Beer

Cassidy strolled along the high street. Her bad mood had lifted; she was indeed glad of getting some fresh air but the dilapidated state of the town was doing nothing to lift her spirits. If you looked above the store fronts, there was a lot to look at. Some of the buildings had a touch of gentility about them; but at street level the shop windows were either garish, yelling at shoppers to come in, or boarded up from lack of business.

How many greetings cards could the people of one town want? Oh, if you wanted to send a greetings card, this was the place to come. Or if you wanted to place a bet. Or buy someone’s old clothes to help any of a wide range of charities.

Rodeo Drive it wasn’t.

The people also looked past their best. They shuffled along like they were auditioning for a George A Romero film. You would think they’d be forever cheering each other up with the continuous exchange of greetings cards that was evidently going on.

She paused by an ornate but disused fountain in the centre of the marketplace. The bulbous heads of stylised dolphins were grey from air pollution and green with moss. The natives seemed to think it was some kind of elaborate litter bin. The basin where water once pooled and spouted was currently piled high with discarded greasy fried chicken boxes.

What a shame, Cassidy reflected. Back home, folk are crying out for a bit of history in their home towns. History gives a sense of permanence, of tradition, of continuance. It legitimises the present - perhaps this stemmed from collective guilt over the treatment of the -what are we calling them these days? - the Amerindians... Cassidy made a mental note. There was a thesis in this somewhere. A book perhaps. A lecture tour...

One work of genius at a time. Better get this murder thing done and dusted first.

And maybe, by this time, crazy Mrs Box will have done dusting my room and I can get back to work...

Cassidy decided to stroll down to the bottom of the road then work her way back up and around to the guest house. She thrust her hand deep into her jacket pockets and turned away from the fountain -

-- and into the patterned sweater of that good-looking guy from the B&B.

“I beg your pardon -” she began but then looked up into his smiling brown eyes. “Oh! Hi!”

“It’s the American!” he gasped, clearly amused by their collision.

“It’s the Swede,” Cassidy muttered. What did he find so funny all the time?

“I’m from Norway,” he corrected.

“I wasn’t talking about your nationality,” Cassidy gave him a sour, sarcastic smile.

“You’re funny,” he said, without actually laughing. “I like that. People should have a sense of humour, shouldn’t they? Life is ridiculous.”

“Yours may be,” Cassidy tried to sidestep around him, “Now if you’ll excuse me...”

He mirrored her manoeuvres so they did a little dance and she couldn’t get away. “Oh, don’t be like that,” he mocked her with a pout. “Let me show you around. Let me show you the town.”

Cassidy grunted. “I’ve seen it.”

“This dismal street?” He thrust out his arms to take in the market, the boarded-up shop fronts, and the zombies. “This isn’t the best of it.”

“You mean, there’s -” Cassidy gulped down her excitement, “more?” She pretended to stagger from excitement. This elicited a chuckle from the good-looking guy. Damn him, he was even more handsome when he chuckled.

“Come on,” he jerked his head away from the fountain. “Let’s go to the square.”

“Ooh, the square!” Cassidy clapped her hands rapidly. She thought Americans were reputed to have no sense of irony. Clearly Norwegians struggled to recognise it too.

“The festival is on,” the guy grinned. Oh, he knew she was far from thrilled. Her sarcasm was easier to see through than - well, any of the boarded up windows that surrounded them. “You’d like a drink, yes? You look like someone who enjoys a drink.”

Cassidy’s mouth dropped open. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, but his smirk suggested otherwise. “My English can be lacking in nuance.”

“But you know a word like ‘nuance’?”

“Come on; what have you got to lose? That old boot will be cleaning your room for ages yet. Going through all your things.”

Cassidy was horrified. “She wouldn’t!” she took in a wheeze of breath. “Well, she better not.”

“Relax,” the Nordic nut job laughed. “Come on.” He gestured towards the world beyond the high street as though it was his to give. He moved off and Cassidy found herself following.

“I could really do with finding the library,” she said to his shoulder blades. Who wears sweaters like that when it’s not to please an elderly aunt on Christmas Day? “There is a library, isn’t there?”

A chill ran through her. There would be a library, wouldn’t there? Surely even this dreary, backwater place would cater to people who wanted to read more than “Happy Birthday” or “Sorry You Lost Your Job.”

“There sure is!” he cast over his shoulder. “But first: the square!”

“I don’t know...” Cassidy came to a halt before he could lead her who knew where. Not because she was afraid of him. His smile was too nice and that jumper hardly posed a threat - unless he tried to force her to wear it. But she really wanted to get back to work. The wonder thesis wouldn’t write itself.

The guy in the sweater became aware she was no longer following. He stopped and went back to face her.

“Oh, come on,” he insisted, raising his eyebrows in an appealing way, “I don’t think we got off to the best start. Let me make it up to you. And you can see me for the charming fellow I really am.”

“Well, I-” Cassidy broke off; she was already getting an idea of how charming he could be.

“I’m Anfred,” he dipped his head in a bow. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Cassidy,” Cassidy found herself replying. “Cass will be fine.”

“Hello, Cass.”

“Hello, um...”

“Anfred,” he supplied. “Like Manfred without the M.”

“Anfred,” she repeated.

He gave her an encouraging look as if to say, By Jove, I think she’s got it. He offered her his arm, crooked for her to link.

She looked at it, the thick, cable stitching of the sleeve.

“Let’s not get carried away,” she said. But they walked off together.

A side street curved away from the pedestrianized market place, leading Cassidy and Anfred towards a cobbled area known as the Square. Not that there were many cobbles on display, because the entire space had been given over to a large marquee of dirty white canvas - an iceberg run aground. Around it, smaller kiosks and carts offered supplementary snacks like candy floss, hot dogs and jacket potatoes, but the main attraction was the marquee. Nearby pubs had put out chairs and tables in a rather continental move, hoping to catch the overspill from the beer tent. A banner flapped noisily above the entrance, proclaiming this to be the twenty-sixth annual beer festival and that all were welcome (all that is apart from those without the means of identifying themselves as over the age the eighteen.) Noisier than the banner was the oompah music being piped through a poor quality public address system.

The festival was never short of supporters and this year was no exception. People, most of them of the male designation, flocked drunkenly to and from the tent, like wonky bees around a hive.

“Oh my god,” Cassidy said, not quite under her breath. She had heard of the enthusiasm of the English for booze and binge drinking but, for fuck’s sake, it couldn’t be ten a.m. and half the town appeared to be inebriated.

Anfred caught her disapproving look and gave her a nudge as though to dislodge the expression from her face.

“What’s not to like?” he laughed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She stepped aside as a grizzled man in a dirty track suit lurched in their direction before throwing up in the gutter.

“It’s beer!” Anfred enthused. “You know: beer! The nectar of the gods.”

He took a few steps towards the tent but Cassidy remained where she was, moving only to edge away from the freshly deposited vomit.

“This is just - this is ...” She searched for words.

“It’s what?” Anfred came back. He seemed bemused that anyone could find anything negative in the vista before him.

“This is just crass,” Cassidy finally managed to utter. “Over commercialised, ugly, gaudy,” the adjectives were coming thick and fast now. “And did I mention disgusting?”

Anfred managed not to flinch as she hurled each descriptor in his direction. “You are keeping an open mind,” he smirked. “This is good.”

Cassidy showed him the tip of her tongue for a split second. Then she sighed. “I was expecting something - I don’t know - quaint. Men with curly beards in heavy duty knitwear. Real ales with names like Smelly Finger and Naughty Cardinal. That would have been bad enough but this -.”

Anfred was clearly amused by everything she said. He tugged at the sleeve of her jacket. “Just one!” he urged. “One little beer!”

“Okay, okay!” She relented and let him lead her towards the entrance. “One little beer. But let go of my arm. I’m not kidding.”

He released her and held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Really. Come on.”

He went in. Cassidy looked at her wristwatch. Valuable thesis-writing time was slipping away. She gave a sigh of resignation and followed.

There was more revelry going on inside than out. The marquee was heaving with boozers and ale-heads. Anfred beckoned Cassidy to follow him by jerking his head. She had to hurry to keep up and almost lost him among the drinkers. She caught up with him at an empty table like a clearing in a forest.

“A-ha!” Anfred cried in triumph and unconscious invocation of Norway’s most famous pop group.

“This is a bit of luck,” Cassidy eased herself onto a stool, which wobbled on the uneven cobbles beneath. “But just the one beer. I have work to do this afternoon.”

“Yes, yes,” Anfred waved dismissively. “Wait there.” He disappeared into the throng as though stepping through a curtain.

Cassidy glanced around. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. Conversations were loud, competing with the recorded music. Cheers, jeers and laughter from all around. How very ‘jolly’ Cassidy reflected. Maybe these Brits were on to something after all.

She looked at her watch. Time was marching on, but then when did it not? She tapped the tabletop in time with the music. She looked at her watch again.

A few minutes later, Anfred returned, bearing a round tin tray laden with glasses of different beers.

“Hopla!” he announced, placing the tray on the table and sliding onto his stool in one fluid movement.

“What’s this?” Cassidy frowned, looking at the tray as if it might attack her. “I said just one.”

Anfred gave a European shrug. “I didn’t know what you would like but I am sure among all these we can find something you will enjoy.”

He selected a glass and handed it to her. The yeasty smell emanating from it made Cassidy recoil.

“It’s a little strong,” she coughed and she had yet to taste it.

“It’s called Thorhammer!” Anfred said dramatically, encouraging her to lift the glass to her lips.

“Ah, I see,” Cassidy was stalling, “To make you feel at home.”

“It’s brewed in Nottingham.”

“Ah.”

She took a sip and pulled a face as the beer reached her taste buds. A gnat with cystitis could have done better.

“Ugh,” was the verdict. Anfred took the glass from her and gave her another. The liquid within was lighter and less opaque.

“Perhaps this will be more to your liking.” He watched with apprehension as she sampled it.

“That’s better,” she conceded. “But not much.”

“It’s called The Cat’s Bladder.”

Cassidy quickly returned the glass to the tray. She asked what else he had got. He selected a third beer, lighter still and perfectly clear. After the first tentative sip, Cassidy took a proper swig.

“That’s more like it!” She took a respectable gulp. “What’s this called - No, don’t tell me! I don’t want to spoil it.”

“An excellent choice!” Anfred grinned. “I shall have the same.” He picked up a glass of the

same stuff and saluted her with it. “Skål!”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Cheers!”

“Down the hatch!”

They clinked glasses and Cassidy decided the thesis could wait a few minutes more.

***

D.I. Brough walked to work. He was on the afternoon/evening shift - perhaps they were trying to break him in gently. He scoffed at the idea. He didn’t need mollycoddling. He had worked in tougher towns. He had handled some horrific cases. He could work around the clock and not so much as yawn and stretch. Or reach for the caffeine like so many of his colleagues.

He strode along the high street, as smoothly as his injured knee would allow, following much of the path taken by Cassidy Whitlow a couple of hours earlier. The place was past its best, he reflected, like many town centres. But with a wash and brush-up and a bit of investment, it could be restored.

A pair of beat bobbies was ambling towards him. They saw him and nudged each other before passing him with a nod of greeting. He watched them disappear around the corner from which some dreadful Germanic music was blaring. He hoped they were heading to the infamous beer festival to keep a watchful eye rather than turn a blind one.

He enjoyed the occasional beer himself. Especially with a curry. He planned to have a lot of both now he was stationed in the West Midlands. There was an upside after all.

As long as I can stick to the running with no further collisions with the natives... He stopped to pull his trouser leg away from the sticking plaster on his knee. He swore. That young woman had clearly been up to no good with a case of whiskey in her pushchair and he had let it go.

There would be no more slips of that nature.

He passed the marketplace, wondering briefly how many of the goods on offer were legit. Perhaps he would liaise with the Trading Standards mob to help him get the lie of the land. But that could wait. Today was all about meeting the team and getting settled in.

As he approached the station, D.I. Brough was of the opinion that this posting wouldn’t present any serious challenges. It could turn out to be as boring as bloody hell. He wondered for the umpteenth time what on Earth he had done to deserve this, but quashed the thought as quickly as it had come.

He knew.

He reached the front door with its carved Victorian coppers, the condom and the graffiti. First order of business would be to get the place smartened up.

And then the petty crime-solving and the serious thumb-twiddling could begin.