Class anthem

Hill looks up at the Warholian James Dean, Brando, and Errol Flynn posters hanging on the toxic yellow wall. A jukebox and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? quiz machine light up the corner next to the toilets. Hill looks at his palms then shuts them again as Trudy returns from the bar and places two pints of Carling on the table.

This is definitely my new aesthetic, Trudy says, loudly, Carling spilling from her raised pint glass.

Hill and Trudy’s pint glasses touch, clinking together as Beautiful Day by U2 fades out on the jukebox.

Class anthem, Trudy says, grinning.

Class anthem, Hill says, grinning.

Like I Can by Sam Smith begins playing. Trudy makes a heart shape with her hands and faces it in Hill’s direction.

Inbox me hun, Trudy says.

Check your messages hun, Hill says.

Hill drinks one third of his Carling and places the pint glass down on the table. He part opens his hand palm side up, flinches, then closes it tightly. He looks over towards the door, the Millionaire machine, the Brando. The woman behind the bar picks up a tray of used pint glasses and carries them through a low archway and out of sight.

‘Soap’s Sexiest Barmaids 2008’, Hill thinks.

Trudy looks over towards the bar and back towards Hill. She picks up her Carling and takes a drink, then another.

I want you to start telling me things about you, Trudy says, slurring her words slightly. She picks up her Carling. The glass makes a loud noise as she clumsily places it back down on the table, a steady drip of displaced lager now running over the table’s edge and onto the Victorian tiled floor.

Hill looks at the two men sitting at the bar, openly smirking and nudging each other.

Horny bootcut pagans, Hill thinks.

Say or do something, Hill thinks.

Hill opens and shuts his hand three times in succession, for less than a second on each occasion.

Damn, Hill thinks.

Talk to me about something real, tell me the truth about something, Trudy says, agitated and looking back towards the men sitting at the bar.

Lil Naz X is this generation’s Frank Sinatra, Hill says, immediately cringing.

Fuck off, Hill, Trudy says.

Her lips pursed and ears bright red, Trudy stares down at the table-top as she picks at the skin around her index finger.

Hill looks at the James Dean on the wall, curling up at the edges inside the cheap plastic frame. Sing by Ed Sheeran begins playing on the jukebox. Hill watches as Trudy acknowledges the song, half-heartedly rolls her eyes, and smiles sadly.

I recognise this is equally funny and insane, Hill says. But when the police told me that Lucy was dead, my first feeling was relief that I wouldn’t have to see her family again.

Hill— Trudy says.

When they heard about Jack Black their first response was to say how awful Gulliver’s Travels was, Hill says. I don’t know what I did to deserve that. It just seemed pathological. It was difficult for Lucy. I don’t ever want to see a single one of them again. I assume Roger told you about the ashes…

Oh, Hill, Trudy says.

Hill’s stares at the old gas fire, its heat panels blackened like burnt toast, and then up at the Welsh flag tacked to the wall above. The flag has You Don’t Fuck With The Môn stencilled on it in large white block capitals.

Belligerence, Hill thinks.

Roger definitely told you about the ashes, it’s fine, Hill says.

Trudy leans over towards Hill and says something he can’t make out. Taking his hand and slowly prising it open, she runs her fingers over his. He feels a stinging sensation as her lips press down on the exposed patches of punctured and raw skin dotted over his palm, his mind blanking momentarily.