Dan led his father to The Crown pub. It wasn’t far from his office and had once been a collection of small rooms, perfect for those union and political meetings that became smoke‑filled debates, plots hatched and fingers jabbed over foam-ringed pint glasses and red faces. Now, it had opened out into a collection of alcoves, illuminated by bright lights, a fruit machine bleeping in one corner.
As he went in, Dan remembered all the evenings his father had lost in pubs like The Crown. The talk got louder as the evenings progressed and was often forgotten amongst the hangovers of the morning after. Dan had witnessed some of this, whenever his mother would send Dan out to find him, tired of wondering where he was, and how drunk he’d be when he got home.
Not that his father was ever violent, physically, but he could rant and point and lecture, and how loud it got depended on how many pints he’d had. Sometimes, his mother wanted to know whether going to bed early got her an easier night.
The shadows of that man were still there, his temper as quick to rise, but his frame was more beaten, sagged by his stroke and withered by age.
Dan held the door open for his father to enter, the scooter bashing against the door frame, but he made it in. Dan couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked so determined. Yes, there were definitely flashes of the old man still.
Dan thought the barman was about to object, shout out for them to watch his furnishings, but when he saw who it was, he laughed and shouted, ‘If it isn’t Bruce Grant. What’s happened to you? I thought you’d died.’
‘I almost did,’ he said, and couldn’t stop his grin. ‘Pint of the usual, if you remember, and the same for him,’ and he steered towards a corner of the pub that gave him a view of the whole place.
‘Of course I remember,’ the barman said, almost to himself, and then to Dan, ‘and are you his carer?’
‘Son,’ Dan said. ‘I’m his son.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re the lawyer, right?’
‘He’s mentioned me?’
‘He talked about you all the time,’ he said, pulling a pint of bitter into a straight glass, the foam churning. ‘He’d say it like we were supposed to be impressed, but you don’t look like a lawyer, if I can say that.’ He tapped the side of his face, to indicate Dan’s bruises.
‘It’s been a rough couple of days.’
The barman glanced over to his father and lowered his voice. ‘How did he end up in the chair?’
‘A stroke. A couple of years ago now. He can still move about without it, but slowly, and he’s been too proud to come out on his scooter. My office had to burn down to bring him out.’
‘Oh, that was your place? I heard the sirens last night. I’m sorry. Is it bad?’
‘Gutted, like me. I’m here to drown my sorrows.’.
‘Well, you’re in the right place for it.’
Dan carried the drinks over, his father not glancing his way as he put his pint on the table. Instead, he was staring out of the window, a wistful look in his eyes. Dan thought he detected tears.
‘It’s strange, isn’t it,’ he said, still looking away. ‘You see the same view so often, and then it stops because you become ill, and you miss it so much and you worry that it will change, that you’ll leave and it’s a whole new world and it’s moved on without you. Then you’re here again and nothing has changed. The same view, the same road, the same pub.’
Dan took a drink. It felt cold on his throat and soothed him. ‘Is that good or bad?’
He lifted his pint in salute. ‘Good. Like I’ve been let out of prison.’
‘I’ve been telling you for long enough.’
‘It had to be my decision, not yours.’ He turned to Dan. ‘What now for you, then?’
‘I don’t know. Just let me get through today. I fancy getting smashed. Really, completely, utterly trashed. Tomorrow, I’ll have a thick head, but I’ll work out what to do.’
His father raised his glass. ‘Amen to that.’
They drank in silence for a while, his father enjoying the return to one of his favourite pubs, Dan not in the mood for idle chat.
As Dan was staring outside, not really focusing, something caught his attention. Or rather, someone.
He stood and got closer, peering along the street and scouring the passers-by, until he saw her. Barbara, standing on the other side of the road, in a doorway so that she was partly in shadow, almost as if she was trying to conceal herself, looking towards Dan’s office, just out of Dan’s view and further along the road.
Dan was distracted by someone coming into the pub. An old man, his hair just grey wisps, his nose swollen deep red, his clothes shabby. He wore the years of booze like an old coat.
As soon as he saw Dan’s father, he laughed and wagged his finger. ‘I knew you wouldn’t stay away.’
‘Bloody hell, Chalky. Are you still going?’
‘It’ll take a lot to put me down.’ He bought a pint of bitter and shuffled over to Dan’s table, setting his glass down with a clatter. ‘It’s good to see you. I’ve missed talking about the old scraps we had.’
Dan stepped away, willing to let his father indulge in war stories. He was about to set off towards the door, to check for Barbara, when his phone rang.
He thought about ignoring it, but he knew he couldn’t. There was too much going on. ‘Hello, Dan Grant.’
‘Mr Grant, it’s DS Banks from Highford Police. We’d like you to come in and give us some information about the fire at your office. And there’s your assault, too.’
An image came into his head of a young officer who was rising quickly, his stint in the Saturday-night van replaced by suits and a folio case. ‘Does it have to be today? I’m not sure I’m in the mood for it right now.’
DS Banks’s voice became firmer. ‘The information we’re getting is that the fire was started deliberately. We need to find out who did it. Don’t let us suspect that the person could be you.’
‘Do you, really?’
‘No, not at the moment, but that can change if we start to wonder why the tenant is avoiding the police. And think of Mrs Molloy. Doesn’t she deserve to know what’s happened to her building?’
Dan sighed and rubbed his forehead. DS Banks was right. Eileen needed to know.
‘Give me ten minutes,’ he said, and clicked off.
When he looked over to his father, he was deep in conversation with his old friend, both chuckling to each other, lost in tales that had been told so often. ‘You all right for an hour or so?’
His father didn’t look up but waved that he was fine.
Dan left the pub and looked up and down the street. Barbara was gone.
He was curious, despite wanting to spend the day not caring about anything but oblivion. She’d seemed as if she wanted to get a view of the burnt-out shell but not be seen doing so. Why would she do that?
As he set off for the police station, that thought remained lodged in his head.