He looked directly at me, well as best as I could tell he was. “I’m not selling watches, knocked off or otherwise. I am offering you time, time to experience life, time to enjoy the curves of a naked lady in your bed, time to be dancing to the rhythm of your favourite band or time to be reading that book of yours.” I stared at him, now quite confused, thinking is he a time share salesman wanting me to buy a bit of house on an island now too full of British tourists? “What is that you reading anyway?” He lent over and fingers adorned with gothic silver jewellery grabbed the book from my hands and pulled it over to him. He closed the book, losing my page and began to read the front. “The Wanderings of Alha…, Alhazzz, Alhazzz red?” he gave up trying to pronounce the title and offered the book back to me. As he lent over, the short sleeve of his shirt lifted up his arm and revealed a tattoo, which seemed to be a stylised octopus, tentacles reaching out from the cotton material that masked most of the head. “Well,” I remarked as I took the book back with annoyance at him losing my page, “I did have time to read my book until you showed up.”
“OK, lets begin again. I’ll tell you what, I’ll get us a couple of drinks and then we can have a proper chat.” As he stopped speaking he pulled a ten pound note out from his jeans pocket and put in on the table. I looked at him blankly, wondering if he was about to ask me to go get the drinks? “Look, you’re a regular and the bar is three deep with students who have all the time in the world. You and me, well, you are not so fortunate after all this time. You’re a regular, you’ll get served quicker than me.” I could not disagree with his reasoning that I would get served quicker, but his remarks about my time left me curiously unnerved. Partly for the free drink and partly for the chance to get some time away from this man, I grabbed the tenner and was about to ask what he was having when he spoke: “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Pint of Shoggoth it is then,” I remarked as I walked away and began to work my way to that one point at the bar where regulars get served and others get told to move out of the way of the glass collector. Well, in truth, regulars get asked to move as well, but we have learned to move first or expect an insult before being asked to move. The punk barmaid, dressed in tartan, black, green, pink, red and numerous other colours, hair to match and advertising a zombie film from the days when horror still shocked and got banned on her ripped t-shirt, served my requested two pints of Shoggoth with a bubbly smile before moving on to serve the ever increasing numbers of students wanting to drink booze, who themselves had elements of a zombie mob about them. Grabbing the two pints and with a skill only years of pub life can hone I made my way back to my seat, avoiding drunken youths dressed in golfing outfits, without spilling a drop.
*Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar – Hops grown by HP Lovecraft and brewed by Neil Gaiman
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
