This Is How Part 8

'I can see your point,' he says. 'With the sky outside and the view of the sea, it doesn't so much matter if the room's small.'

'Right,' I say.

I put my hands in my pockets then take them out again.

He's having a good look round and he sees my toolkit.

'What's that?'

'My toolkit.'

'Did you paint it yourself?'

'Yeah.'

'You like fire-engine red then?'

'Yeah. When I was younger I did.'

'It's pretty big.'

'It's a complete set.'

I've got everything in that kit. More than five years worth of collecting. My adjustable spanner, ball peen hammer, pliers, socket set, hackshaw frame, feeler gauges and distributor contact spanners.

'May I take a look?'

'Maybe later,' I say. 'I've got to get going now.'

He leaves.

I'll not bother with the swim. The pain in my neck's come back. A drink's what I want, and after a few I'll go back to the cafe and see if the waitress wants to chat.

I lock the door and undress to my underpants, get on the floor, do fifty press-ups, fifty sit-ups and, after a quick wash and shave in cold water, change into a clean shirt and trousers.

On the way out, I look in the long mirror that's inside the cupboard door. I'm skinny but I'm not a runt and I've got good strong arms and a bit of character in my face. I'm not as good-looking as Flindall, but I'm not ugly either. When my ears are covered with my hair and when I straighten up, put my shoulders back, and smile a bit, I'm definitely better looking than Welkin.

If all goes to plan, I'll ask the waitress to the pub. We could eat a pub meal together, and if she wanted to come back here it's a better place to bring a girl than my room at home and she's sure to like the fresh linen and the full English breakfast that I'll bring her while she's still in bed.

I go the long way into town, down by the sea. The waves are bigger than they were yesterday, there are more people on the beach and the sun's bright and hot.

Before the cafe, I go to the pub across the road.

It's noisy and dark and I'm surprised to see so many people standing at the bar. My heart pumps faster.

The barman nods. 'What'll it be?'

'A double whisky, no rocks.'

The girl on my right turns to face me.

'You sounded like an American when you said that,' she says.

She must be drunk. Her bare arm's touching mine.

'I like saying it,' I say.

She's young but she wears too much make-up, a bit like a prost.i.tute, but I don't think she is one. There's a smell of soap coming off her short red hair and she's fair-skinned with a few dark freckles on her nose.

The barman gives me the drink and she watches me like she's watching the TV.

'Have you been to America?' she asks.

'Not yet.'

I should ask her name.

She puts her left hand up to her mouth and holds it there for no good reason except to show me she's not married.

'I haven't seen you before,' she says.

'And I haven't seen you.'

The barman takes my empty gla.s.s. 'Another?'

'Yeah,' I say. 'Same again.'

'Same again, Sam,' says the girl.

I look at her properly, in the eyes, and smile, but not too much, not so as to make an a.r.s.e of myself.

'What're you drinking?' I say.

'I'll have the same as you if that's all right, but lots of rocks for me.'

She talks like she's used to having attention paid to what she says.

I hand the money over to the barman for both drinks.

'Not necessary,' she says.

She reaches for her purse.

The barman's twenty-odd, with a shaved head, like an army geezer. He pours two doubles and, soon as the drinks are on the bar, he starts chatting to the freckled girl like he owns her.

'Here's one you'll not have heard before,' he says. 'Did you know that coconuts kill more people than sharks?'

The girl laughs and so do the two men standing on my left.

'How many get killed?' I say. 'How many people get killed by coconuts?'

The barman doesn't answer and the girl turns away from me, turns to her friend.

'He's always got the most amazing facts,' she says to her friend, then to the barman, 'you've always got the most amazing facts.'

The barman smiles and nods.

I'm ready to ask for another double, then once I've had it, I'd better work on grabbing the girl's attention, or head over to the cafe. One or the other.

But I don't get that far.

Welkin comes from behind and hits me hard on the arm with a clenched fist.

'Fancy meeting you here,' he says.

I put my hand on my throat so I can speak without him seeing I've got to swallow my nerves.

'Just got here,' I say.

'Looks like the whole town's here tonight,' he says.

'Is this your regular?'

'There are only two pubs here. This one, or the Ducie Arms with sticky carpet behind the station.'

'So this one's better, then?'

'Much better. Better ale and better whisky and better everything.'

He looks over my shoulder at the freckled girl.

'But since you're all alone,' he says, 'why don't you come over and sit with me and Flindall?'

'All right.'

This might be the time we clear the air a bit, get some friendship going between us.

I sit opposite Welkin and Flindall so I'm facing the bar and can watch the girl talking to the barman.

'What kind of car does a mechanic drive?' says Flindall.

They can't have been here long, but Flindall's already got bloodshot eyes from the drink.

'I don't have a car yet,' I say, 'but if I count my pennies I should have one soon.'

I've sounded like an old woman.

'I used to have a car,' says Welkin, 'but my kid brother smashed it.'

We talk for a while more about cars and car crashes and the chat's easy and my mood's good.

Welkin gets onto the subject of Bridget.

'She's not had a man since her husband got killed.'

'That's what she says,' says Flindall.

'She's not a fashion model,' says Welkin, 'but she's got serious grace.'

'And considerable charm,' says Flindall.

I ask them if they think Bridget likes her job. Welkin makes a crack that she must do because she has an endless supply of young men, and they laugh.

'What was the other boarder like?' I say.

'He had to leave at short notice,' says Welkin.

'What happened?' I say.

'It was personal,' says Flindall. 'He wouldn't tell us.'

'When he left he did it in an awful hurry,' says Welkin. 'In the week before he left, he went about the house like a ghoul.'

'He just stopped talking,' says Flindall.

'Anyway,' says Welkin, turning to Flindall, 'he was a bit like that schizophrenic who got sent down at Cambridge. Remember the one I told you about?'

I look over at the bar and see the barman's put his hand on the girl's arm.

I try to get back into the conversation with a bit more chat about cars and they both seem impressed enough with my knowledge and the whisky's killed the pain in my shoulder.

'What kind of car are you going to get?' says Flindall.

'A Triumph TR4.'

'Right,' says Welkin. 'That's a very nice car.'

'Yeah,' I say.

They start up about London again and I don't bother trying to get back in.

I can see the girl's leaning in close to the barman, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s squashed right down on the bar so as she can reach over to him. 'I've got to go,' I say. 'I've got to meet somebody.

I can't stay.'

'So soon?' says Welkin.

I stand. 'See you back at the house.'