People stood around the pub in groups or sat at tables, most of them young to middle-aged, a fair mix of men and women. A few older people here and there, most notably a table of six grey-haired women who must have averaged at least 80 years old. They were raucous, laughing and rocking back and forth in their chairs, wine glasses in hand. A general hubbub filled the place, the murmur of conversation, music coming from somewhere, but Rich couldn’t see a jukebox. Eighties classic “Love is a Battlefield”, he realised after a moment.
Deeper in was a corridor with toilet doors on one side, then a back door leading out to a courtyard and more tables and chairs. Smokers were busy drinking and filling their lungs out there.
Rich went up to the bar, an older man and a younger woman serving behind it. The man ignored him and the young woman came over. She was beautiful, with a killer figure and long dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Maybe mid- to late-20s, perhaps a year or so younger than him. Rich threw his best casual, disinterested smile at her. “How ya goin’?”
“What can I get you?” she asked. Cold, clearly not interested in a chat or telling him how she was.
Never mind, he’d play nice and friendly and see if she thawed. Would be great to get laid tonight, an unexpected bonus to the night’s weirdness. “Schooner of Lashes, thanks.”
She poured the pale ale and he handed over ten bucks. When she came back with the change he said, “It’s my first time here and I need a feed. Any recommendations?”
She looked at him for a moment with a strange hardness in her eyes. “I recommend you check the menu and pick something you like.” She smiled then, and there was a hint of genuine humour in it.
He couldn’t help his own smile spreading and opened his mouth to say more but she turned away. Not to serve someone else, she simply turned and moved a couple of metres off and stood looking out over the bar. Well, all right then, Rich thought.
The food service area was at the end of the bar and he went along to look over the menu. All the usual culprits, schnitty and chips, steak, chicken parma, salt and pepper squid.
“Anything but the seafood,” a voice said.
He turned to look and one of the old women from the group up the back was moving past, heading to get a drink. It could only have been her who spoke, but she didn’t even glance back. He decided to take her advice anyway.
The man from behind the bar approached this time. “What’ll you have?”
“Steak, chips and salad, thanks. Sirloin, medium rare.”
“Sauce?”
“Pepper?”
“Yep.”
“Thanks.”
The man rang it up and Rich paid, watching the fluorescent light reflect off the guy’s head through a wisp of thinning hair. He was a big fella, maybe only an inch or two taller than Rich’s six foot, but he was wide and looked fat at first. Closer inspection revealed barely an inch of fat over thick rolling muscle. He reminded Rich of the powerful dudes he’d seen in World’s Strongest Man contests on TV, genetic mutants who seem to naturally grow massive. He probably carried beer kegs around like it was no big thing. He held out a number on a metal stand in one meaty paw and Rich took it. Number 13. He nodded his thanks and turned away.
He pulled out a chair and sat at an unoccupied table towards the back, stood the number in the centre, looked around at the varied clientele. It all seemed pretty normal to him.
“You’re a fucken idiot!” one of four young men at the next table said suddenly, leaning back with laughter. His three friends laughed along, one looking a little chagrined as well. No doubt he was the idiot.
The accuser glanced over and saw Rich looking. Rich nodded.
“How ya goin’?” the man said through his nose.
All four were maybe early- to mid-20s, jeans and work boots, t-shirts, drinking schooners of beer.
“Pretty good, thanks,” Rich said. “You?”
“Nice night for it.”
Rich wasn’t sure what it might be, but he nodded again. “Sure is.”
The guy kept staring, his face entirely neutral. His three friends watched too. After a couple of seconds the weight of their collective expressionless gaze became uncomfortable.
“The steaks any good here?” Rich asked, grasping for anything to say to break the moment.
“Better than the Vic but it’s a harbour town. You should eat the fucken seafood, hey.”
“Didn’t think of it like that.”
“See any fucken cows on your way in?” another of the group said.
“Can’t say I did. Saw a few farms, but not what was, you know, on them.”
“Fucken great ocean out there full of good tucker. No point eating shit that has to be shipped in from elsewhere.” The guy said elsewhere like it was a disease.
“Good point.” Rich smiled. “I’ll try the seafood next time.”
The four of them stared again, clearly happy to peruse without conversation. Rich began to feel like a museum exhibit. “You guys fish?” he asked.
“Course.” The man gestured around the table. “The four of us here are the best rock fishers in town.”
This elicited waves of laughter and guffaws around the table and a few choice comments from other patrons nearby.
“Couldn’t catch a disease if he licked a dead hobo’s arsehole,” one older guy said. He was probably late-50s, iron grey curly hair and corded muscle along his forearms. “Hey? Who’re ya kidding, Troy?”
“Fuck ya, Trev!” Troy said, but he laughed along.
“Couldn’t catch a train at a single-platform station,” one of his mates said.
“Couldn’t catch crabs in a one-woman town,” said another mate.
Laughter ran long and loud, including Troy. He seemed like a good sport.
“Where do you fish?” Rich asked, as the laughter faded.
The four around the table fell suddenly serious, all the others around quietening down. The man with the grey hair tutted loudly.
“Tryin’ a steal our spots, mate?” Troy said.
Rich had never fished in his life, had no idea what it even involved beyond a rod, a hook, and water. “Nah, nah. Just making conversation.”
The expressionless gazes from before, which had become full of mirth, were now steely and hard, eyes narrowed. Rich swallowed.
“Thirteen?” a voice said beside him.
He jumped and looked up, saw a thin woman in the black and whites of a chef, long dark hair pulled into a greasy ponytail. She held out a plate.
“Yes, thanks!”
He took the plate, grateful for the distraction. The woman snatched up his number and walked away. The group of keen rock fishers were leaning into each other across their table again, talking quietly. The man with the curly grey hair had his back turned.
Jesus, Rich thought.
He kept his eyes down, concentrated on his dinner, which turned out to be really good. Except the dressing on the salad that seemed strangely bitter, with a tang he couldn’t quite place. Not unpleasant, just unusual. He cleaned his plate and felt a lot better for the feed. He drained the last of his beer and went back to the bar.
“Same again?” the girl asked.
“Yeah, thanks. I’m Rich.”
“Are ya? Maybe I should marry ya. Then kill you for the money.”
He laughed, but her face was a little too intense for his liking. “Short for Richard. I’m a truck driver, so my wealth is not extensive, sadly.”
“Your wealth is not extensive?” She laughed. “Fucken hark at ’im and his fancy talk.”
She poured the beer and took his money, but didn’t walk away this time.