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‘C’mon now. Stuey made it especially for you.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘Juice. Alcohol. Normal stuff.’
I put the straw to my lips. The cocktail explodes in my mouth, cold and sweet and sour all at once.
‘Good, aye? Drink up.’
The men lift their pint glasses and clink them against mine.
‘You here with anyone?’ asks one.
‘With a friend.’
‘A boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘A girlfriend?’ He sniggers.
I don’t bother answering.
‘Plenty of nice views around here,’ says Popeye. ‘We could give yer a tour.’
He extends his finger and strokes the back of my hand. I pull it away. He grins. My cocktail has gone. I drank it quickly because I want to get away from this place, but now another one appears in front of me.
The pub seems busier and noisier than before. The men are talking about St Claire and places I should visit and bragging about themselves. One of them reaches into his shirt pocket and uncurls his fingers, showing me a joint with twisted paper ends.
‘We’re going to smoke this outside. Want to come?’
I tell myself it’s not a good idea, but the cocktails were nice and maybe they can tell me something about Angus Radford.
We leave through a rear door, which leads to a council car park. The temperature has dropped and I wish I’d worn a jacket. We’re standing under a lamppost where moths kamikaze against the bulb. Popeye lights the joint and passes it around. I put the soggy tip between my lips. Inhale. Swallow. Smoke bites the back of my throat. I stifle the urge to cough.
A man appears at the pub door. He’s the one I saw outside the guest house with Addie. He’s wearing black jeans, Doc Martens and a brewery-sponsored T-shirt, acting like he owns the place. He seems to be staring at me with intense blue eyes. I look away and talk to Droopy and Popeye.
‘Are you fishermen?’ I ask.
‘Aye,’ they answer in unison.
‘Do you know Angus Radford?’
Popeye inhales, holds the smoke in his lungs, wheezing. ‘Why yer askin’?’
‘No reason.’
‘Must be a reason.’
‘I met his niece,’ I say. ‘Addie Murdoch.’
The men both look towards the pub, but the blue-eyed man has gone. The joint has come back to me, but I don’t want any more. Dizzy but relaxed, I tell myself that I’m making friends and gathering information. We return to the bar. A good song is playing on the jukebox. I start to dance. The men are watching. One of them joins me. Popeye puts his hand on my waist and twirls me around, tipping me over his arm and up again.
Again, I notice the man from the guest house, who is talking to the barman. I try to meet his gaze but can’t stare into his blue eyes for more than a few seconds before looking away. It’s like he can see straight through me. I don’t mean that he’s undressing me, or anything like that; it’s more like X-ray vision, or that MRI scan I did at the hospital that showed my tumour.
The song changes to a ballad. Popeye wants to slow dance and pulls me closer, but I push him away and go back to the table. Another cocktail is waiting for me.
The blue-eyed man approaches and says something to the men.
