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“So you need to pretend you’re still young and have a life and come out with me?”
“Exactly.”
Adam laughs. “Let’s go,” he shouts out. “I’ll get the first round.”
* * *
The first round turns into two and three. Food is ordered: pizzas, chips, burgers. Unhealthy pub grub to mop up the beer. There’s a small group of them remaining by eleven including the new DC, Ellie Quinn. She’s clearly drunk; Adam makes a mental note to persuade her to soft drinks next.
And she’s not the only one. Jamie’s sunk a few pints and is leaning against a table next to Adam, his head at an angle, his eyes half closed.
“She talks about you to Pippa,” he’s saying, his words running together. “There’s still something there.”
“If she does, it’s only because she enjoys slagging me off.”
“Mabbe,” Jamie slurs. “Or she still loves you.”
“I very much doubt it, mate,” Adam says, his gaze drifting around the pub. The other detectives are loud and boisterous, forcing cheer into their voices. Adam’s seen it before, a thin veneer of normalcy to cover up the horror of the murders they’re obliged to live through. “And when are you going to give promotion to DI a go, Jamie?” he says, changing the subject. “A little exam, a few interviews. You’ve got the experience, no problem.”
“And leave you?” Jamie comments. “You couldn’t cope without me.”
“That’s true. But I’ll manage.” He depends on his best DS more than he should, and Adam finds that worrying in itself. That reliance, trust in another person. He gives his friend a hearty clap to the back. “There’ll be more biscuits to go around if you fuck off, that’s for sure.”
Jamie laughs.
“Now you,” Adam continues, “need to go home. And sober up before your lovely new wife realizes her mistake.”
Jamie downs the last few mouthfuls of his beer in one with a nod, plonks the glass heavily on the table, then sways out of the pub without a parting glance.
Adam takes a swig of his own pint as he watches him leave, a flicker of envy dancing in his consciousness. Jamie is lucky. The new wife, the promise of a promotion on his horizon. Maybe kids, a family. All things Jamie deserves. Because he meant what he said on Sunday. Jamie is a good bloke. Loyal, steady, solid. Descriptors Adam would never apply to himself. He glances across, then makes a beeline toward the bar. More beers, maybe a shot or two. Anything to push away the twitch of self-doubt threatening at the corner of his mind.
* * *
The clock ticks around and the pub closes. They put Quinn in a taxi home. The last few stragglers move on to a pub with a late license; Adam senses an opportunity to slip away.
He doesn’t want his colleagues with him on his next stop. He’s drunk, unsteady on his feet; the alcohol has only fed his insecurities rather than soothed them. He walks down the high street, taking the well-worn path trodden so many times before. He needs a distraction to replace those thoughts of Romilly and his dead marriage. And if he wants that, the bar is as good a place as any.
He’s in quickly with a nod from the bouncer and heads toward the source of alcohol, getting served straight away. He downs a shot there and then, taking the bottle of beer with him.
Few understand the draw here, but for Adam it’s easy. Close proximity to alcohol, loud music to muffle his thoughts. Drinking alone at home makes him feel maudlin, pathetic, while at least here he is out, circulating around like-minded souls. People who don’t pay him enough attention to judge. Company without commitment; they ask nothing from him, too concerned with problems of their own.
From a safe distance, he watches the crowd. A Tuesday night brings in a different group. Younger. Students, most of them, judging by the poster on the wall advertising cheap drinks with valid university ID. People with fewer responsibilities and even fewer reasons to get up in the morning.
And even Adam knows it’s getting late. He checks the messages on his phone: nothing from the lab. Mobile reception slides in and out—it’s patchy down here. But possible. It’s okay. One more drink, and he’ll leave. But as he’s downing the last dregs in his bottle, a woman sidles up to him, tall glass in her hand.
“Are you here alone?” she asks with a gentle touch on his arm.
It’s rare, but it happens—approaches from women unable to resist the brooding stranger in the shadows. He assesses her slowly. She’s tipsy, but not drunk. She knows what she’s doing. But there’s a level of confidence that seems almost forced. A fragility behind the smile. But who is he to judge? Everyone has something they’re searching for. Some hide it better than others.
He continues his appraisal. It might be okay. He feels a pull—a yearning for company, loneliness demanding to be appeased, however fleeting.
“Do you want to join me?” Adam replies.
She smiles up at him. “For a drink? No. For something else? Maybe.”
She runs her hand up his arm. Her cheeks are pink behind the layers of makeup, her hair wild around her face. It’s clear what she wants, a rarity nowadays. And an opportunity he’s loath to pass up.
“Shall we take this conversation somewhere else?” she asks.
