and the facts to find out what's happening in the world, instead of consulting a pack of Tarot cards, or a psychic hotline. When the person you're in the relationship with is in front of you, it's pretty much certain that they're the one who's going to give you the answers about what's going on between you. Something that no other number of third parties are going to be able to do. So long as whichever personality that's currently in the driving seat, in your own mind, can stay focused long enough to absorb it.

Which is why any post-analysis is part of what's private about a private life. To me, at least.

The barman suddenly reappears and puts another round of tequila, salt and lime on the table.

"For the naked photos," he says, grinning, and goes back to the bar. This time I'm glad to see there's two lime portions.

"I think he likes you," Connor teases.

"You never know, it might be you he likes," I tease back. The alcohol is making me feel less verbally inhibited, although I'm conscious of not raising my voice or turning into a squealing drunk like the customers I see most nights. "You could find yourself with a new stalker."

He just smirks.

"You never talk about your past," he says. "Makes you seem very shut off. Like you have a hard time absorbing other people sharing stuff about theirs."

I shrug. Usually it's a movement that gives me time to think, but not this time. My other personalities have opted out in a sulk, being forced to accompany me to a pub I'm not working in, and not being allowed the freedom of no obvious agenda either.

"What do you want to know?" I ask instead, having no smarter answer.

"Last boyfriend?"

"Haven't had one yet," I say honestly. "Do I have to invent one, so that people can try and relate to me?"

"Any particular experience that wasn't a relationship, which influences your attitude now that you could reveal instead?" he asks. "Like me and stalkers."

"Yeah, all of them," I say. "That's what happens in normal life, I think you'll find. It doesn't mean there's anything specific influencing me at the moment."

"All of them," Connor repeats, looking at me. Picking out the answer from my overall statement. I feel awkward and reach for the shot glass, but he puts his hand down on mine before I get near it, stopping me. "No, you don't. Go avoiding the subject being discussed, I mean. Not until you're honest with me."

"I am being honest, God…" I try to retract my hand but he just increases the pressure slightly, pressing it to the table. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"Something that makes you a human being, not a machine."

"Well, nobody was ever interested enough to find out if I was human before, they were either after just one thing or nothing," I tell him, easing my hand away gently. "There's nothing to talk about. I mean that in a literal sense, not an avoidant one."

"How does that make you feel?" he asks. "Having nothing. I don't just mean having nothing to talk about, if you were the type to talk about anything. How does having no past make you feel?"

I shrug my shoulders again. It doesn't help things along.

"I don't know how to talk about it," I admit. "How are you supposed to start talking about nothing?"

"Talk about it as a human being, not just a flight recording device," he suggests. "How does having nothing romantic or passionate in your past make you feel?"

"Alone?" I hazard, aware that part of me is still playing the avoidant card.

"That's circumstantial, not emotional. Try again." He reaches for my hand once more, and picks up a lime segment. "The wrong answer means you have to down both tequilas."

I watch, feeling powerless, as he squeezes a drop of lime and taps salt out of the shaker onto the back of my hand. He puts the salt cellar down, but keeps hold of my hand in his.

"Still not ready to talk about it, huh?" he says, in response to my silence.

"Not in public."

"Feeling a bit vulnerable?" He raises an eyebrow, as I nod. "Fair enough. I'll accept that as your temporary answer. But we'll discuss it later. In private."

He puts lime and salt on his own hand, and picks up his shot glass.

"No race this time," he says, and clinks his glass on the edge of mine. "Cheers."

Chapter 26:
The Hollywood Method

I remember doing another tequila, while waiting at the bar with him for another round, and the place appearing to be a lot busier than when we'd first stood there.
Davy Crockett
seeming very friendly and nudging me a lot, although I can't imagine why. A pair of Dolly Parton twins trying to sell the barman the notion of a threesome, to which he was insistent that the only threesome his Mum would allow while living under her roof, was him and his X-Box and a Budweiser, if he was lucky - although it was more likely to be an Ovaltine. Older generations and younger mix quite happily, unlike in the city venues and impersonal branded chains of clubs, and are mostly on first-name terms, or family groups, tied together by mutual enjoyment of the music, and the atmosphere in the bar. It's also big enough that newcomers aren't apparently obvious.

I look round, and Scarecrow is standing next to me, completely self-absorbed, reaching out a pale, pimply, chapped hand for his change.

As his wrist crosses the beam of the overhead UV light, I notice something unusual about his skin, which only shows up under the special effect lighting of the bar. He seems to have otherwise invisible fur, or hairs, sprouting from his rash.

"That's Wolf Boy," the barman confides in me, seeing me do a double-take, before Scarecrow slouches away. "Lycanthropic tendencies."

"Is that what it is?" I ask, not even sure I was that interested, but more interested in the fact that the bar staff have a story of their own to explain it. "I thought it was…"

"Pimm's o'clock," Connor cuts in, pushing another glass in front of me, and the look in his eye as I catch it is a warning. "Cheers."

"Cheers," I echo, worried now that I'm going to be too drunk to care what happens tonight, and the band hasn't even started playing yet. "You're carrying me home, I hope you realise."

"Yeah, I was kind of banking on it," Connor teases, and slides his arm round me. "Come on, I put some money on the table. I think our match is up next."

As the last players conclude their pool game, the band finally strikes up. The rest of the customers start to gravitate towards the bar and stage. A few start dancing. Connor takes no perceptible notice, setting up the pool balls, but I know his peripheral vision is at work, as he reaches for the chalk from the shelf below the dartboard without having to search for it first.

"Choose your weapon," he says, taking a wooden cue from the slots on the wall.

"Wouldn't be the first time," I mutter, doing likewise.

"I know," he grins. "You can bat first, if you want."

I walk around the table to the break position, taking my time choosing an angle for the white cue ball. From here I can see into the beer garden.
Van Helsing
is smoking alone, creating a mysterious, almost Edwardian image, only broken and slightly spoiled when he gets out his Blueberry, and starts texting.