Stay Dead - [31]

Annie stepped into the main bar and thought that it had hardly changed at all. The Southern Comfort and Bushmills mirrors hanging on the dingy nicotine-stained walls, the rows of small flasks of Wade pottery, with Gin, Sherry, Port and Whisky labelled on each one. There were bigger barrels too, in mint greens and iridescent pinks, and huge oak casks cut through and turned into seating for the patrons.

On one of these big cut-down barrels sat a small gnome of a man, plug-ugly and wearing a stained pale blue denim jacket. A cloud of cigar smoke enveloped him, and a tumbler of whisky sat in front of him on the table.

Despite all the hustle around him, and the happy chatter at the bar, he sat alone, drank alone. Annie stood there inside the door for a moment, looking at him while Amazulu cranked ‘Too Good to Be Forgotten’ out of the juke. Max had always said drinking a few pints was OK, but if you were down in the dumps you never wanted to get started on shorts. Jackie had obviously got started on the shorts a long time ago. As Annie watched, he threw back the amber liquid remaining in the glass and gestured to the barman, a big handlebar-moustached ex-RAF type, for a refill.

Annie walked over and slid into the seat on the other side of the table.

Jackie Tulliver looked at her like she’d landed from another planet.

‘Hiya, Jackie,’ she said.

‘Holy fuck.’ He wheezed and a splodge of ash fell from the cigar he’d just clamped back between his teeth. ‘What you doin’ here?’

‘Looking for you.’

Now Annie had found him she was wondering if it had been worth the effort. She was – literally – scraping the bottom of the barrel with him. Jackie was a mess. He had a three-day white-whiskery growth of beard on his skinny chin, his cheeks were sunken, his complexion yellow. He’d never been a beauty, but now he looked fucked. He looked two steps away from a cancer ward and a terminal prognosis, and his head was weaving about in that characteristic drunk’s nod that made her think for one moment, horribly, of her own mother, Connie, who had always been pissed on the sofa and who had died of the drink.

‘Jesus, the state of you,’ she murmured.

‘Get you a drink?’ he asked, as the barman came over and plonked another whisky down in front of his best customer.

‘No. Thanks.’

Even before the barman turned away, Jackie fell on the whisky like a desert dweller on a watering hole. He threw it back, smacking his lips with relish, emptying half the glass in a single gulp.

‘Jackie,’ said Annie.

‘Yeah. What you doin’ here then?’ he asked, obviously forgetting he had just asked her the same question.

‘Jackie,’ said Annie again.

‘What?’ he slurred.

‘Steve was right then.’

‘Steve?’

‘Steve. He was right. You are a pisshead.’

A hint of annoyance went chasing across Jackie’s face, then it was gone.

‘You got no call to speak to me like that,’ he whined.

Even the tone of his voice reminded her of Mum, lying drunk and shouting pitiful rants while the rent man hammered at the door and Annie and her sister Ruthie cowered in fear of eviction.

‘No? You’re saying you’re not a pisshead then? Only the evidence says different. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon, and you’re downing whiskies. You’re drunk. You’re unshaved. You’re not even washed, I can smell you from here, you stink like a polecat.’

‘Now hold on…’ His watery eyes were blinking at her.

‘No, you hold on. I need some help, you berk. Steve’s not going to provide it, Gary Tooley’s told me to sling my hook and Chris at the Shalimar is running scared because someone’s just done his place over. Tone? I don’t even know where the fuck he is, but the way things are going I won’t be getting big hugs and kisses from there, either. You know what this is about? Why everyone’s acting so damned weird?’

He looked at her. Then he shook his head gingerly, like it might drop off his shoulders and roll on to the floor.

‘You heard about Dolly Farrell?’ she asked. ‘You know about that, do you?’ Or about anything?

‘Course I do. I’m not a fucking fool. I heard it. It was on the news, in the papers.’

‘Good. Then you know we’ve got work to do, you know that. But for fuck’s sake! You don’t look capable.’

He said nothing. Stared at her dully. Then he reached for the whisky again. Annie snatched it from his hand and dashed it on to the floor. Several of the other patrons turned and looked.

‘Hey!’ Jackie started up, his face twisting in rage.

‘Oh, that got through, did it? Taking your dummy off you, that hurt?’

‘You got no call-’

‘Oh shut up, you’re a bloody disgrace.’

‘You don’t know what I been through…’

‘No, I don’t, and what’s more I don’t bloody care. Do you know anything about why everyone’s acting strange?’ She was almost sure she knew the answer to this question herself now. But she hoped – she really hoped – that she was wrong.

‘What…?’

Annie stared at his blank expression. No, he didn’t know a thing. He didn’t know because he wasn’t being included, or even contacted, because Steve was right; he was a useless drunk. But at least he wasn’t reacting to her the way everyone else had.