met Bill, and I haven’t been bored since. I can take a bit of boredom now to get him back. Where will I meet you?’
‘How about nine o’clock at the pub?’
She grinned. ‘No way—I’m taking you, remember?’
‘I feel sorry for your brothers.’
She snorted, picked up her bag and went to the door. She leaned on the handle and looked back enquiringly. I was reluctant to see her go.
‘What about having some Chinese food together before we go?’
‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’
‘No.’
‘All right. How about eight at Li’s in Randwick.’
‘Is that near the pub?’
‘Give up, Hardy. See you at Li’s.’
She went out and I heard her heels clicking all the way down the quiet, no-business-as-usual corridor.
Li’s was too dark to be memorable. I felt my way through the bamboo curtains and the gloom to where Erica sat in a pool of candlelight and cigarette smoke. She’d already ordered; we ate the things that came and we talked—mostly about Mountain, although a little about her. She did every thing decisively: smoked, ate and drank her tea that way, and I began to feel that she was a good ally in the search for Mountain. The only trouble was that shecould be a formidable enemy when and if we found him.
One of the nice touches at Li’s was that they turned on a small, concealed table light when they presented the bill. Erica insisted on paying half, and we went out into the Randwick night more or less evens, with her information giving her a slight edge.
The pub was in Kensington and had been adopted by the university students, which meant that the management had gone for maximum drinking space and minimum comfort. It had a large, outdoor terrace crammed with chairs, benches and tables in various stages of decay. The two main bars seemed to have been designed to promote deafness; the noise of the juke boxes, TV sets and pinball machines blended in with the raucous blast of Friday night student revelry. Erica had put on shades and high heels as she’d promised, and she looked exotic and mysterious as she peered through the glasses into the loudest bar.
I shook my head. ‘Be like drinking in a room with a taxiing 707. Let’s go out on the terrace.’
I got a white wine for myself and a gin and tonic for Erica, and we sat on the terrace which was filling up with kids who either didn’t like noise or were taking a break from it. There were just enough over-twenty-fives around for us not to look conspicuous.
‘Maybe it’s not a good night,’ I said. ‘End of week fun night.’
‘It was a Friday that Bill met him. He liked to get into all this on Friday; said it made him feel young.’
‘Christ, I can’t even remember what young felt like. He’s not going to be here, love. You know that.’
‘What’s this, Hardy’s first law of surveillance?’
‘Something like that.’ I drank a big gulp of wine and waited for it to make me feel young.
‘I’m going to take a look around.’
She knocked off her gin and tonic and wandered down through the sprawling bodies, all wearing jeans, all talkingand laughing, all young. Blasts of music came from the bar and I held myself tense for a while until I realised what was wrong and relaxed: this wasn’t the sort of pub I was used to and I’d been waiting for the sound of breaking glass.
‘He’s here!’ Her voice was a hiss with tobacco and gin.
‘Are you sure?’
‘See for yourself, he’s in the … what d’they call it? The Scotch Thistle Room or something.’
She meant the slightly lower decibel bar, which had apparently aspired to a Caledonian decor before the student take-over. It had a tartan carpet much eroded by beer and cigarette ash, and framed, glass-covered pictures of Highland scenes, which were mostly obliterated by graffiti scrawled over the glass.
Erica pointed with her chin at the bar and sat down on a spare chair near the door, while I went over for a professional look. Trade was brisk along the length of the
‘How about nine o’clock at the pub?’
She grinned. ‘No way—I’m taking you, remember?’
‘I feel sorry for your brothers.’
She snorted, picked up her bag and went to the door. She leaned on the handle and looked back enquiringly. I was reluctant to see her go.
‘What about having some Chinese food together before we go?’
‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’
‘No.’
‘All right. How about eight at Li’s in Randwick.’
‘Is that near the pub?’
‘Give up, Hardy. See you at Li’s.’
She went out and I heard her heels clicking all the way down the quiet, no-business-as-usual corridor.
Li’s was too dark to be memorable. I felt my way through the bamboo curtains and the gloom to where Erica sat in a pool of candlelight and cigarette smoke. She’d already ordered; we ate the things that came and we talked—mostly about Mountain, although a little about her. She did every thing decisively: smoked, ate and drank her tea that way, and I began to feel that she was a good ally in the search for Mountain. The only trouble was that shecould be a formidable enemy when and if we found him.
One of the nice touches at Li’s was that they turned on a small, concealed table light when they presented the bill. Erica insisted on paying half, and we went out into the Randwick night more or less evens, with her information giving her a slight edge.
The pub was in Kensington and had been adopted by the university students, which meant that the management had gone for maximum drinking space and minimum comfort. It had a large, outdoor terrace crammed with chairs, benches and tables in various stages of decay. The two main bars seemed to have been designed to promote deafness; the noise of the juke boxes, TV sets and pinball machines blended in with the raucous blast of Friday night student revelry. Erica had put on shades and high heels as she’d promised, and she looked exotic and mysterious as she peered through the glasses into the loudest bar.
I shook my head. ‘Be like drinking in a room with a taxiing 707. Let’s go out on the terrace.’
I got a white wine for myself and a gin and tonic for Erica, and we sat on the terrace which was filling up with kids who either didn’t like noise or were taking a break from it. There were just enough over-twenty-fives around for us not to look conspicuous.
‘Maybe it’s not a good night,’ I said. ‘End of week fun night.’
‘It was a Friday that Bill met him. He liked to get into all this on Friday; said it made him feel young.’
‘Christ, I can’t even remember what young felt like. He’s not going to be here, love. You know that.’
‘What’s this, Hardy’s first law of surveillance?’
‘Something like that.’ I drank a big gulp of wine and waited for it to make me feel young.
‘I’m going to take a look around.’
She knocked off her gin and tonic and wandered down through the sprawling bodies, all wearing jeans, all talkingand laughing, all young. Blasts of music came from the bar and I held myself tense for a while until I realised what was wrong and relaxed: this wasn’t the sort of pub I was used to and I’d been waiting for the sound of breaking glass.
‘He’s here!’ Her voice was a hiss with tobacco and gin.
‘Are you sure?’
‘See for yourself, he’s in the … what d’they call it? The Scotch Thistle Room or something.’
She meant the slightly lower decibel bar, which had apparently aspired to a Caledonian decor before the student take-over. It had a tartan carpet much eroded by beer and cigarette ash, and framed, glass-covered pictures of Highland scenes, which were mostly obliterated by graffiti scrawled over the glass.
Erica pointed with her chin at the bar and sat down on a spare chair near the door, while I went over for a professional look. Trade was brisk along the length of the
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