The pub didn’t seem as welcoming as before. His father had left, the beer having gone down too well, until he couldn’t support himself well enough on his stick to get himself to the toilet. He’d left with a laugh and a wave, as happy as Dan had ever seen him, and clattered his scooter against the door frame on the way out, earning a warning from the barman that he’d better learn to steer before he came back in again.
Since then, Dan had kept the beer flowing, choosing to wallow. He knew it wouldn’t achieve much, but he’d been attacked and had his business destroyed in less than twenty-four hours. If anyone deserved a drink, he did.
Except it wasn’t sending him to a good place. He wanted to blot it all out in a boozy haze, but instead it was making him focus on it, dragging his mood further down.
The room was swirling, his head felt heavier, his movements more laboured, so he knew he needed to stop. But he was drunk, so he wasn’t going to pay any attention to what he knew he should do.
He stood and tried to pick up his glass, now empty, but he fumbled it and sent it to the floor. It smashed and made the others in the pub look over, the bar busier now with the daily drinkers who prop up places like The Crown.
He raised his hand in apology before stepping out from behind the table. He stumbled but managed to stop himself from falling.
As he got near the bar, he waved his hand towards the corner where he’d been sitting and said, ‘Have you got a brush, for the glass?’ His voice was more slurred than he expected.
‘It’s all right, Dan, I’ll do it.’
‘Before you do, I’ll have one more.’ He gave an exaggerated nod towards the beer pump.
The barman considered him for a few seconds, before shaking his head. ‘No, you’re done here.’
‘Done? What do you mean, done? I want a beer.’ He slammed his hand on the bar.
‘Go home. For your sake. You’ve had a bad day. Wrecking yourself won’t help you. I’m speaking as a friend here. You’ll thank me later.’
Dan swayed as he thought about arguing his case, but he knew he was beaten. He pushed himself away from the bar and headed for the door. When he got outside, he winced and turned away from the sun. It was too bright, his pupils slow to react. The passing traffic seemed loud and blurred. He wondered where to go, because he didn’t feel like heading home yet, but that voice of common sense, becoming ever harder to hear as the booze took hold, told him he should avoid another pub.
His phone rang. He checked the screen. Eileen.
He turned off his phone. He didn’t want whatever conversation she was after.
Memories of his office came back. All the years spent there, entering as a young trainee fresh from university. A little skinnier, much fresher-faced, learning his trade under Pat Molloy. All of that was gone, and he knew where the blame was. Carl Ogden.
He clenched his jaw. That’s where he should go.
As he set off walking, he was aware of people looking at him as he passed them, sometimes stepping out of his way. Bruised and red-faced, his eyes set in an angry glare, he was a man people wanted to avoid.
Carl Ogden needed to learn that lesson. He’d been behind whatever happened last night. He wasn’t going to get away with it.
It took Dan twenty minutes to get to the small alley close to Oggy’s house, where he concealed himself in the bushes once more. He shook his head to clear it, tried to find some focus, but it was difficult. His thoughts were foggy, and he knew he was making a mistake, but the sensible voice was drowned out now by memories of his life with Pat Molloy. All that Pat had built had been burned away. Someone should pay for that. All he needed was confirmation that Oggy was inside, like a glimpse through the window as he moved around.
It came a different way, after more than an hour of waiting and watching, interspersed with him having to relieve himself in the bushes, swaying and humming to himself as he pissed.
Oggy strolled along the street, heading towards his house like whatever had gone on the night before didn’t matter. As he turned into his garden, he let the small metal gate clang back against the post.
Dan came out of the bushes and rushed towards him. He should stop, turn and go home, but Oggy hadn’t seen him and the memories of Pat drove him forward.
Oggy should have heard him, Dan’s steps were loud and clumsy, but he was wearing earphones. Instead, he opened the door and stepped inside.
Dan was right behind him. He grabbed him by his jacket and propelled him forward. Oggy shouted out, but Dan didn’t stop. He carried on pushing, through the hallway, banging Oggy’s head against the living room door and shoving him inside until he sprawled along the floor. Someone screamed – a woman.
Oggy turned quickly, ready to get up, but Dan shook his head.
‘This is my turn.’