It was great being back in the old pub. It was the sheertackiness of the place that Kent loved. From the red and white chequered linofloor, to the cheap mirrors and horse brasses on the walls, it oozed spit and sawdustfrom every pore. The pub also had a great jukebox full of proper 7” singles.Right now it was playing a song by The Cure, which Kent recalled had been a hita year or two before.
“Tune!” he remarked.
Best of all it was the one pub that Kent could guaranteegetting served in from the age of sixteen onwards.
Kent ordered a pint of lager for Glen and a bottle of Pilsfor himself. He wasn’t taking any chances with Don’s suspect hygiene practicesbut he should be quite safe with a bottle. The two drinks came to just £2.70 intotal which wasn’t going to put too much of a dent in his funds and comparedvery favourably with the £4 a pint he was used to paying in 2018.
There was an Only Fools and Horses-themed fruitmachine in one corner. Glen was instantly attracted over to it by the flashinglights and tried to persuade Kent to put some money in it. He desisted, remindingGlen that they needed to keep hold of as much cash as possible for their tripto the off-licence.
Instead he suggested a game of pool which could be had forthe princely sum of just 40p. Kent put two twenty-pence pieces into the slotand pushed, releasing the balls. As he began to pull them out from the end ofthe table and arrange them in the triangle, he looked up to see a painedexpression on Glen’s face. He was also clutching his stomach with his righthand. It looked like things might be about to start moving.
“What’s up?” he asked innocently.
“Nothing, Kenty, just a bit of gut-rot,” he replied,defensively. “That milk you gave me this morning tasted a bit funny. It wasn’toff, was it?”
So, he had noticed, but he had still drunk it. “No, it wasfresh this morning,” replied Kent, before suggesting, “Maybe it’s Don’s dodgypipes?”
“Probably,” replied Glen. “I’ll be alright in a minute. You canbreak.”
Kent finished racking up the balls and took the white ball downto the other end of the table. He lined up the shot, hit the cue ball smack intothe right-hand side of the pack and watched in dismay as it ricocheted off straightinto the bottom right-hand pocket.
“You’re good – not!” commented Glen. “Two shots to me, Ithink.”
“Go on, then,” said Kent.
Another pained look shot across Glen’s face and his handwent again to his stomach.
“I’ll be back in a minute, mate, think I need the bog,” he said,before walking very quickly out of the pool area and through the bar towardsthe toilets at the other end of the room. Before he reached the toilet door hehad broken into a run.
Excellent, thought Kent. But the job might not be fullydone. Glen might well have a traumatic few minutes in the gents but what if hewas OK again afterwards? He would have to come up with a Plan B if he recoveredtoo quickly.
He waited in the poolroom, nursing his beer. He wasn’tintending on having more than one, he needed to keep a clear head. He alsoneeded to keep track of time. He looked up at the clock above the bar to see itwas already half past two. A few more people were beginning to filter into thepub, mainly factory workers in their uniforms. This would be the early shift clockingoff for the weekend.
Should he go to the toilet to check on Glen, or wait? Hedecided he would give him ten minutes, then go and see what the situation was.
A couple of guys in blue warehouse uniforms came into the poolroomand asked if anyone was playing. Kent was about to let them have the table whenGlen re-emerged into the room. He looked as white as a sheet and all of hisearlier bravado had disappeared.
“Where have you been, Glen?” asked Kent. “We’d almost givenyou up.”
“Sorry, mate,” said Glen. “I must have eaten somethingdodgy, my guts are playing up. I think I’ll be alright now, though.”
But he wasn’t alright. He managed to play just one of histwo free shots before he went running off to the toilets again, barging into aman playing on the fruit machine as he went, leading to a shout of “Oi!”
“One of you two can take over if you want,” said Kent. Ittook one of the warehouse workers less than five minutes to defeat him, afterwhich he decided he would go and see how Glen was getting on.
The toilets were a cold, inhospitable place, even in theheight of summer. The urinal was one long, metal trough, rusty and stainedafter years of neglect. There was some sort of unidentifiable green mouldgrowing on the pipes above it and no sign that any cleaning of ever took place.The only concession to hygiene was a few yellow blocks melting in the tray. Itwas also clogged up with cigarette butts causing it to overflow and flood thefloor every time it flushed. The earthenware tiles underfoot were cracked andthe walls were damp.
There was a small sink with a single cold tap and a bar ofgrimy soap. There was a dispenser for paper towels but it was empty. Kent rememberedthat it always was and that if you wanted to dry your hands, you used toiletpaper.
There was a single cubicle which Kent had only ever used incases of dire emergency. It was devoid of a lock and had a door that didn’tshut properly. Kent didn’t need to ask for any confirmation that Glen was inthere: the groaning noises coming from the cubicle were proof enough.
“Are you alright, mate?” he asked.
“No, I’m not bloody alright,” snapped Glen. “And I’ve runout of toilet paper. Can you go and ask Don for some?”
“Will do, mate,” said Kent. He had to get out of the room,the smell was horrendous. What a pity, he thought. This couldn’t have happenedto a nicer bloke.
By the time Glen emerged from the toilets the second time hewas almost
