14

In her rush to get out of the flat, Hattie hadn’t thought to grab an umbrella, and therefore, inevitably, it started raining as soon as she got off the tube in Camden. Not a heavy rain, just one of those persistent drizzles that gently envelops an outdoor setting and, no matter what’s going on, makes it fractionally worse. For Hattie, whose hip tended to flare up in wet weather anyway, it exacerbated an already stressful situation, and it meant she lost her bearings and wasted five minutes walking down Greenland Road when she needed to be on Greenland Street. By the time she reached the Black Boar it was very nearly seven o’ clock, and she was worried that she might have missed Miguel altogether.

She sidled cautiously through the door, keeping her eyes peeled. If Miguel was here she wasn’t entirely sure that she wanted him to see her. Not until she knew what this thieves’ club was all about. She couldn’t spot him immediately, but the Boar was one of those sprawling pubs with several rooms, and it was fairly crowded. Keeping as low a profile as she could manage – the clientele here was a slightly ‘alternative’ crowd of youngish goths and rockers, and a middle-aged lady in a big tatty coat looked a little bit out of place – she picked her way between tables, on the lookout for a face she recognised.

Not in the first room… Not in the second… Was that him in that nook at the back?… No, it was some other skinny curly haired man… She couldn’t get a decent look at the fellow in the hoodie propping up the bar… Hang on.

She looked carefully at that last figure. He was facing directly away from her, and the edges of his raised hood covered his entire face. But the hoodie: she recognised that hoodie. It was black, and it had printed on the back in blocky white Arial font: I just need a screw! A second line of text was obscured by the bar stool, but Hattie knew its content from memory: ACDA Construction Crew ’22, Twelfth Night. A few of the students who graduated over the summer had worn them sometimes. Apparently they’d got them made in their first year at ACDA when a bunch of them worked together building the scenery for the summer musical. It was a fairly standard techie bonding ritual: take a semi-funny thing someone once said while stressed and tired – preferably a not-very-subtle innuendo – print it out on an item of clothing, wear said clothing until it falls apart. It was harmless fun, although it did perpetuate the perception of backstage teams as a tribe apart from everyone else in the theatre. You never caught actors doing this stuff.

Either way, she’d found Miguel. He was in conversation with a tall, skinny man next to him, who had long, straight brown hair tied back in a ponytail, a beard, and a black leather trench coat. Well, sort of in conversation. Neither of them seemed to be saying very much, as both had their phones out. Hattie considered getting closer, but decided against it: if they weren’t talking she’d gain little from being closer, but she would increase the risk of being spotted. So she slunk into a corner, pulled out her own phone and pretended to be deeply engrossed in it, glancing up every few seconds to check on Miguel.

For a few minutes nothing of note happened: Miguel and his friend stayed up at the bar, mostly playing on their phones, drinking their pints. Then, at seven o’clock precisely, Miguel looked up, and looked around. So did the long-haired man. And so too did about a dozen other people dispersed around the pub, almost all of them men. Lots of eye contact was made, but people kept looking around until their eyes all eventually converged on a figure standing in the corner. He was squat, bald, and wearing what appeared to be a wizard’s robe. Rod would feel right at home here, thought Hattie. His hand was raised lazily, and he had a small, calm smile on his face. Slowly, everyone who had sought him out, Miguel included, finished their drinks, stood up, and made their way towards him. Once a handful of people had reached him, he turned silently and strode off down a corridor, with his followers forming a straggly line behind him. There was something deeply unsettling about the way all of this was conducted in silence. Hattie noted that none among those who remained in the bar seemed to comment on this bizarre exodus. Was this – whatever ‘this’ was – a weekly ritual?

Once the last of them had disappeared down the corridor, Hattie started to follow. She thought about keeping her distance, but no one seemed to be looking behind them, so in the end it was easier to join the back of the line.

They were led down a passage at the back of the pub, then up some narrow stairs, past the loos, and through a doorway with a paper sign next to it that had printed on it: ‘Reserved from 6.30pm – The Treacherous Thieves.’

The group filed in, and Hattie, the last of them, dawdled in the doorway, trying to peer through to see what was on the other side before committing to follow. The room within looked like a fairly typical pub function room: small, cramped, and filled with the cheap and duffed-up furnishings they didn’t want on the main floor any more. She could see four assorted tables surrounded by miscellaneous chairs, towards which people were slowly making their way after consulting a flip-chart in the middle. The chart depicted some sort of seating plan, underneath a drawing of what appeared to be a dagger and a key crossed one atop the other. On the tables were laid out sheets of paper, and on each table, in front of one of the chairs, was set up a small screen, behind which was a small pile of shiny hardback books. In the middle of each table was a pile of dice.

‘Are you here for DnD?’ asked a voice, and Hattie realised with a jolt that the bald man had materialised next to her. He was smiling at her encouragingly.

Hattie’s mind blanked, and she just let out a strangled, ‘Er…’

‘Dungeons and Dragons?’ he asked. ‘The Treacherous Thieves meet-up?’

Oh… That was that… board game? Hattie was pretty sure some of her American counterparts had played it the last time she did a US tour. Rolling dice and pretending to be elves, was it?

‘Are you… are you the ones who were here this time last week?’ she asked.

‘That’s right,’ smiled the bald man. ‘Every Sunday. Well, almost.’

‘And is it always the same group of people?’

‘Oh, we’re very welcoming to newcomers, if that’s what you mean. But yes, most of us are regulars. That way we can sometimes do long-running campaigns. Would you like to come in? I’m sure we can find room for you at a table.’

Hattie was half curious to go in and see what all the fuss was about. She knew this was a popular hobby among a certain sort of theatre type. But at this point, explaining to Miguel why she’d followed him here would all get a bit awkward. And she didn’t want to embarrass Miguel. After all, he had been very keen not to tell her what it was that he got up to on Sunday nights.

‘Oh, no… no thanks. I was just… checking. Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.’

Hattie turned to go, having one last look around the room as she did so. There was Miguel, just sitting down at the far table. For the first time she could clearly see his face. But her reassurance that it was indeed him was swiftly replaced by a new sense of puzzlement. Because, quite uncharacteristically, calm, mild, Dungeons & Dragons-playing Miguel was nursing a large and sore-looking black eye.