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As quick as a flash, Rory slams the guy’s arm back onto the wooden table so hard that I hear the thud of bone. He wails in agony, the glass spilling its liquid across the table and rolling onto the carpet with a dull thump.
“You chuck that drink at my girlfriend,” Rory says in a low, lethal tone, his arm grinding hard onto the guy’s hand, “and you’ll be wearing that glass for the rest of your life.”
The man’s eyes widen in horror.
“Out!” the barman yells. “OUT!” When Rory turns his head back in askance, the barman adds, “No, not you.Him!”
With a bitter scowl, the man picks up his belongings. After a beat, the rest of his group follows suit.
“He just threatened violence at me,” the man says in outrage, pointing at Rory, his eyes blazing as he shrugs on his bag.
“Welcome to pub life,” the barman says blandly. “Youwere about to chuck a drink over a lassie. What kind of failure of a man are you?”
With his ears burning, the man slinks off. “I’ll be telling my father about this!” he whines, before banging the door and stepping out into the cold. His followers are right behind him, fussing softly and glaring at the barman.
“Well,” Danny says, dazed and breathless. “Nothing says profound political statement quite like ‘fuck off, you selfish cunt or I’ll tell my daddy on you.’”
The barman comes over to our emptied table, clearing up the drink with the dishcloth over his shoulder. “Had it up to here with Antiro tossers,” he mutters as he wipes. “Am I allowed to say that? Fuck it. They think they know better than everyone. Pricks couldn’t run a business if they tried.”
He leaves us, still muttering bitterly to himself. As Rory slides our drinks along the table, he looks at me with a quiet reverence in his gray eyes and murmurs, “You did good.”
“Really?”
He nods. “I think that was your first proper live-action political debate. Well done.”
There’s something tender and proud in Rory’s voice that makes me glow from the inside out. My head is thumping as I down yet more liquid courage, my nerves spiking with adrenaline. In the background, there’s the sound of angelic warbling. “What the hell is that?”
Rory’s lips quirk in amusement. “I believe that’s called karaoke, little saint.”
I glance behind him. On a small square of linoleum, a large woman — presumably Big Mary — has a microphone in her hand and is barely even reading words flashing in front of her on the blue TV screen. Her voice is astonishingly beautiful and operatic as she belts out“Edge of Seventeen”by Stevie Nicks.
“…Huh.” And only because I’ve drunk so much tonight and am feeling somewhat victorious after myfirst proper political debatedo I suggest, “Shall we?”
Rory bursts out laughing, taking a sip of wine. “Dream the fuck on.”
There’s storming applause for Mary. There’s a small basket near the bar, and I watch as people take a slip of paper next to it, writing something on it before placing it inside the basket.
I watch three more people step up to the basket before I follow suit. Behind me, I hear Rory’s audible groan, my legs like blancmange as I cross to the bar. I yank a pen from its container and fill in the slip of paper with my name, and then, tossing a devious glance over my shoulder, add Rory and Danny to other pieces of paper. I sidle back to our table, looking enormously pleased with myself.
“What have you done?” Danny asks in trepidation.
My only response is to giggle. And it doesn’t take long at all for my cunning to come to fruition.
“…and after Sharon, we’ll have Rory M, please, Rory M.” The barman gazes around the pub, waiting for Rory M to make himself known. When no one steps forward, he shrugs and places his microphone down at the bar.
Meanwhile, Rory is busy glaring daggers at me. “I can’t believe this,” he says, shaking his head. But then he stands up, still glaring at me.
“Er… you can say no, you realize?” Danny asks. “We don’t all want to hear your dulcet tones—”
“Can’t believe this!” Rory declares loudly, so seriously that I know he’s joking behind his cold handsome poker face, as Sharon, with her massive bouffant hairstyle, gets up on stage and trills out “Puppet On A String.”
Rory goes over to the bar, glumly flicking through an old thickset book, which must contain all the available karaoke songs.
“The book of nightmares,” Danny murmurs, avidly watching him. “What d’you think he’ll pick?”
I have to admit I’m curious. “Something without lyrics. Just to be an ass.”
