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The atmosphere in the Vesper Gate on Abbey Road in Kirkstall was pretty ramped up, thought Raymond Allen. Then again, it was ten-thirty. Not that he minded. His initial thoughts had been a quiet drink in a secluded corner of an anonymous bar, where the likelihood of recognition would be scant at best.
However, as beggars can’t be choosers, he’d slipped in an hour previously, and had to admit he’d really warmed to the place and the atmosphere. He was enjoying himself. It beat a lonely night at the hostel.
Allen ordered another half of lager, and watched the crowd of men in the corner, growing drunker by the hour. There were ten of them in all, and he’d identified the bridegroom and the best man.
The barmaid served his drink, and he sat on the stool watching the stag party with amusement. They were now involved in a heavy debate about the football match on the big screen.
As far as Allen was concerned, he’d also earned himself a drink that night. He’d had a busy day. The morning had been spent in the Market Place in Shipley, where he’d managed to rob most of the stallholders blind, having ended up with a new outfit to wear that night, and a variety of personal items which had allowed him yet again to alter his appearance. His hair and eyebrows were now a different shade. He wore a pair of tinted glasses, and had started growing a moustache.
Before leaving Shipley he had found a leather wallet outside the police station, of all places, containing over a hundred pounds in cash and credit cards. The cash was a bonus, but he left the cards: they were traceable. He had thought about taking it to the police, but that was far too risky, so he posted it through their letterbox.
During the afternoon he had managed a free meal and dessert in a café. They had not given him the meal voluntarily. He now suspected that some poor soul was paying for it out of their wages. It had crossed his mind to pay, as he was cash rich, but then decided better of it.
He had composed and sent Vincent another email, which should by then have had him running around like a headless chicken and posting even more crap on his blog. No doubt he would be over at the police station tomorrow. Checking his watch, he decided it would be his last lager of the night. He needed to be up early in the morning.
At that point, the best man approached the bar. Another hour, thought Allen, and he’d be lucky if he made it to the wedding, let alone
home.
“Now then, mate, how’s it going?”
Earlier in the evening, the best man’s dress sense had maintained an air of dignity, the shirt and tie neatly in place. The tie was now undone and slung over his shoulder. The top three buttons of the shirt stood open, revealing more hairs on his chest than King Kong had.
“I’m okay,” said Allen. “You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Alan Sargent, best man.” He held out his hand for Allen to shake.
“Rick Ashworth,” replied Allen, taking the hand.
Sargent turned and pointed to the bridegroom. “That man… over there… is my best mate… and the salt of the Earth.”
Allen smiled, wondering how many people in the same position had said that over the years. But there was a lot to be said for true friendship.
“Steve Brody,” continued Sargent, “has been like a brother to me.” There was a long pause before the next sentence. “And he’s getting married… to the prettiest girl in the whole… world.”
Sargent stopped talking at that point, and started thinking and swaying. He leaned in close. “Apart from my wife, that is. And I love her to tits… no, sorry… to bits.” As an afterthought he added, “Mind you… she’s got nice tits as well.”
“Is she here?”
Sargent bowed his head. “No. We… we… we had a bit of-of-of… an argument.” He waved his hand away. “But I’ll sort it in the morning.”
“Don’t you mean the afternoon?” said Allen.
Alan Sargent went deep into thought for a moment, then started laughing uncontrollably. “Hey, you’re alright, you are. You don’t reckon… I’ll be in any fit state in… the morning?” Sargent laughed even louder as he ordered a round of drinks.
“You might not be in the afternoon, either. Let’s hope she doesn’t shout too loud.”
“I never thought… about that,” said Sargent. “She can shout… my missus.”
“Can’t they all?” said Allen, which brought more laughter from Sargent.
“You’re alright, you. Let me get you… a drink.”
Allen declined. “I’d love to, but I have to be up really early in the morning.”
“I don’t.” Sargent laughed again.
After he’d paid for the round he stared more closely at Allen.
