Chapter 34 #3
The longest river in South America? They’ve got it.
Most successful bowler in the 2021 –2022 Ashes? Sebastian carefully counts through the years on his knotted fingers and comes up with a name Scott doesn’t even recognise.
Pi to five decimal places? One for Scott.
The principal lead in the sitcom “The Big Bang Theory?” Lorraine pulls that one out of the bag for the team.
‘We’re on fire!’ Lorraine declares when the quiz papers are counted by a neighbouring team, then reported to the quizmaster. She buys everyone a Bourbon chaser (Old Davey’s favourite) as they wait in anticipation of their victory.
‘Glad you came?’ she whispers to Scott as the fiery liquid hits the back of his throat.
‘I am right now. Don’t think my body’s going to thank me tomorrow morning, though. Not drunk this much in years,’ he replies. His words are slurring, but it’s impossible to prevent.
Lorraine laughs delightedly at his clumsy diction.
‘Don’t you worry. I’ll get you home safely. We’ll leave after they announce the winners, okay? We can’t steal that moment of glory from Davey and Seb.’
The noise in the bar dies down as the bar manager takes the microphone and asks for hush.
‘So, there’s a clear winning team this week,’ he says. ‘Wonder why that might be?’
Everyone guffaws. Scott’s reputation as a trivia nerd remains strong.
‘In third place, we have the Stratford Lads.’
There’s a chorus of cheers and a smattering of applause from an alcove at the back of the pub.
‘Next up, with thirty-nine points out of fifty, the Randy Ramblers.’
This results in a fit of raucous laughter and thumping on the table in the middle of the room as the ramblers wham each other on the back and self-congratulate.
‘And finally. The winning team. DLSS. With forty-five points.’
The bar erupts. Old Davey, Lorraine, Scott and Sebastian rise from their chairs and take a bow to thunderous applause.
Lorraine walks up to the bar to accept their cash prize and shakes the bar manager’s hand.
The door opens as Lorraine and Scott are huddled over their winnings, dividing it between the four group members.
The bar is plunged into a deafening silence.
Scott looks up from counting the money when he feels Lorraine’s body stiffen beside him.
‘I swear to God, Scott. I didn’t know,’ she says.
It’s unclear to Scott what she’s talking about at first. A few older voices quietly, solemnly say the solitary word: ‘Lad’. And then he’s here. Leon Johnson. At their table.
‘Hi, Lorraine,’ the wife killer says.
‘You … you’re out …’ Lorraine’s face goes pale, then red.
‘Yesterday. Good behaviour,’ Leon says into the carpet.
‘Right.’
It’s as though the sound has been suctioned out of the bar.
The boy, who’s no longer a child, looks at Scott. His lips are pulled tight. ‘Scott …. I …’
Leon extends his hand in Scott’s direction.
Scott feels the eyes of the entire pub on his arm.
Will he shake? Won’t he? He has no idea himself which way his limbs are going to react.
Every pore seems to spring a leak, and his vision turns hazy.
His heart thunders in his chest. He looks at the extended, quivering hand in front of him, the sweaty palm glistening in the overhead lights.
And his brain turns to mush.
He can’t. He just can’t. It’s not a case of never.
It’s just a case of not now. The boy’s face freezes as though in agony, and his redundant hand drops to his side.
Scott’s stomach, a vortex of beers, spirits and goodness-knows-what from the celebratory shot given to him five minutes ago, cramps with a cocktail of sadness and shame and sheer fucking fury at the world. How? How? How can this play out?
There’s no processing involved. Scott’s muscles contract as though controlled by a deviant remote-control operative.
Suddenly, he’s on his feet. His bar stool crashes to the floor behind him like bomb blast. His muscles flood with adrenaline and his fight-or-flight reflexes activate.
Scott’s limbs move to get him away. Away.
Away from here. Away from the pain. Away from the hurt.
Away from the sheer torment reflected in his wife’s killer’s eyes.
This lad who, eight years ago, at age eighteen, destroyed his life.
And he can’t. He just can’t. His feet are pounding their way to the pub exit.
The pub occupants are no longer friends and allies; they’re obstacles to avoid – people behind enemy lines.
Bar stools become fences of barbed wire.
Misplaced bags become land mines. And the whole fucking place becomes a war zone.
He flies out the door, ducking, dodging, skirting, anything to get the hell out of there.
The door hammers behind him like an activated grenade.
And he doesn’t just trip, he jettisons onto the rickety paving slab on the second to top step and he falls head over heels repeatedly until his skull breaks his fall with a resounding crack on the pavement below.
The ambulance appears within ten minutes.