The Sunday Club

Roadside-Tales.com - biker fiction - read to live, live to read - handcrafted and custom built motorcycle fiction This is a sort of extract from a novel in progress; The Sunday Club.

The Sunday Club is based upon some of my memories of the two years when I worked as a barman in a bikers’ pub on the south coast of England in the early to mid eighties.

When it is finished, The Sunday Club won’t be just a collection of memories or short stories. It will, I hope, be a cohesive novel, detailing the experiences of a young barman working in a bikers pub on the south coast in the glory days of the miners strike and Thatcher and unemployment. In the glory days before mobile phones and the internet.

Those glory days when water or oil cooled bike engines were still new and still cool. And upside down forks were still to be born.

Once again, this is a sort of extract; a few small chapters of the novel. Plucked out and rearranged as one.

All the best

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Criminal Justice and Public Order

1 – The Old Man

“There are three types of shit in this world.” The old man said.

It was a different time and a different place but I can still remember it as though it were yesterday. Sometimes when the wind blows in from the sea and the building creaks and groans as it settles in place, old memories come flooding back. Some good and some bad.

I don’t know if it is a sign of old age but, often, these days, I find myself thinking of things that happened years ago; rather that what happened today or yesterday.

I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, or bad.

It was a Sunday night.

It was a Sunday night three days after dole day and the easy money had run out.

The youngsters had blown their dole checks in the first few days and we wouldn’t see much of them until Thursday week. A few might sneak in, hoping to scrounge a drink but most of our punters would be the older ones; the ones who’d learned how to eke out a pint and, somehow, make their money last from one dole day to the next.

Once again, it was a quiet night; Sundays always were. Part of me enjoyed this as it gave me a chance to catch up on little jobs, polishing glasses and so forth. Part of me hated it as the time really dragged. But, on Sunday nights my boss and his wife took the evening off so I was nominally in charge. I like that, nothing bad ever happened on a Sunday night.

And bad things sometimes happened here, it was just a matter of degree.

The old man was a regular. Normally he was quiet enough and never ever caused any trouble. Occasionally, though, he felt the need to hold court and give us all the benefit of his wisdom. And wise he certainly was. A Yorkshire cobbler’s son from Ilkley, he’d spent his youth not playing cricket or robbing cars but bettering himself. He now worked as a self employed printer and, judging from what he spent at the bar, must have been doing OK for himself.

“There are three types of shit in this world.” He said.

“The first is dog shit. You can find this on every street in every town or city in the world.” He was looking at Ian as he said this. It was obvious that he had a message to pass on.

“Dog shit is so common it is dealt with as such. Petty burglary, traffic offences and small scale drug possession. These are examples of dog shit crime.” Once again he looked at Ian.

“The next type of shit is horse shit. This is less common and is generally found in the countryside. Examples of horse shit crime are fraud, insider trading and small scale drug selling. People who commit these crimes tend to have a few shillings in the first place. One wonders why they want more.”

He paused and took a gulp of his beer.

“The third type of shit is elephant shit. This is the rarest shit in the world. Outside a zoo, most of us never get to see elephant shit but, when we do, we often sink in up to our necks and, usually we don’t survive.”

I know that, if Dance had been there, the old man would have been looking at him; he had another message as well. He took another gulp of his beer and said no more. He wasn’t much of a talker but we listened when he had something to say.

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2 – Ian

“Everyone hates me.” Ian said.

“Every fucker in this shitty town hates me.” He added, just to make sure we understood.

Well, this was right and wrong, of course.

Almost everyone that he met felt something about him. Some felt pity, others disgust and a few actively disliked him. I’m not sure about hatred though; I don’t think anyone cared enough to go that far.

For me, as a barman, there were always two Ians. In the mornings I would see sober Ian. I could cope with sober Ian. Of course, he always had some bee in his bonnet; the Russian invasion of Afghanistan, the miners strike or the Falklands war. Many of his concerns I actually agreed with but I never took them personally.

And Ian always, but always, did. For him, every corpse on Goose Green was a personal attack on him. Whereas I just saw it as a dead soldier, a grieving widow and, perhaps, some fatherless children. I cared, I just didn’t take as personally as Ian did.

Evening Ian was a different matter. Evening Ian was always drunk Ian.

The worst was when Ian came in in the morning, had a few drinks and then went home and carried on drinking or, started smoking.

Dope affects different people in different ways. We could always tell those people who came in in the evening having spent the afternoon smoking some puff. They would make a pint last all night. Generally with a stupid smile on their face. They were never any trouble. Drunk Ian was never like that. For some reason drink and drugs combined in him to create noisy drunk Ian and, believe me, noisy drunk Ian was a real pain.

When he was in that state we usually got rid of him early on, more for his own sake than for ours.

When he was noisy, drunk Ian he had a habit of annoying people, sometimes people you shouldn’t annoy. Most of our punters were youngsters who wore their leathers and their cut off’s but had probably never sat on, let alone owned, a motorbike. We had the regulars who had sort of taken over the snug bar. They all had jobs and most had new bikes, generally big, four cylinder Japanese machines. Then there were the locals. They generally didn’t ride but liked the pub because we didn’t have a dress code; as long as your bits were covered, we didn’t give a toss. And, finally, there were a few hard guys. But they were quiet and never caused a fuss. And, as a result, we, behind the bar, showed them respect and tried not to wonder where their beer tokens came from.

And the funny thing was...

We’d chuck out drunk Ian and, the next day, in the morning, sober Ian, quiet Ian would be back, almost unaware of what had happened the night before.

I get the feeling that sober Ian knew that drunk Ian existed and that drunk Ian did bad things but could never quite remember exactly what those bad things were.

Sometimes Ian would turn up on his bike; only sober Ian would do this, though. He rode an Enfield 350; one of the new ones made in India but one of the older new ones, if you know what I mean.

It was not quite standard as it had a single seat, high bars and the exhaust was straight through and loud. She was a pretty bike though and Ian, sober Ian that is, was rightly proud of her.

The bike was red with gold leaf highlighting. He’d spent some money on her but, then again, he had plenty of money. I might not have liked Ian so much but I did like his bike. She was a pretty little bike.

Drunk Ian never rode the bike but sometimes he would just sit on her and rev the engine, just to hear the straight through exhaust, just to piss his neighbours off.

When that happened we’d see him the next day with a black eye or a split lip and only the faintest memory of why that was. Ian’s neighbours had their own way of dealing with drunk Ian.

The old man didn’t like Ian and made no effort to hide that fact. Even though he generally only saw sober Ian, quiet Ian, something in what he saw riled him up the wrong way. Perhaps it was the fact that Ian had inherited money and had come from money; had gone to public school, with a public school drawl that came out when he was drunk. He had posh parents and he didn’t need to work. The old man might have been a bit of a drinker but he worked for a living and, even when he came in at lunchtime, he’d always done a full day’s work before he ordered his first pint.

Perhaps that’s why he wasn’t too unhappy when Ian got nicked.

Of course, it was drunk Ian who got nicked. We’d chucked him out one night, for being drunk Ian, if for no other reason. On his way home he managed to catch the attention of two coppers on the beat. During the following conversation it came to light that Ian was carrying; just a quarter of an ounce and just for personal use.

And there it would have ended had it not been for Ian being drunk.

Now, I don’t know what happens these days but, back then, if you were caught in the possession of a small amount of dope, the police handled the situation with sense and perspective.

If you weren’t an obvious dealer, and you showed some respect, the dope would be confiscated, you’d be given a telling off and allowed to go on your way. And a couple of coppers would have a chilled out evening, when they got home that night.

If you were young, the dope would still be confiscated but you’d also be given a stricter telling off . “What will your parents say? What about work or college? A criminal record at your age, is that what you want?” This worked just as well and, once again, a couple of coppers would have a chilled out evening as a result.

Any more than a quarter of an ounce then you’d be arrested for possession with intent.

Ian could have got away with a slap on the wrist and the loss of his dope. Sober Ian could have, that is. But it was drunk Ian that the coppers encountered. Drunk Ian who decided to push a young woman constable. He was very lucky just to get a six month suspended sentence. I’m guessing that some highly paid family lawyer had something to do with that.

The old man seemed to take it personally. Ian did as well. As far as he was concerned it was all part of some global conspiracy aimed at cracking down on free thinkers like him.

“Everyone hates me.” He said.

“Every fucker in this shitty town hates me.” He added, just to make sure we understood.

Well, the old man just supped his beer and bided his time and then, when Ian thought he had made his point and was expecting a sympathetic response, the old man said...

“The trouble with dog shit is that, no matter how common it might be, you never lose the stench of it. No matter how hard you scrape your shoes, some of it will stick to you forever.

Ian, my friend, the coppers will now be watching out for you. Next time you might be innocent but I don’t think that that really matters, not any more. You assaulted a police officer, and a young female police officer at that. Next time you’re going down and I bet you’ll get a thump or two for resisting arrest.”

He picked up his pint and took another swig. We were all quiet, letting his words sink in. Even Ian, for he was still sober Ian at that point, was quiet and listened. He finished his pint and said his goodbyes. Shortly afterwards, as if taking the old man’s words to heart, he left town for good. I don’t know where he went and I don’t really care.

I do miss his bike though. She was a pretty little bike.

3 – Billy

As I think that I’ve mentioned, not all, in fact very few, of our customers were actually bikers. Those who weren’t, though, tended to dress as though they were.

Billy was a great example. I liked Billy; everyone liked Billy. He was on the dole but then, lots of our regulars were. I know that the old man gave him some cash in hand work; the old man printed carrier bags and he often needed someone to help unload the lorries and stack the bags. This was ideal for Billy as he didn’t need to think about it, there wasn’t anything much to think about and, as a result, there was no way he could do it wrong.

He also did a few odd jobs for Dance. I don’t know what these jobs were and I like it that way.

Dance was a local success story. He’d started off in double glazing and then quickly moved on, buying a run down plumbing business and turning it around. Some buy to let properties followed and then a second hand car business. He topped it all off with a couple of pubs.

These days there wasn’t much locally that he didn’t have his fingers in.

What most people don’t know is that he financed his early expansion with some clever imports and exports.

He had a holiday flat in Cherbourg and used to take his wife and two young daughters there for the weekend. After a few hours on the beach with his family (and, more importantly, being publically visible on the beach with is family) he would get in the family car and drive through the night to Amsterdam.

In those days anyone visiting Amsterdam was there to smuggle something out. Now, remember that this was in the days before the internet, before heroin was big and certainly before cocaine and ecstasy had made their mark. In those days smuggling was all about porn magazines, porn VHS tapes, cigarettes and alcohol and, of course, cannabis resin.

Dance would buy a few bricks of resin, each one weighing about two pounds, and then hot tail it back to Cherbourg. And then, at the end of the weekend, he’d catch the ferry and take his family home.

He’d never get stopped; the family car was a Volvo. No self respecting drug dealer would ever been seen dead in a Volvo. Besides, in the car there would always be a nappy bag and a sick bag. And, at the bottom of each, four pounds of the best Paki Black.

Now, customs have drug sniffing dogs but it seems that drug dogs don’t like the smelly of shitty nappies and vomit. Can’t say that I blame them. Dance used to also bring back a couple of bottles of scotch and a couple of cartons of cigarettes, even though he didn’t smoke. Always within the legal limit.

Apparently this went on for years without Dance getting caught. These days the drugs come in in other ways but Dance still occasionally takes his wife and daughters to Cherbourg for the weekend; just no nappy bags and sick bags these days. And, obviously no drugs.

Now, this is all myth and rumour. No one really knows how Dance made his money in the early days. It’s just that I’ve heard the rumours so many times that they seem to be true.

Having said that, Dance is a clever guy. It wouldn’t be beyond him to have invented the rumours himself, just to divert attention from what was really going on.

These days Dance is completely legit, if you forget about the drug smuggling rumours, that is. His double glazing business sponsors the local football team and the plumbing business finances the netball squad. And Dance and his family live in a big house in a couple of acres up on the Ridge. He’s pretty low key though. Always smartly dressed but never flash. He gets driven around in a black Mercedes but it’s an old one and doesn’t stand out. His driver is Carter, an ex marine who decided that it was far more profitable driving around the local businessman than dodging bullets on Goose Green. Far safer too.

I’m not sure if Carter also has bodyguard duties, he certainly looks tough enough but, why would a respectable businessman need a bodyguard?

I think that there’s some history between Dance and the old man. When Dance pops in he always sits next to the old man and they talk but, it’s just casual talk about the football team or the weather. It’s just that when they talk they seem to show each other a mutual respect; something you wouldn’t expect from a rich, successful businessman and a self employed printer of plastic bags.

As I said, I don’t really know what Billy did for Dance, it was probably legal and, if it wasn’t, and Billy got caught, Dance would almost certainly look after him and make sure he had a nice nest egg when he got out.

Billy had already been inside, twice. The first time he stole a bike, a little Honda CG 125. The owner had left the keys in it and the engine running whilst he popped into the fish and chip shop to pick up his supper. Billy got on it and rode away. That was a shock as Billy didn’t actually know how to ride. He managed about a hundred yards before he fell off. And then he just sat there until the police picked him up. He got three months for that.

He’d only been out for about a month when he committed the act that made him locally famous. The Queens Road is Hastings’ excuse for a high street, or, at least, it was then. In the Queens Road there was a shop that sold fancy lingerie, it’s not there any more. For some reason Billy decided to smash the windows of that shop one Saturday night. Once again, he just sat there until the police came to pick him up. This time he got six months. I remember the old man and Dance discussing this one night. I’m not sure what they decided but, once Billy got out, they both seemed to take extra care of him and offer him enough odd jobs to keep him busy.

When Billy got out we held a party for him. It was a good night and I think that Billy enjoyed it; it was difficult to tell as Billy wasn’t much of a talker. He communicated largely by grunts and facial expressions but we all tended to know what he meant.

Andrew, my boss and the landlord, once said that if we had a hundred Billies we could close up shop to everyone else.

And it would be easy; he only drank pints of larger, the cheap one, and occasionally bought crisps, always cheese and onion, or a packet of pork scratchings. He would drink five pints and then fall asleep. Then his friends, and he had many friends, would ensure that he got home safely.

I liked Billy; everyone liked Billy.

It was about two months later that we lost Billy. Technically, I suppose, he’s still around. It’s just that he’s not a regular any more. These days he’s in a cell in Lewes Prison, about forty miles away.

It was a Saturday night that it happened. It was an average normal Saturday night. The usual crowd, no strangers but a few new guys. They’d started turning up once or twice a week about a month before.

One of them rode a black Z250 with clip ons, a single seat, rear sets and a two into one exhaust. He seemed slightly older than the others or, at least, slightly more mature. And his bike was nice, almost like a real bike. The other three rode Yamaha 250s; the new ones, the water cooled ones which were supposed to be based on the Yamaha race machines. I never twigged to them myself but then I wasn’t really a go faster type rider, not then and not now. A friend of mine did get one but a few months later traded it in for a 250 Super Dream. Not much slower, in real terms, according to him, more comfortable and better fuel consumption and, importantly, less chance of seizing the engine with a mistimed gear change.

Partly as a result of this I got one myself once I’d passed my test. And I have to say, I was happy with mine. Fast enough for me, cheap to run and, when the time came, easy enough to sell. I did a lot of miles on that bike and, when it comes down to it, that’s all that counts.

The first time they turned up, Andrew, the landlord, my boss, said “I see we’re getting a better class of wally in here tonight.” And that’s just what they were, posh plonkers. I guessed that their mummies and daddies had bought them their bikes as a reward for passing their A Levels. I was wrong as it turns out, they hadn’t taken their A Levels yet, they were still seventeen.

We had a relaxed attitude to under age drinking, within limits; if they acted old enough we treated them as adults. If they acted like kids we chucked them out and banned them, no matter how old they were. The boys, anyway. With the girls we were stricter and we kept an eye out for them.

The posh plonkers hadn’t caused any trouble so far but, for some reason, that night they decided to start. They’d spotted Billy alone at the bar; Billy was easy to spot. His arms seemed to be unnaturally long and, because he always seemed to be leaning forward with his head down, this made him look ape like.

They plonkers moved to the bar, two either side of Billy. Every time Billy raised his glass to take a swig, they would bump into him and cause him to spill his beer.

“Sorry mate, clumsy of me.”

“Sorry pal, didn’t see you there.”

I caught on and slammed a pint mug down on the bar. I tried to look as tough as I could but, although I was about five years older than them, there were four of them and only one of me. They weren’t afraid of me.

However, Danny G. had also been watching and he came up to the bar with an empty pint glass. Danny was ex army, hard as they come and probably the toughest guy in the bar. As he put his glass down his elbow snuck out. It's target fell to the ground, clutching his chest. “Sorry pal, didn’t see you there, clumsy of me.” Danny said.

“Are we going to have a problem?” He said as he stared each of the four in the face.

“No, no problem,” one of them spluttered. Billy continued drinking, oblivious to what was going on. I filled Danny’s glass and waved him away when he tried to pay. That was how we did things, no need for bouncers when the punters watched out for trouble themselves.

For the next hour or so I kept an eye on the four lads and, I think that, from his seat in the corner, Danny did too. But, the lads, having seen the error of their ways, started being nice to Billy. They talked to him, joked with him, never at him, and seemed to be having a good time. Billy seemed to be having a good time too. Eventually they all drank up and left. “Just popping out for fish and chips, we’ll be back.” Kawasaki cafe racer explained. Billy liked his fish and chips.

I remember once, a few months earlier, a quiet night, maybe a Monday or a Tuesday. Billy was there, propping up the bar with two or three of the regulars. At some point they finished up their beers and Billy asked me something. As it was obvious that I didn’t understand, one of his mates translated for me. “We’re popping out to get some fish and chips, do you mind if we bring them back here to eat?”

I didn’t mind and told them so. I said something like... “Knock yourselves out you lucky bastards, I’d kill for some fish and chips.”

Twenty minutes later they were back with their fish and chips and, of course, there was a portion for me; Billy had insisted and Billy had paid. He wouldn’t even let me give him the money for it.

I liked that, I liked that Billy was sweet; everyone liked that Billy was sweet.

The night it happened I was unaware. It was a Saturday and I was busy, Saturdays were always busy. I heard the sirens and saw the flashing lights but didn’t really take any notice. After all, it was a Saturday in Hastings and I was busy that night.

I found out the next day. On Sundays I used to come in early to do the cellar work. I’d let myself in and let Andrew and Pia have a lie in. That Sunday the police came round just after I had started and I had to go and wake them up.

We answered questions but we didn’t really have much to say. The story came out gradually and, as it did, I felt a chill run down my spine. From the look on his face I could see that Andrew felt the same way.

It seems that the five of them had left to go and get some fish and chips. It was Saturday night and the town centre was crowded, literally. A drunk twenty year old lad, who I slightly knew, I went out with his sister once, only once, had bumped into them. Words were spoken and a punch was thrown. The four posh plonkers had taken it in turn to punch the poor young lad. Then it was Billy’s turn. Billy wasn’t a fighter but he was with his new friends and I suppose that he wanted to fit in.

Now, Billy wasn’t a big guy but he was about as wide as he was tall. He had these over long arms which made him look slightly ape like. And he was strong, he got that from all those hours unloading lorries for the old man. It only took one punch, the young drunk lad went over and banged his head on the marble door step of the jewellery shop. He cracked his skull open and then he suffered a brain haemorrhage and then he died.

The other four lads ran off but, true to form, Billy sat down and held the dead lad’s hand until the police turned up.

These days, I believe, that there is a law that means that of you participate in a crime where someone dies, you are as equally responsible as the person who threw the lethal punch. But, back then, that law wasn’t around or, if it was, it wasn’t used. The four lads claimed that Billy had started the fight, any potential witnesses who might say otherwise were all found to be drunk. It was the word of four articulate middle class hard working students with their whole lives ahead of them and Billy, who was unemployed and communicated in a series of grunts. Dance tried to help out and got his lawyer involved but, ultimately, it went the way it was always destined to go; the four lads got suspended sentences and Billy got twelve years.

I always meant to visit Billy in prison. I had this idea that I would pop round, once a week, with fish and chips for him.

It never happened though. In a way, Billy’s incarceration was a turning point for all of us. The old man decided to give up smoking and cut back on drinking; I’m not sure if the share prices of breweries and tobacco companies dived but, if they didn’t, they should have done.

Andrew and Pia decided to sell the pub and move up to a gastro pub in stockbroker belt Surrey where they would be amongst, as Andrew put it, a better class of wally. I can’t say that I blame them, at the Carlisle you were always on your edge, never sure when the next thing would happen but always sure that, sooner or later, it would.

And, as for me, I decided to take stock of my life and start pushing for a future; one that didn’t involve cleaning up piles of puke outside the pub doors on a Friday night.

So, I never did get round to visiting Billy; I wish I had.

I often think about him, though. I wonder how he’s getting on, what he’s up to.

You see, I liked Billy but then everyone liked Billy. You just couldn’t help it, he was the sweetest man I ever knew.

4 – Helen

I still remember the first time that I saw her.

It was a Tuesday and she was wearing a bright yellow dress.

I remember it because Tuesdays used to be my night off but Andrew, my boss, was in hospital for a hernia operation and so I was covering.

And I can’t ever forget the dress. Remember that this was the early eighties; we were listening to Duran Duran and A Flock of Seagulls and women’s clothes fashion consisted of big shoulders and bright colours. The dress that Helen was wearing was the worst example of eighties fashion but also very sexy in its own way. UB40 might have been buying their stage clothes from the local charity shop but all the girlies were getting dressed up courtesy of Top Shop or Miss Selfridge.

I sort of knew the two girls that Helen came in with. They both worked locally for the civil service, in that department that chases absent fathers for their child support. I guess, rightly as it turns out, that Helen had just started work there too.

The girls would come in twice a week on week days and then again on a Saturday night.

I don’t really think that they were trying to hook up, it was more the sense of implied danger that came from going to a bikers pub that interested them. A bit more street cred than the local wine bar.

I flirted with them a bit that Tuesday night, not very well, I have to say. It’s not really my style but it was, technically, my night off and it was a quiet night and there didn’t seem much else to do.

I found out that Helen had recently moved to Hastings from Warwickshire; her dad was a doctor and she had gone to an all girls school. I got the middle class bit from her accent and the education from the clever way she parried my crude attempts at wit.

Over the next few months Helen came in two or three times a week, sometimes with the other girls but, more and more often, alone.

Of course, the lads started showing an interest but they didn’t really stand a chance. Helen had a job and wore clothes from Top Shop and Miss Selfridge. The lads were, largely, on the dole and they did their shopping at the charity shops. For the large part, Helen brushed them away.

And then came Ivor.

Ivor and I had had a difficult history, and it had all started with my tie.

When Andrew and Pia bought the pub, and I started working for them, they decided to uphold certain standards and to dress accordingly. Thus, Andrew and I wore black trousers, white shirts and black ties. We quickly learned to wear clip on bow ties rather than the normal knotted ones. It took a trip being dragged by my tie, half way over the bar for me for us to learn that lesson. And it was Ivor who helped me that day. A tap on my drunk assailant’s shoulder and the words... “Stop being a cunt” was all it took. I bought Ivor a pint as a thank you but we didn’t really become friends for another few weeks.

And, actually, I don’t think that we ever really became friends.

But we did get on. Ivor was intelligent, he’d been to university, and, on a quiet morning, I could talk to him; he read the Telegraph and did the crossword.

Andrew didn’t like him but he did admit... “Most of our regulars struggle to write their own names; Ivor can do it longhand. Probably in half a dozen different languages.”

He was a morning distraction for me; Apart from dole days, mornings were always quiet for me. Ivor would read the paper, do the crossword, have a coffee and then a pint and then go off to work. He did something for Dance, I’m not sure what and I’m not sure that I wanted to know.

Another thing that I liked about Ivor is that he always turned up on his bike; come rain, come shine. I wasn’t so keen about the bike though, an old Honda 750 four in a rigid frame, girder forks and a coffin tank – all painted metal flake black.

Not my thing really but, at least he rode the bugger, 365 days a year.

One time he caught me checking the mileometer on his speedo. I’d gone outside to collect some glasses and took a peek. 100 miles more that it had displayed the previous week.

He must have seen me as, when I came in, he looked at me, looked out of the window to where his bike was parked and asked... “Happy?”

I told him I’d only done eighty miles in the last week. He just smiled and nodded.

I took a week’s holiday that summer. I’d just passed my test and bought a 250 Honda Super Dream. Not the most exciting of bikes I know, but she did me well. I went down to Cornwall for a week and, when I came back, Ivor and Helen were an item, sort of.

He’d come in for a coffee and a pint in the early evening but, rather than sit on his own and try to finish the crossword, he’d be with Helen and her two friends or, more often, with just Helen on her own. He buy her drinks, he’d pay for her friends’ drinks, he would hold hands with Helen and they would talk. There was no other way to explain it, they were sweet together, he was sweet. Who would have thought it of Ivor?

Although Andy, Pia and I were surprised by this turn of events, we had other things on our minds that summer. Billy had just gone down for manslaughter and Andy and Pia were thinking of selling the pub. I was thinking about my future and I was sure it would be one that didn’t involve selling beer to people who were on the dole and couldn’t really afford to buy beer.

So the summer passed, I took less and less interest in Helen even though she was coming in more and more. I think that I observed some changes in her but I really didn’t spend too much time noticing.

If anything, thinking back, it seemed that she was less interested in her looks, she often wore the same clothes day after day and, and this is difficult to explain, that light, that special light, in her eyes seemed to have disappeared. Then she started coming in during the daytime, as though she was no longer working; that should have raised a warning signal to me but, I was a barman and not a social worker and anyway, I had other things on my mind that summer.

I suppose that now is the right time to talk about the Glenborough Hotel.

The Glenborough was a big hotel on the seafront. It was owned by Dance although I don’t think that he spent much time there. It had a large bar and a basement function room. Occasionally they had gigs there; I’d been to a few. Even though it was a hotel they didn’t have guests or residents. As far as I knew most of the rooms weren’t even decorated or furnished. However, if you rented a room for the night for a couple of quid you got a key and, with a key you were a guest. As a guest or resident, you could drink in the bar all night.

Andrew, Pia and I liked that. It meant that the hard drinkers would leave us early, before chucking out time, so that they could get to the Glenborough and continue drinking all night. It made chucking out time for us much easier.

I’m sure that the police knew what was going on but I suspect that it made things easier for them as well so they left it alone.

The summer passed and I saw Helen more and more but, each time it was like I was seeing less and less of the girl who had first turned up, a few months before, pretty in her Top Shop dress and a special light in her eyes. Occasionally she’d have a black eye or a split lip but, once again, I had other things on my mind and though I thought that I was a reasonably good barman, I knew that I was a lousy social worker.

In October she jumped off the pier; the tide was out and, rather than drowning, she just broke her back. Ivor disappeared and I haven’t seen him since. I’m sure he’s doing OK where ever he is – Ivor was, or is, a survivor. Helen, it appears, wasn’t.

I’d see her around every now and again in her wheelchair, looking old and worn.

One day she came into the pub; Pia served her, I was serving Danny G. at the time.

“Such a shame,” Danny said to me. “She was a pretty girl and all that.”

I looked up to see who he was talking about.

“She was on the game,” Danny said, “Doing drugs as well. Such a shame. She was such a pretty girl.”

I took another look at Helen. Danny was right, she had been a pretty girl.

“Such is life,” Danny said.

I thought to myself, such is life. It was definitely time for me to move on to pastures new.

5 – Dance

Dance tripped on a branch, stumbled and almost fell.

He paused for a couple of seconds, hands on his knees, as he tried to catch his breath.

They couldn't be far behind him.

He didn't know how many of them there were but they must have guessed he'd try to escape through the woods.

He started running again; back towards where he had left the car.

And all the time thinking... "What a mistake, what a stupid mistake."

Behind him he could hear the shouts of the men pursuing him. Not getting closer - if anything, Dance thought to himself, they seemed to be heading towards the east.

Of course! They would have assumed that he'd come in from St. Leonards; that'd he'd have left his car in the car park of the Ploughman's Rest.

But then they didn't know that Dance was scared that this was going to happen - that'd he'd already made alternative plans.

As the sounds of his pursuers got quieter and quieter Dance slowed to a fast walk.

He was nearly at the clearing where he had left the car.

Nearly there and he didn't want to give away his position when he was so close.

And then, he'd have Carter drive him west until he was far away.

And after that, well he didn't now about that but at least he'd be alive.

He'd settle for that. The details could come later.

Finally he reached the clearing where he had left the car.

At first he thought that it wasn't there, that it had been stolen.

Then he realised that it had been moved slightly – the driver’s door was open.

Carter was waiting for him, patiently, as he usually did.

This time though he wouldn’t be going anywhere; his throat had been cut from ear to ear.

It was then that he heard them.

He swung round, all too slow.

There were three of them.

Two of them had been at the pickup; they had guns.

The third he had never seen before and he was carrying an axe.

All of a sudden Dance's chest was full of concrete and he couldn't breath.

He could feel his heart pounding in his ears and held out his hands as he heard himself say... "Please, I didn't mean it. It isn't my fault!"

The man with the axe laughed and said something in Turkish to the other two.

The two with guns moved so that they were on either side of him and Dance realised that there would be no escape.

The enormity of what was about to happen hit him all at once. Until now it had just been a sort of a game, a way of him trying to be better than the rest.

But now he knew that the game was over. That it was going to end here in these woods. And that his life would be over too; that he would die, probably painfully and in agony, with only these three gangsters to witness it.

And all of a sudden he wanted his mum and he wanted to turn back the clock and do it all differently.

He started to sob and again he heard the men laughing at him.

And then he felt the wetness in his groin and running down his leg.

The shorter of the two men with guns said something.

Dance stepped backwards and tripped over a root of a tree.

He saw the barrel of the gun aimed at him.

He saw the spittle on the gunman’s chin.

He saw the laughing man.

And then he saw no more.

6 – Epilogue

“There are three types of shit in this world.” The old man was saying.

“The first is dog shit. You can find this on every street in every town or city in the world. Dog shit is so common it is dealt with as such. Petty burglary, traffic offences and small scale drug possession. These are examples of dog shit crime.”

He paused and took a gulp of his beer.

He took another gulp of his beer and said no more. He wasn’t going to be around much longer; he’d decided to give up smoking and cut down on the beer so we wouldn’t see much of him. Anyway, Andrew, Pia and I had already decided to move on.

The police had questioned all of us when Dance had disappeared. They questioned the old man a few times but it seemed that they were still at a loss as to where Dance was or, what had happened to him. They found the car and, in it, Carter, or what was left of him. Both burnt to a crisp. But no sign of Dance; they hadn’t found him and I had a feeling that they never would.

I don’t know what Dance had been involved with and I don’t think that I want to know. I was moving on, we were all moving on.

I moved away, eventually a long way away. I kept in touch with some people and heard a few stories here and there.

Heroin had become a thing; it never was in my day. And, some of the people that I remembered started dealing and some started using as well.

Then the plague hit. It wasn’t the Gay Plague any more – now it was the Sharing Needles Plague.

I don’t know if it is a sign of old age but, often, these days, I find myself thinking of things that happened years ago; rather that what happened yesterday or last week.

I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, or bad.

Looking back, there were far more good times than bad. Far, far more of them but, it’s the bad times that I seem to remember.

I often think about Ian and Billy and Helen and Ivor. From time to time I even think of the old man and Dance as well.

But life goes on and I go on with it. Trying to find that little road that I have never ridden down before, trying to find a special secret place that I can call my own.

It’s probably not what my parents had wanted for me but it works for me.

I steer clear of elephant shit.

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