Back home
“Believe me, I wouldn’t be back here otherwise.”
You must be getting drunk. It’s the only explanation, really, of that raw moment there. You were young once, you say to yourself, you laughed at the shitty old men in the pubs. Now this one’s right next to me, asking me all sorts of things about Mum when it’s not as if he knew her. It occurs to me that this same old bastard probably used to intimidate me when I was 15. I couldn’t say for sure, but then he doesn’t remember me, either.
Place has hardly changed, though, chain takeover notwithstanding; the jukebox is digital now but it still has “Marquee Moon” on it. Pete used to put it on every time we came here because he said it was value for money at ten-and-a-half minutes, and Sara would scowl at him, every time. I won’t be get
