Chapter Five

2008

I arrived at the pub in town slightly early, and was surprised to find Owen already waiting for me. The pub, close to the centre of town, was already busy. It was a long, narrow place, on two levels, with the bar up a flight of stairs towards the rear. Modern furniture and a recent makeover meant it had little character, but there was at least decent music playing.

Owen was seated about halfway between the door and the bar. He stood up and waved to attract my attention. I smiled as I approached him, using the distance to inspect him once more. It was no good; there was nothing attractive to me about the man. He was slender to the point of thinness. The way the shadow fell over his face made it seem more elongated and even a little sinister. Can a smiling face even be sinister? He was wearing black jeans and a white shirt with very thin black stripes. The white only served to draw attention to his bad complexion.

I arrived at the table, and he leaned forward to kiss me. I kissed him back, brushing his pitted cheek very slightly. He did at least have pleasant aftershave on. There was hope yet.

He moved out from behind the table, pulling his wallet out of his pocket. 'I'm getting this one,' he told me, before I could argue. 'Orange juice?'

'No, thank you. I'll have a vodka and Coke please.' Something a little stronger than juice was needed.

I sat down on one of low stools that surrounded the table and watched Owen's progress to the bar. To my surprise, I saw at least two women take a second look at him as he passed. One even glanced in my direction, obviously to see if he had company. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I philosophized to myself. I resolved to look at him again and try to be objective when he returned.

It wasn't long before he made his reappearance with my drink. As soon as I took a sip, I realized it was a double measure.

'Thanks,' I murmured, on my guard instantly.

'No problem,' he replied, not apparently noticing my wary expression. 'So, good day?'

'It was okay,' I told him. 'We had a lot of children to deal with, which is always chaos of course.'

‘I can imagine,' he replied.

'How about you?' I asked.

'Not so bad. A lot of reading and a lengthy discussion with my tutor.'

'Sounds like fun.' I hoped the conversation was going to become easier. Maybe a double vodka wasn't such a bad thing after all.

I thought for a moment. 'It's been hot today hasn't it?' The fucking weather? For God's sake. There was clearly no end to my inspiring conversational skills.

'Yeah, it has. More sticky than hot really,' he replied. 'Bet that's fun in your costume?'

'Yeah. Though really sunny days are worse, with it being all black. I spend the whole time hiding in the shade.'

'It's a good costume,' he said.

'You think?' I scoffed. T suppose it's dramatic, but it's hardly authentic is it?'

‘I don't know, it makes you look pretty stern.' He smiled at me with a sparkle in his eye that made me uncomfortable. Discussing my costume was one thing, but my appearance in it was quite another.

'It's okay for scaring the tourists,' I said. 'Sometimes I like to stand in the shadows very still and then move suddenly, just when they think I'm a statue.' I grinned sheepishly. 'It's all a gimmick really, more about frightening and shocking people than teaching them anything.'

My change of subject did the trick. I had aroused the historian in him, and we managed a reasonable conversation about the merits of sensationalizing history. All very intellectual and interesting. I managed not to notice his scarred skin or that protruding Adam's apple for at least half an hour. We were discussing how people seem to find the macabre fascinating, and I had downed all but a sip of my drink, when I noticed his gaze had fallen below my face, to rest somewhere between my throat and my cleavage. It made me wish I was wearing a higher collar. I had a sudden and rather bizarre idea of him as a vampire, watching the blood pulsing in my jugular.

'Another drink?' I asked, getting to my feet rather quickly. 'My turn this time.'

'Yes, please.' He smiled up at me. His lips were horribly moist.

'Pint of lager is it?'

'Yep,' he confirmed.

As I walked to the bar, I was pretty sure his eyes were fixed on my backside. Maybe I was wrong, but it was not a concept I relished. Owen was capable of a decent enough conversation, but I already knew there was no chance of anything else happening between us. I hoped I'd not given him any signals to the contrary. A pulse of anger shot through me. It was tempting to retreat into the toilets and look for the fire exit. But that would be childish. I pushed my way through to the bar to order the drinks.

When I sat back on my stool and put his pint in front of him, Owen's muddy green gaze was back on my face, and his expression seemed earnest and not at all sleazy. Was I just being too defensive? Maybe it was too soon after Paul to be one on one with a guy again.

'All right?' he enquired, as if he had sensed something was wrong.

'Yep,' I smiled.

'So, where do you live?' he asked. Back to me; just where I didn't want the conversation to go.

'Not far. I have my own flat,' I told him, as unspecific as I could manage.

'I share with two other post-grads,' he informed me. 'Both scientists though, so we don't have a lot in common.'

'No,' I said. 'Science was never really my thing. Too precise. Not that history isn't precise, but you must know what I mean.' I hoped the conversation would return to the safe ground of history. This time it didn't work.

'No, I had that sort of debate with them last night actually. You're lucky to live alone.'

I suppose I'd virtually told him I lived alone, but something about the way he said it gave me a nervous tension in my stomach. 'Yes, I am,' I returned. 'I'm fairly happy alone.' It wasn't really true, but it was about as clear a signal that I could give him that I wasn't interested.

'You must spend a fair few hours at work on your own too. Don't you get lonely?' He looked rather intensely into my eyes as he asked the question. I looked down at my drink, which this time was just a Coke, to counteract the double he'd bought me.

'No, not really.' There was no way I was getting into conversations of that nature. 'And I'm not really alone at work. There's always someone around.' I don't really know why I wanted him to know that, it just felt like something that needed to be said.

'Do you ever wonder if it's haunted?' he asked, surprising me by changing the subject. Thank fuck for that. I breathed more deeply. He sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. He seemed relaxed and interested, nothing more.

‘I don't really believe in ghosts,' I told him.

'Me either,' he agreed.

‘I do feel like you can sense people sometimes though. Almost like they've made their mark on history, and a little piece of them is still left behind, just lingering there,' I explained. I hoped this would expand into another interesting conversation.

‘I know exactly what you mean,' he said eagerly, to my dismay. No discussion there then. And a rather odd smile had appeared on his face. He leaned forward on his elbows. 'Jen?' he asked, in a conspiratorial tone that set my alarm bells ringing once more.

'Yes,' I replied, in suspense over what he might say.

'Do you have a boyfriend?' There it was, just about the worst thing he could have said. I felt myself flush, a mixture of discomfort, embarrassment, and anger.

'Not right now,' I told him honestly, 'but I'm not—'

'Because I really like you,' he went on, cutting me off. T can't believe I only met you yesterday. I feel like I've known you for ages.' If his words weren't disquieting enough, his face had lost the easy smile and he looked deadly serious. It bordered on frightening.

'Er, look Owen, I like you,' I began awkwardly, 'but, you know—' He interrupted me again.

'Don't say anything now. I'm sorry.' He relaxed perceptibly. 'Let's just talk a bit more.'

I truthfully didn't want to talk a bit more. But I felt a little sorry for him. Plus, I didn't like the idea of leaving him on uncomfortable or angry terms. Perhaps another drink and another half an hour or so of getting to know me would make him get over it. I'd just be less friendly. He'd go off me, hopefully with the same startling speed he had decided he liked me.

I took a sip of my Coke and waited for him to say something. When he didn't, I broke the ice. 'So, what do you think of the university?'

What followed was really quite a boring conversation, exactly how I intended it to be. I let my attention wander. I looked at the group of middle-aged women, dressed up to the nines, gathered cackling around the table to our right. I watched two men in business suits make their way to the bar. A couple a few meters away held hands over the table. Lucky them. Someone near the bar was rattling a charity bucket. One of the hazards of an evening in town, the charity collectors, going from bar to bar, trying to give the drinkers a guilty conscience, or hoping they'll be drunk enough to drop tenners into their buckets.

I looked back to Owen, who was telling me about an interesting journal article one of his professors had written. 'Mmm, really?' I said at an appropriate moment. I wanted him to think I didn't care less about what he was saying. From the way he was going on, however, I didn't think he'd got the message.

It was then that one of the girls who had served me behind the bar began a round of the tables, setting a small glass dish on each one and then placing a stubby candle, which she proceeded to light with a cigarette lighter, onto each dish. Fantastic. Just what I needed, a romantic atmosphere. As she made it to our table, I used the opportunity of her coming between Owen and me to look away from him again.

A harsh jangling to my right told me the charity collectors were nearby. I glanced across at the bucket. Breast cancer research was tonight's charity. More to my taste than animals or children, I thought, maybe I would give them my change when they reached our table. I looked up at the person holding the bucket.

I glanced away and then looked again.

The charity collector was a woman, probably in her thirties. She was relatively short and very slim. Her hair was shaved close to the nape of her neck, the rest cropped in an unmistakably boyish way, except it was longer at the front, where it reached into jagged points to frame her face. It was black, artificially black, though her skin tone suggested she was naturally dark. She was half-turned away from me, so I couldn't make out her face properly, but her profile showed a small nose and a slightly protruding mouth with naturally pink lips. In her ear she wore one silver hoop and one silver stud.

I looked her up and down before I realized I was doing it. I was half-hypnotized by her already, drawn to the way in which it was impossible to label her as beautiful in the strict sense of the word, and yet she was the most striking woman I had seen in a long time, if not ever. Her appearance rejected labels, defied definition in a way that excited and intrigued me. Her clothes sat so naturally on her slightly angular figure that she gave the impression of having made no effort with her appearance at all. Stonewashed black jeans, tight to her narrow hips and strong-looking thighs, and a black vest-top which skimmed over small breasts and showed off toned arms, the movement of her biceps clearly defined beneath her skin as she rattled her bucket.

I looked at her hands where she held the handle of the bucket, noticing the short nails and impression of strength in her grip. The several silver bracelets at her wrist looked heavy, as my eyes ran over her straining forearm. She moved on to the next table, turning her back to me, giving me a better perspective of her broad shoulders, straight back. The way in which her jeans squeezed her tight, small buttocks below a broad black leather belt drew my attention lower.

She moved so casually; her body language suggested relaxed confidence, a woman at ease with herself. I watched for a moment longer, strangely compelled. An ache had begun in the pit of my stomach and it only grew as my eyes followed her as she moved to another table, drawing smiles from the couple she rattled her bucket at. Then, to my dismay, the lights dimmed, leaving the interior of the pub to be illuminated by the candles and, though my eyes lingered on her, her figure became less distinct.

'What do you think?' Owen was saying to me. He thought I'd been listening to him, clearly. Couldn't he take a hint? I wanted to get up and walk out, leave him open-mouthed behind me. Only I didn't have the confidence, either to leave him in that way, or risk him following me when I'd be alone in town.

'Oh, I agree with you of course,' I returned, hoping my improvised reply would fit with the question he was asking me.

'I knew you would,' he said. A dangerously soft note had come into his voice now. 'You think just like I do.'

Not there again. I felt a little nauseous. I smiled weakly and wondered how to extricate myself from this politely.

'You know, I knew the moment I saw you we'd be friends,' Owen was saying with some enthusiasm. I regarded him warily, my skin beginning to crawl. He made me seriously uncomfortable.

'And I know you're only being careful, but you have to admit it, Jen, we do have a lot in common.' I didn't have to admit it, nor was I going to. 'We agree on so much,' he added. How drunk could he possibly be on two pints of lager? His expression suggested more than was logical.

'Look, Owen—' I tried, hoping to put an end to this, maybe salvage a loose friendship.

'Jen, you look beautiful in candlelight,' he crooned at me. I stared at him blankly. It was hopeless. 'I want to know you more, I really like you.'