I falter, feeling as if I’ve walked into a season finale I didn’t watch the rest of. “I… am I in the right place?”
“Kind of! Look! I’ve taken charge of the bar!” Alaric’s elfin face splits into a wide grin as if he’s been promoted to running a kingdom. He probably could. He’s excellent in a crisis, which is why he thrives in the cut and thrust of acute surgery, whereas I’m more suited to the tea and sympathy of dermatology.
“Um… are you going to tell me what’s happening?”
“Neil is what’s happening.” Alaric pulls a face. “He’s been on the pop all afternoon. God knows where he was drinking, but he rocked up here to start work in an absolute state and mouthed off to everyone. He’s picked a fight with Jess, sent three customers packing because one of themallegedlylooked at him funny, and then took a poke at Gerald. As you can see, that went down really well.” He shakes his head. “What the fuck has got into him lately?”
With another radiant grin, he hands the pint constituting more foam than beer over to his customer. “This one’s on the house, sir. As is the next.”
“The place will go bust if you keep pouring them like that.”
“Blame Neil, not me. I’m doing my best. Do I look like a bleeding publican?” Alaric slips from behind the bar. “Gerald, cover for me for three minutes whilst I claw Jess back.” He raises his eyebrows. “Her and Neil have had a…ah… difference of opinion. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate Jess pointing out he wasn’t in a fit state to be manning the bar. When he’s sobered up, I’m going to be having some harsh words. But for now, Luke, sweetie, I need you to take Neil upstairs and keep him occupied. With a bit of luck, he’ll flake out until closing time.”
Reluctantly, Gerald releases his hold. Neil staggers forward, cradling a half empty bottle of vodka like a baby. When he spies me, his mouth widens into a smile brimming with lopsided charm. By all rights, that shouldn’t be possible when he’s so drunk. His half-lidded glassy eyes shouldn’t still catch the light, either, as if they know precisely the effect they have on me. Even if he can’t quite recall my name. “Doc! My favourite derma-der-demalollogist! How’s that pretty lily of yours? You looking after it for me?”
The customer sipping his frothy pint snorts. “I’ve heard it called a few things in my time, but that’s a new one on me.”
“He’s all yours, Luke.” Gerald sends Neil in my direction with a rough shove. Him and Neil have never really seen eye to eye; Gerald’s possessive, and Neil and Alaric have history. “But I’ll warn you now—he’s a bit handsy. Good luck.”
I only came out for a quiet pint, I lament as Neil and I size each other up. Or rather, I size up the chances of Neil coming willingly, and he sizes up Gerald, all crossed arms and broad shoulders, like a forbidding granite rock. From the sudden sag of his own, Neil doesn’t fancy his odds of escape.
Instead, he lurches towards me, and my anxiety does a little jump-scare. I don’t like drama; I’m built for passive observation, not open combat. I don’t have Gerald’s muscles, for a start. What if Neil’s an aggressive drunk?
Another soft, tipsy smile and little hip shimmy hopefully answer that question. How the hell can someone so plastered still be so sexy? “We off dancing, doc? Night on the town, you and me? Whilst I still can?”
“He might be overestimating his coordination,” Gerald advises as Neil belches loudly and I duck away. Yep, that’s what the breath of someone drunk on vodka should smell like.
“Um…sounds fun. Maybe later.”
Though I hated every second of working ED, I garnered a few coping strategies to keep the drunks in line. Keeping my voice low and calm, as if talking down a wild animal, I add, “Let’s get up those stairs first, keep Gerald and Alaric happy.” I give my wristband a couple of flicks. “Alaric’s got everything covered down here for a few minutes.”
Amenably, thank fuck, Neil slings his arm around my shoulder with all the panache and refinement of someone who has no idea where their limbs begin and end. “You’re cute, you know, doc?” Slurring, he points at my face with a wavering finger. “You’ve got that thing, that…face.”
The hi-vis guys clap as I steer him out the bar. He’s muttering the whole time, something about going to the moors and his eyes and some woman called Lizzie Arden. Blissfully unaware of how much of his weight I’m supporting, we make slow progress up the stairs. He’s heavy, warm, and slightly off balance, reeking of booze and, faintly, his outdoorsy aftershave.
“They’re going to take the bar off me,” he mumbles.
“What?”
“The bar. I’m gonna lose it. They’ll make me give it up.”
“Who? Alaric and Gerald? No they won’t. No one’s nicking your bar.” If anything, they’re trying to save it for him.
“Not them.” Neil shakes his head vigorously. “Ez and Isaac. When they find out.”
“They don’t need to know about this. I won’t tell them. Alaric won’t either.”
“Maybe he should. They’re going to find out everything soon. It’s all going to go tits up, doc. They’ll kick me out of the band, too. I’m royally fucked.”
What does he mean by everything? Somehow, I sense we’re talking about more than simply tonight. “Why? Have you been fiddling the books?”
He doesn’t need to, I’ve seen his healthy accounts.
“Fuck off, mate. I’m pissed as a fart, but I’m not a thief.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
Does he have a drug problem? An alcohol problem? Is that why he’s been falling around and not himself lately, as Alaric hinted?
