Then again, who would eat at a place named VOMIT INDUCING PIGEON?
Although they could call it VIP.
Drawn not by the scent of food but the sound and sight of people, Abbie stuffed her hands into her jeans. She trudged up the road towards the laughter, good cheer, and occasional hysterical drunken argument.
Outside the front door, a group of guys in their early twenties pushed and shoved. Stopping only for a brief moment as Abbie eased between them and stepped through the front door.
Inside, she was immediately assaulted by the rabble of drunken voices and stench of booze, plus frying potato and bird. Here was the kind of venue that lay dormant during the day but came alive at night. If the world ever ran out of alcohol or sobriety came into fashion in a big way, places like this would go bust overnight.
Most of the tables were rammed. Packs of four or even five clubbers crammed onto benches made for two. Some groups were so large the less forceful members within their ranks were made to stand, clutching their food to their chest and trying to remain involved in the conversation despite being considerably higher than the rest of the gang.
Abbie was loathe to be here. Not only did the mingled scent of oil-drenched bird and booze-drenched idiot make her sick, but these happy, smiling people made her remember all she had missed and would miss in this restricted life of hers. That was a dagger to the heart.
The face from her nightmare reappeared in high definition every time she blinked, offering a stark reminder as to why she could not depart. This town was new. She had no idea where or how she might find the stranger. Past experience said her best bet was to stick near people and wait. Soon enough, her next move would become apparent.
Because standing in the doorway of any commercial venue is suspicious, Abbie made her way down the chick shop's central aisle, nudging and shifting drunks out of her way as she went.
Behind the counter stood a man who was taller than should be permitted by law. At least six-five. He appeared to have stolen the smile of someone who held not quite such an awful job. He looked a similar age to Abbie. Late-twenties. Thirty, at a push.
"Hey there, what can I get you?"
Looking beyond this smiling man's shoulder, Abbie spied one of his colleagues wiping a snotty nose on the back of his hand before dumping a portion of chips into the deep fat fryer.
“Drink," she said. Glanced at Snot Man again. "Something that arrived sealed and remains that way.”
The smiler glanced at his colleague. Gave Abbie a wink. "Good choice."
He brought her a fizzy drink. She didn't want it, but it was cheap, and she was expected to buy something. She paid. Throughout the transaction, her server kept his eyes on Abbie's eyes. The smile never dimmed.
"Name's Bobby, by the way."
"That so?"
"It is. What's yours?"
She met his eye. How transparent he was. All of a sudden, Abbie wished she hadn't removed her hood.
Raising the drink, she said, "Thanks. Top service," and turned away.
At the table in the far corner of the room (closest to the counter, furthest from the door), two guys and a girl, all in their late-teens, sat crammed on one side of a booth. Their heads were close together. Whispering. Laughing.
A couple sat opposite. Though they had the bench to themselves, they were crammed together as though they shared it with six rugby players. They had a single meal in front of them. Steam rose from the chips and whatever meat. The food appeared to be untouched. The same could not be said of the couple.
The girl had a hand in the guy's hair. The guy had a hand on the girl's back. The remaining two hands were conspicuously missing, somewhere beneath the table.
Abbie dropped onto the seat at their side. "Don't mind if I join, do you?"
The canoodling couple jumped. The girl brushed back her hair and puffed out a breath. Her cheeks were flushed but not only from embarrassment. The guy's hand appeared from beneath the table. He went for a chip. Caught Abbie's expression.
"What?"
"Not going to wash your hands, first? No hygiene concerns?"
The three teens across the table laughed. Now the guy's face flushed, too, but with anger rather than embarrassment. He pointed the finger with which he had almost taken a chip towards Abbie. She wasn't sure how old he was. Old enough that she needn't feel guilty about hurting him. If it became necessary.
Before the guy could get himself in trouble, his girl leaned in, whispered in his ear. Whatever she said, the guy considered. The girl wasn't keen on letting him make up his mind.
"Scuse," she said, turning to Abbie.
Abbie nodded. Obliged. Rising from her chair, she put her back to the wall, allowing the girl to slide from the booth, dragging her fella with her.
Reluctantly, he came. Once standing, he stopped, facing Abbie. He was her height. He had a bit of bulk to him, but she guessed crap food and excessive boozing contributed more to this than did lifting weights.
"Before you ask," said Abbie. "Threesomes aren't my thing."
The girl was tugging the guy’s hand, and the guy sneered. Leaned over and grabbed a chip. Shoving it in his mouth in a manner that was presumably supposed to be threatening, he faced Abbie again.
"Have it," he said, nodding to the leftover meal. The girl tugged, and the friendly fella disappeared towards the front door.
As they arrived, it flew open. In came two men without thanks or so much as a look at the couple who had jumped aside to admit them.
Surrounded by fun-loving and lust-filled drunks, Abbie was out of place. As of the arrival of these two, she was no longer the only one.
They scanned the room. Abbie sat in the booth and
