Neither of the Parrot’s septuagenarian landladies flinched when The Pan took his usual seat at the bar and – having taken off his cloak and hat and put them carefully on the seat beside him – produced one of those plastic squeezy lemons from his pocket and set it on a beer mat in front of him. Most of their customers were, at best, eccentric, but keeping the tone of the establishment low kept the Grongles and therefore the Resistance out, and that made for a quiet life. Ada and Gladys didn’t like violence. If they had been forced to choose between either of the two warring parties they’d have plumped for the Grongles rather than the Resistance. At least you knew where you were with them, and while you had to give both sides drinks on the house, the Grongles, unlike the Resistance, were teetotal – much cheaper to entertain.
Both the Grongles and the Resistance had a habit of ‘asking’ for help, usually with information. You couldn’t say no to either and live, but you could passively resist the Grongles until they got bored and went away, or you could deliberately misinform them, sure in the knowledge that they’d never double-check, and that justice was on your side.
The Resistance were harder to deal with. They behaved almost as badly as the Grongles, and expected Gladys and Ada to betray their customers in the exact same way. They were the kind of zealots who checked up on people though, so Gladys and Ada had to research each set of circumstances thoroughly before they could misinform the Resistance in a realistic and credible way. This made the old ladies uncomfortable. Misleading the Grongles was a thoroughly laudable and commendable thing to do while, technically, misleading the Resistance was betraying their country – even if it was to save some poor innocent’s neck.
Gladys and Ada didn’t like betraying their country but they didn’t like getting people killed either, so they contented themselves with entertaining the dregs of society. You knew where you were with the dregs of society, and they didn’t go murdering each other in public and bleeding all over the Parrot’s nice clean floors at the drop of a hat. They kept their affairs private and they didn’t ask any awkward questions about Gladys and Ada’s business either.
Ada served The Pan that evening.
“What will it be, dear?”
“I’ll have a beer, please.”
“Anything else, dear?”
While Ada pulled a pint, he consulted the contents of his wallet. Hmm, could he run to a packet of crisps? Yes, if he made the second pint a half.
“I’ll have a packet of crisps as well.”
“Would you like any particular flavour?”
Ah, the joy of simple decisions.
“Salt and vinegar.”
Surrounded by the relative normality of the pub he began to feel better. It was easy to pretend the accident in Big Merv’s flat hadn’t happened and delude himself that there was safety in a crowd. Big Merv’s henchmen could hardly barge in and kidnap him in front of everyone. Gladys and Ada wouldn’t stand for that.
There was a sudden light pressure on his shoulder.
“Bum!” said a harsh, parroty voice in his ear.
Ah yes. Humbert. The eponymous Parrot that went with the Screwdriver. The Pan had forgotten about him when he ordered his packet of crisps.
“Hello, parrot.”
Humbert belonged to Ada and was almost bald but – by some inexplicable victory of willpower over the laws of aviation – still able to fly. The Pan, like all Ada’s regulars, was wary of him and with good reason. If he had one feather left on each wing he would still have managed to get airborne somehow, The Pan reflected dourly, in order to relieve himself on people’s heads. Though a parrot, he was every inch a gannet and zoned in on the plastic rustling sound as The Pan opened his bag of crisps. Humbert wouldn’t leave The Pan alone now: not until he’d had his share.
The Pan fished out the biggest crisp and put it on a beer mat where Humbert slubbered and pecked at it voraciously.
“That’s your lot, parrot, so make it last,” he warned him. After a whole day and night without eating The Pan wasn’t in the mood for sharing. However, going hungry was one thing; being hungry and covered in the kind of guano Humbert produced was a different, far more unpleasant, proposition. The parrot operated a peculiar brand of psychology and The Pan had long since learned the first rule of the pub – be kind to Ada’s infernal pet and it wouldn’t poo on your head. If he was very kind, it might even leave him alone completely.
“Wipe my conkers!” shouted Humbert.
“Mmm,” said The Pan, raising one eyebrow at it. The parrot put its head on one side and stared back at him. Would it make a lunge for the other crisps? Gladys put some sandwiches in front of another customer. It squawked delightedly and started to sidle down the bar towards him, taking the mangled crisp with it.
Good.
Right. What next? Now that he was no longer working for Big Merv, The Pan had no way of earning money and therefore, no means to pay for food – or anything else for that matter. He was desperate, but not to the extent that he’d volunteer for the Resistance. He wondered if it was worth asking Gladys and Ada if they’d give him a job and let him work for food.
No. It would put them in danger because it would annoy Big Merv. He glanced over at Ada who was busy serving a hulking great bloke with a beard.
****
Unaware as she was of the rules of psychology, The Pan’s touching display of affection towards her pet warmed what Ada called the ‘cockles of her heart’.
What a nice young man, she thought. So thoughtful and considerate. Ada liked people who were kind to parrots, even if they were shady criminal people who’d nick anything that wasn’t nailed down. Come to think of it, most of the Parrot and Screwdriver’s regular clientele behaved like that. But the others were always aggressive and defensive when she challenged them, The Pan would merely tell her he wasn’t a talented thief before apologising and handing back whatever he’d stolen.
Ada watched him from the other end of the bar as he ate his crisps. She had always assumed he wasn’t entirely human. Hamgee was a rum place – she wouldn’t have been surprised if there wasn’t a touch of goblin in him somewhere. But he was so nice, polite, attractive even – in his own ordinary way – he had smiley eyes, a sense of humour, and a kindly disposition. He was smart. It was such a shame. He’d have made some lass a lovely husband.
Pity he was blacklisted, or at least, she suspected he was. It might be just a rumour or even an attempt on his part to hype himself up as an iron man who was best not trifled with. If he was a GBI – a Government Blacklisted Individual – he’d been alive an extraordinarily long time, because the state classed them as vermin. Those on the blacklist seldom made it past a couple of months, and he’d been a regular customer at the Parrot for at least a year.
She watched him patting his pockets one by one and wondered whether he was going to pull his usual stunt of pretending he had mislaid his non-existent cash.
He continued the ritual until it was clear he’d patted every available pocket and found them wanting. It turned out he was looking for the squeezy lemon which he finally noticed on the bar in front of him and placed back in his pocket.
She smiled when he caught her eye and held up his empty glass.