“So how much do you know about it?”
I scratched at my head, which, like the landlord’s, was also hatless. I’ve never taken to a hat myself- you get hat-hair, which is frankly embarrassing. Hats are for fogeys, in my opinion. Most of the patrons of the Golden Dawn were hat-wearers. You only really wear a hat if you’re a fogey. Or, of course, if you have a problem about your baldness. Of course Lazlo Woodbine wasn’t bald, and he never had hat-hair. He wore a fedora, probably with a raised crown, although that was never mentioned in any of the novels. So, where was I?
“It’s something pretty big,” I said once more, to get my bearings.
“So how much do you know about it?”
I shook my hatless head. “I know it’s called FLATLINE,” I said.
“Twonk!” said the landlord. “But I’ll say this to you. I’m suspicious, me, and when things don’t smell right I don’t like the smell of them. You find out about this FLATLINE and you tell me about it, or I will grass you up, understand?”
I nodded now with my hatless head. “I understand,” I said.
“Right,” said the landlord. “Now take your drinks and go back to your woman. You’re supposed to be celebrating your wedding anniversary.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “That’s what I came out with Sandra for.”
I took the drinks back to the table.
“Didn’t you get one for Otto?” asked Sandra.
“No. Stuff him,” I said.
“Strong words,” said Sandra, laughing.
“Shut up,” I told her, “and drink your cocktail.”
Sandra took a sip. “What is this one called?” she asked.
“It’s Ruby Tuesday.”
“Very nice too. Very fruity.”
I sighed and rolled my own eyes a bit. “I get tired,” I said. “You know that? I get tired.”
“It’s all that finger-work.” Sandra mimed switch-flicking. And mimed it very badly too. There’s an art to switch-flicking: you don’t just flick a switch and you certainly don’t do it the way Sandra did it, with thumb and forefinger making an O and the hand going up and down in a sort of stabbing motion. “You’ve got Repetitive Strain Injury!” And she laughed again. “An injury that if caused in the workplace, can enable you to sue the company and get lots of money.”
“Ridiculous,” I said. “Industrial injuries go with the job. If you can’t stand the heat don’t go so near the hairdryer.”
“You can sneer,” said Sandra, “but in my new job—”
“New job?” I said. “New job? What new job?”
“My new job. Count Otto got it for me. He’s a solicitor now. And I’m a barrister.”
“I never knew that. You never told me.”
“We don’t talk any more,” said Sandra.
“We do. We talk all the time.”
“No,” said Sandra. “You talk. I am expected to listen.”
“That’s how heterosexual relationships work,” I explained. “Men talk, women listen. When it’s the other way round it ends in divorce.”
“And that’s your take on marriage, is it?”
I shrugged. “Our marriage doesn’t work very well, does it?” I said.
“No,” said Sandra. “It doesn’t.”
“And that’s because you don’t listen when I talk. You should try harder. It would work far better then.”
“I’m going on holiday with Otto next week,” said Sandra.
“What?” I said. “What?”
“To Camber Sands. We’ve booked a caravan.”
“But that’s outrageous. You can’t do that!”
“And why not?”
“Because who’s going to make my sandwiches?”
“I’ll leave you a week’s supply in the freezer.”
“Well, that’s all right, then. Will you send me a postcard?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Sandra.
“Thank God for that,” I said.
“What?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have time to read it. This is my golden opportunity to put in some overtime. I’m certain that Barry who does the seven p.m. to seven a.m. shift isn’t as quick on the switch as he might be. I can sit with him and give him some pointers.”
“Yes,” said Sandra. “Why don’t you do that?”
“I will,” I said, “I will.”
Count Otto returned from the toilet.
“Finished counting?” I asked. “How many were there this time?”
“Same as last time,” said Otto. “Which is comforting, when you think about it.”
“That is so true,” I said. “So very, very true.”
Otto took up what was left of his pint and supped upon it.
“I was just telling Gary that you and I are going off on holiday next week,” said Sandra.
Otto choked upon his pint.
“Easy,” I said, patting him on the back. “Are you all right? Did it go down the wrong way?”
“Just a bit,” said the count.
“I was saying to Sandra,” said I, “not to send me a postcard. I wouldn’t have time to read it.”
“Oh,” said Count Otto, glancing over at Sandra, who seemed, if I wasn’t mistaken, to be winking in his direction. “Well, OK, then. I’ll keep her entertained. Try and find her something to fill the moments when she would otherwise have been writing you postcards.” And the count squeezed at his groin region.
“Thanks a lot,” I said to the count. “Would you care for another pint? Seeing as how you’re being so kind as to take Sandra on holiday while I’ll be busy at work.”
“Yes, please,” said Count Otto. “A whisky chaser would be nice too.”
“Done,” said I. “No problem.”
I returned to the bar. “Same again,” said I. “Although different for Sandra and one for the count.”
“Phew,” said the landlord. “You do have money to splash about. I’ve got fillings from the drip trays here that will pass for a Tequila Sunrise and set you back nearly three quid.”
“In for a penny,” said I.
“Quite so,” said the landlord, emptying the drip tray into a used glass. “Oh and, Gary …”
“Yes,” I said.
“I need to know. It matters to me.”
“Need to know what?” I asked. For I didn’t know what he wanted to know.
“About FLATLINE in the capital letters. I need to know what it’s all about.”
“Well,” I said, as I accepted the drinks I was given and paid the price that I had to pay for them, “I’ll do what I can. But I do have a lot on my mind at present. I’m going to be doing some overtime. I’ll be busy.”
“I need to know,” said the landlord. “I’m not wrong about the True Names. Even though I thought I was wrong, that travelling man proved to me that I wasn’t. This is important, if only to me. Whatever you find out will be between the two of us. You know the old saying, ‘you scratch my back, I don’t stab yours’. OK?” And the landlord made a very vicious face.
“OK,” I said. “It’s a done deal. I’ll find out, I promise. But I do have a lot on my mind.”
I did.
And as I took the drinks back to the table I did a lot of thinking. And I do mean a lot. I thought about myself. And what I’d become. And who was the real me who was me now. And I thought about Barry who did the night shift and whether I should make him a pair of elbow trolleys.
And I thought about the landlord and his True Names and how he couldn’t divine the True Name of Neil Collins and I thought about FLATLINE and whatever FLATLINE might actually be, it being in capital letters and everything.
And I thought about the landlord grassing me up and me being dragged away to prison.
And I thought about Sandra and regretted that I hadn’t been able to take her on holiday because holidays weren’t written into the Official Secrets Act.