Chapter Eighteen Zig
The next day, Zig headed down to the Avalon library.
It was easy to find, now that he knew what he was looking for.
The entrance was in a small courtyard off the high street, the tiny space adorned with flowerbeds and trees—bare now but promising colour and shade in summer.
The building itself was of unknown age, at least to Zig: a hodgepodge of different bricks and stone that might have been patched together over centuries.
It was guarded by the statue of an oriental dragon five or six feet high.
There were odd coins in its mouth, and in its coils.
Was this like a wishing well? Or an offering to whatever spirits might be around here?
Feeling daft, but doing it anyway, Zig put a pound coin at the base of the statue before heading through the low doorway into the library.
Inside, it definitely looked old: the floor was of flagstones, covered with rugs of varying size and pattern, and the white-painted ceiling was crossed by heavy black beams. Off to one side was a large wooden table with chairs arranged around it, where an old man sat engrossed in a book.
Most of the chairs looked comfy and modern, but in a corner was a dark oak monstrosity with a tapestry cushion straight out of the Middle Ages.
A desk with a computer and printer was occupied by a young brown-haired woman in what Zig was coming to think of as “Glastonbury” clothes—long skirt and a top that laced up the front.
She was frowning at her screen, so he didn’t like to interrupt her.
Unsurprisingly, bookshelves covered the walls and made inroads into the central space.
Zig wandered over to the nearest one and glanced at the contents.
Books on dowsing, magic, and astral projection.
And Hermeticism, whatever that was. He browsed on, eventually coming to a section on mythology.
Here, he found . . . not precisely what he was looking for, but close: books on local legends.
Tales of King Arthur, Joseph of Arimathea, and some bloke he’d never heard of called Gwynn ap Nudd.
He took a few of the more promising books back to the table and settled in to read.
It was Zig’s first shift at the Prince of Wales that night.
He made sure he got there early cos he wanted his new colleagues to know he wasn’t a slacker.
But not too early, cos he didn’t want them to think he was a total suck-up.
Starting at five meant he had to leave for work well before Si got home, which wasn’t great.
Si had promised to come to the pub during the evening, but he’d be with his mates, which . . . also wasn’t great.
Sod it. It was what it was.
Ange was wearing a tight red dress tonight that showed off her ample curves, with lipstick to match. She seemed cautiously pleased to see him. “Right, then.” She turned and raised her voice. “Finn? New boy’s here.”
A young, slender man with bleach blond hair and gauges in both ears put the bucket of ice he was carrying behind the bar and stepped briskly towards them. “Zig, right? Come this way and I’ll get you a shirt.”
Right. The polo shirt. Zig had turned up in a black button-up shirt, but he hadn’t held out much hope of being allowed to keep on wearing it.
Finn watched him surreptitiously while he was changing, then looked away when Zig caught his eye.
Hah. Still got it. Although he hoped Finn wasn’t gonna come on to him, cos that’d be awkward, what with Si—
What with Si not being in any way, shape, or form your boyfriend, you wanker, and not likely to be either. Shit. “You been working here long?” Zig asked, both to be friendly and to gauge staff turnover. But mainly to distract himself from his own thoughts.
“Couple of years,” Finn said. “It’s a good gig. Pay’s all right once your three months are up, and Ange doesn’t let anyone take the piss, you know?”
Zig laughed. “Yeah, I got that impression. What are the punters like? Do I need to worry about them getting rowdy? Any troublemakers I need to know about?”
Finn shook his head. “Ange won’t stand for any of that. One strike and you’re barred. But they’re a great crowd here, for the most part. Just want to have a good time, you know?”
“That’s locals, though, am I right? What about the tourists? Place like Glastonbury has gotta get plenty of them.”
“Not so many round this time of year. And Glastonbury tourists . . . They’re not, like, football hooligans or whatever.
Worst you can say about most of ’em is that they make half a pint of cider last a night.
They’re not here to cause trouble. And yeah, festival time’s a bit different, but most of them stay on-site over at Pilton.
” Finn smiled shyly. “You’ve recently moved here, then? ”
“Yeah. How about you? You don’t talk like a local.”
“No, I grew up in the New Forest. You’re from London, right?” Finn added.
Zig took a mo to answer as his head was filled with a mad picture of Finn growing up actually in a forest, like a squirrel or a hobbit or something. “Yeah. Lewisham. So, the New Forest, that’s . . .?”
“Marchwood. That’s my hometown, if you can call it a town. Near Totton.” Finn side-eyed Zig and smirked. “Southampton? Heard of that one?”
“That’s where all the cruise ships set off from, innit? Grannies off to sail round the Caribbean.” Zig’s gran had talked about it once, but she’d never got round to going. Probably never had the money or any hopes of it, now he came to think about it.
Zig’s stomach twisted. If only she’d lived longer. Maybe he’d have got a proper job, been able to spoil her . . .
“That’s right,” Finn said. “And the Isle of Wight ferry,” he added as if it was at least as important as all them floating hotels.
“What you doing in Glastonbury, then?” Zig asked, and immediately kicked himself, cos the last thing he wanted was any questions about what he was doing here. “Don’t you miss the sea?” he asked quickly.
Finn shrugged. “We’re close enough here. I can always drive up to Weston-super-Mare if I want to have a paddle. You ready? Time we were getting back to the bar, before Ange sends out a search party.”
Huh. If Zig wasn’t mistaken, he wasn’t the only one who didn’t wanna talk about his past.
Zig was getting into the swing of things, reaching for glasses without having to think about it, when he glanced up and saw Si walking in the door. His heart skipping, Zig flashed him a smile, which froze as Adam Merchant stomped in behind him, his chin up and his eyes hard. Wanker.
Yeah, right. Cos it’s not like he hasn’t got reason to hate you. Whether he knows it or not.
Adam hadn’t changed a tenth as much as Si had, since the last time Zig had seen him.
He hadn’t bulked up or anything, and he was clean-shaven.
Still had that arty look about him. No visible ink, though, which, seriously?
A tattoo artist with no tattoos? That was like turning up for work a bar wearing an Alcoholics Anonymous T-shirt.
Adam was closely followed by a fit bloke with a worried expression, and a punk girl who looked like she took no prisoners.
She had ink all right: a wicked death’s head hawkmoth on her throat and stuff Zig couldn’t make out on both hands.
Plenty of piercings, too, and blood-red hair except where it was shaved.
She looked like the sort of woman who occasionally made Zig wonder if he might be a bit bi, which, based on past experience, probably meant she was a lesbian.
Funny how that always seemed to work out.
Si ambled straight up to the bar, a warm smile on his face. “Going all right?”
“Yeah, cheers. Be with you in a mo—gotta finish serving this gent.” He nodded towards his current customer, a fresh-faced young lad who’d shown his ID without being asked.
Zig’s hands worked on autopilot pouring the drinks, which was just as well as something seemed to have scrambled his brains and tied a knot in his guts.
He had to double-check the card reader to make sure he hadn’t charged, like, a hundred times too much for a round of beers and one lime and soda.
Finally, he finished with the customer and could turn his full attention to Si. And his mates, who were now clustered around him like feds flanking a VIP. Zig kept his smile steady. “What can I do you for?”
It was the punk girl who answered. “Rum and Coke for me, Diet Coke for Adam, and Corin and Scratch’ll have a pint of Becket’s each.”
Zig cocked his head. “Scratch? Who’s Scratch when he’s at home?”
“Me, you wally,” Si butted in with a laugh. “It’s from me name, innit? Si Greczik. Scratchit. Scratch. S’what they called me at school. Sash thought it was fun when I told her.”
“Did she now?” Nobody got to laugh at Si. Nobody.
“You got a problem with that?” The punk girl—Sash?—had her hands on her leather-clad hips and was glaring like she’d deck Zig sooner than look at him.
Good job there was a nice thick expanse of bar between them. “Makes him sound like he’s got headlice, don’t it?”
She cocked her head. “Yeah? Cos I can only see one kind of parasite round here.”
Zig was suddenly one hundred percent convinced he wasn’t even a little bit bi.
“Sasha!” Si put a hand on her arm. “Be nice, all right? Zig’s an old mate, come to stay.”
“Oh, I know exactly who Zig is,” Sasha said, staring straight at Zig all the time. She didn’t actually do the I’m-watching-you gesture, but she didn’t have to.
Lucky for Zig he’d met plenty of people way scarier than her. “If I’m a parasite, how come I’m the one working here, while you take up my time and stop me serving the punters?”
“Sorry,” Si said, like it was him who needed to apologise. “You pour the drinks, and we’ll get out of your hair.”
Zig couldn’t help smiling at him. “No worries. Coming right up.”
He got their round ready, forgetting nothing cos he was a professional, all right? Sasha gave him a searching gaze and waved her credit card. “Add one for yourself,” she said grudgingly.
Huh. Well, two could play at that game. Zig flashed her his best smile. “Cheers. You have a good night.”
She raised a tattooed eyebrow. “I liked you better when you were giving me grief.”
She was so sharp she’d cut herself. Or someone, anyhow. Zig gave her a genuine grin. Maybe he was a bit bi, after all. “Sorry, love, catering to your kinks ain’t part of the job.”
Sasha cackled, then frowned, like she hadn’t meant to do that.
“Talk to you later?” Si said, and ushered his mates away.
Zig turned to the next customer.