The Chemic is the local pub in Woodhouse, with a taproom full of anarchists and hippies. The lounge is a bit more upmarket, but not much. Everyone in the pub, including the bar staff, either is or was a student, once upon a time.
It was heaving, as always on a Friday night. I waited in the corridor outside the toilets until Jo came back from the bar with two pints of lager.
‘Soz,’ she said, when she saw the look on my face. ‘Force of habit. What do you want?’
‘Nothing. Actually, a bag of peanuts,’ I said, just because I wanted to have something to do with my hands.
She thrust the two pints into my hand and disappeared back into the lounge. I felt the coldness of the glass through my fingertips. My taste buds moistened, and I tried to swallow. Of course it’s tempting, but not really, not when you know where it ends.
I decided to go through to the taproom, see if I could find a spare five inches of space before someone knocked the drinks from my hands. I’d already had a guy with a rat’s-tail spill the best part of his pint of Landlord down my back.
Jo came back the second time. ‘Brownie is the guy in the black eyeliner.’ She shrugged a shoulder in the direction of the far corner. ‘According to the woman at the bar.’
I turned to observe a group of blokes, all in their twenties, sat round a table. I hazarded a guess that they’d graduated five or so years ago, were probably signing on while trying to avoid the onset of real life, life outside of The Chemic.
We squashed into a corner near the dartboard and waited. I tried not to stare at the guy with the eyeliner, but his collection of facial piercings didn’t help. He had spikes coming out of his top lip that made him look like a porcupine.
‘Wouldn’t want to get too close,’ I said. ‘How does he kiss?’
‘Careful,’ said Jo. ‘You’re in danger of sounding like Aunt Edie.’
Jo had drunk both pints by the time Brownie finally got up and made his way across the room towards the toilets. I elbowed her in the ribs, and she downed the last dregs as I followed him out of the taproom towards the gents.
‘Brownie?’
He turned and struggled to focus on me, wondering who I was, how I knew his name. Up close I counted four spikes through the skin under his nose, each one nestled in a bed of stubble that would classify as a moustache if he didn’t shave soon.
‘Yeah?’
‘Hi,’ I said. I smiled with the confidence that comes of being the only sober person within a hundred-yard radius. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘I need a piss. Can you wait a sec?’
Jo bustled into the corridor behind me. ‘Just a few questions,’ she said. ‘About Jack.’
‘Jack? What about him?’
‘We’re private investigators,’ Jo said.
His expression changed. He glanced up and down the short corridor, like he was looking for the camera, or the police, or something. ‘Private investigators? Fuck off.’
‘Honest, we are.’ I nodded, still feeling a sense of pride and disbelief at the idea. ‘We just have a few questions. Only take a minute.’
‘Looking for Jack?’
‘That’s right. People are worried about him.’
‘Hang on a sec. I’m desperate. I’ll be right back.’
He pushed through the door of the gents.
I turned to Jo. ‘Did you see that look on his face?’ I asked.
I noticed Jo’s eyes weren’t focusing and realized she was hardly going to provide any kind of insights at this stage in the evening.
‘He looked scared,’ I said.
‘Scared?’ said Jo. ‘What, of us?’
‘Go outside and keep an eye out.’
‘For what?’
‘Case he does a runner.’
Jo sloped off through the back door. I paced the small corridor for a few seconds. Another bloke lurched past us, wearing a purple tie-dye T-shirt. He pushed open the door into the toilets and went in. I caught a whiff of men’s urinal before the door closed in my face.
How long did it take for a man to take a piss? Not long in my limited experience. I counted to ten, a feeling welling inside me, a kind of certainty.
I cursed my own naivety as I pushed open the gents’ door. The guy with the purple T-shirt stood swaying at one of the stalls, his back to me. Otherwise the room was empty. Fuck. I must have sworn out loud, because the guy turned, frowned and ended up pissing over the floor, his pee splashing my Docs. I clocked the open window and swore again.
‘Did you get him?’ I yelled to Jo through the open space but there was no reply. I sprinted back through the corridor and out into the car park. Fifty metres ahead of me, his head ducked into the wind, Brownie was sprinting at full throttle. Jo stood in the smoky back porch. ‘That’s him,’ I shouted. ‘He’s done one.’
‘Shit,’ said Jo. ‘Where’s he off to?’
There was only one way to find out.
I filled my lungs with oxygen and took off after him.
The Chemic stands at the bottom of the hill on which the red-brick terraces of Woodhouse are built. There must have been a quarry somewhere close because the streets all have names like Back Quarry Mount Terrace and Cross Quarry Street. Brownie had taken off up the hill, away from the main road. That direction would take him through a dense warren of back-to-backs to his house on Burchett Grove.
Before I gave up drinking, I wouldn’t have run for a bus. But these last few months, I’ve had to do something with the time I used to spend getting wasted. That’s a lot of time to fill, I’ve discovered, and as I took off after him I realized that I’m actually quite fit. I’ve always been skinny, some would say malnourished, but lately I’ve added stamina to my frame.
I heard Jo running behind me, but I knew I was leaving her behind. That was another thing in my favour. Brownie and Jo both had alcohol in their systems, disrupting coordination and slowing their pace. I caught up to Brownie in next to no time, three streets past The Chemic, up a flight of stairs that led between the houses. The question mushrooming in my mind, as I grew nearer and nearer, was what I was going to do when I caught him.
‘Wait,’ I shouted after him. ‘Only want to talk to you.’
He didn’t reply, instead found an extra burst of energy and zoomed forward. I glanced behind and saw Jo appear round the corner of the street I’d just run up. Even from this distance I could see her breath like clouds of smoke around her. I hesitated a second or two, but then something pulled me forward, a natural desire for answers. Why had he legged it like that? He couldn’t be scared of two women. I increased my pace, noticing he’d crossed the street ahead, veering to the left. He wasn’t going home. I knew in the pit of my stomach where he was headed.
‘The Ridge,’ I shouted behind me, no idea whether Jo could hear me. ‘He’s running for The Ridge.’
Sure enough, he took the small side street that led nowhere. I heard the click of the gate that opened onto the scrub waste ground. Great. Did I mention I hate The Ridge?
Adrenaline pumped into my veins, endorphins kicked in – a heady combination. Like the acid freaks, who believe they can fly. I only wanted to ask him a couple of questions, for fuck’s sake. I pushed through the gate and followed into no man’s