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Heck felt no emotions as he stood on the corner of Shadwell Road and looked up at the grimy red-brick façade of The Coal Hole. Or perhaps he was just holding them in check, subconsciously restraining them. His dad’s old local, the Hole had barely changed: the familiar image of a pithead flywheel framed on a cloudy sky still adorned the shield over the door; the two front windows were still frosted to half their depth, the words FINE ALES printed in an arch over the top of each; it was still basically an end-terrace, though now an end-terrace on the edge of a post-demolition wasteland.
How the Hole had avoided the wrecker’s ball, Heck couldn’t imagine, but somehow it had – a bewildering stroke of fortune, which might, under ordinary circumstances, have brought a tear to his eye. He’d lost count of the Sunday lunchtimes as a small boy, when he’d sat on the hostelry’s back-step in his rugby scarf and bob-cap, listening to the jovial shouts from inside, smelling the mingled fragrances of alcohol and cigarette smoke, waiting with infinite patience for his dad to finally emerge, a clutch of workmates around him, so they could all set off to the match together. Or the Sunday afternoons afterwards, when the landlord would open the back door and allow the kids to come in with their dads and granddads. While the elders would drink and discuss the game, young Mark would spend endless happy hours clacking balls around on the snooker table, or sitting quietly at the back of the vault, a glass of lemonade and a bag of salted peanuts keeping him company while he carefully built armies out of dominoes.
Heck shoved the car keys into the pocket of his jeans, and went inside.
There was only a handful of people present now, most dotted at tables around the main taproom. The vault, which was accessible through an open arch at the far end, was empty, but a pool table now occupied the place where the snooker table had once stood. Otherwise, everything else was the same. The décor perfectly matched Heck’s memories: coats of arms, sports trophies, sepia-toned photographs.
Heck ambled to the bar. When he got there, the pub landlord was a familiar face. Harry Philbert, a professional rugby league star of the 1980s, and apparently still content in his role as licensee of The Coal Hole, was silver-haired these days and paunchy. In his silk shirt and club tie, he looked hale, hearty and every inch ‘mine host’, but when he saw Heck he stiffened.
‘Pint of Best, please,’ Heck said, producing his wallet.
Philbert hesitated to pull the pint.
‘Something wrong?’ Heck asked.
‘No, no.’ Philbert blustered. ‘Just … didn’t expect you round here again.’
‘I’ve been back once or twice.’
‘First I’ve seen of you.’
‘Well, funnily enough, Harry, you weren’t number one on my catch-up list. Wonder why that might’ve been?’
Philbert reddened, clearly remembering that night all those years ago when he’d refused to serve the young off-duty bobby, telling him that he wasn’t welcome in The Coal Hole any more. He cleared his throat as he drew the beer. ‘Keeping you busy, is it? Your job.’
Heck shrugged, pushing his money across the bar.
‘So busy you couldn’t even attend your mum and dad’s funerals?’
‘Well, you know what, Harry … here’s a funny thing. No one told me they were dead until they were underground.’
Even Philbert had the good grace to look shocked by that. ‘Surely, your Dana …?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Your Uncle Pat …?’
‘I found it harder to believe in his case, but I’d imagine he was acting on the wishes of the recently departed.’
Philbert pondered this for some time, then, apparently finding it understandable, maybe even appropriate, nodded and pushed the brimming pint across the counter. Heck grabbed it and walked away. Not particularly looking for company, he avoided the tables where other customers were sat, and strode into the vault. He stood contemplating the pool table, wondering if he had the interest and/or patience to play a couple of sets. He supposed there was nothing else to do – it was anyone’s guess how long it would be before his uncle came in, if he appeared at all. He placed his pint down and took a cue from the rack.
‘Now, stranger,’ a voice said. ‘You not talking?’
Heck glanced sideways, surprised. He hadn’t heard the woman approach. A minute ago she’d been seated in a quiet corner, drinking from a tall glass of coke while busying herself on a laptop. She’d caught his eye fleetingly: denim-clad and wearing a Motorhead T-shirt, but shapely with it, her thick dark hair hanging past her shoulders. He hadn’t recognised her though.
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