He saw a pub sign hanging from a building part way down a narrow side-street: The King’s Head. It looked on the rough side, a grimy black painted exterior in need of a fresh coat and some filler. But a drink was a drink and he needed one.
Pushing open the doors, he entered an atmosphere of stale beer and cooking oil. Undeterred, he weaved between tables occupied mostly by hardened labourer types to arrive at the bar where an obese geezer plastered in moronic tattoos was cleaning glasses. The man looked at Gunnymede with an unwelcoming, gormless gaze that served as a request for his libation. Gunnymede pointed at one of the beer pulls, a random choice since he recognised none of them, and the bartender did the honours.
A lone barstool beckoned and Gunnymede sat on it. The pint was placed in front of him. He handed over a note and had a sip. It tasted good.
His mind was swirling with thoughts of Megan, her rape, his conversation with Harlow, prison, what it all meant. Several pints, a couple of whiskies and a greasy burger and chips left Gunnymede feeling carcinogenic. It was time to go. He dug the phone out of his pocket, placed it on the bar and searched for the contacts.
Three large men entered the pub, dressed in expensive street and bling, and made their way to the bar. Judging by the evasive moves from patrons, the men were not to be trifled with. They stood either side of Gunnymede while the bartender prepared their drinks without an exchange. The leader looked down on Gunnymede through dark sunglasses perched on a nose that had been broken more than once and allowed to heal without an attempt to straighten it. When Gunnymede ignored him, he removed his glasses and moved his face closer to emphasise his presence. To his dismay, Gunnymede remained blissfully unaware. The thug leaned heavily onto the bar and dropped his key fob down in order to pick up Gunnymede’s phone.
‘Ain’t seen one of these before,’ he said.
Gunnymede looked at him and remained unfazed by the intimidation. ‘It’s a mobile phone.’
The thug didn’t miss the disrespect but chose to ignore it. ‘I like the case. Very nice.’
Gunnymede pushed a fiver and change towards the bartender. ‘Thank you for your service, kind sir, and please take this as a tip,’ he said as he got to his feet. ‘I’m leaving,’ he said to the thug who continued to inspect his phone.
‘Fuck off then,’ the thug replied, tapping the phone on the bar to test the casing.
‘My phone,’ Gunnymede said.
‘I like it,’ the thug said. ‘Thanks.’
‘It’s not mine to give,’ Gunnymede said.
‘If it ain’t yours, then you won’t miss it, will ya?’
Gunnymede glanced at the other two thugs who were looking at him coldly. The bartender wore a slight smile, enjoying the moment. Gunnymede took back his tip. ‘Mind it doesn’t bite you,’ he said to the thug as he eased himself out from between them and headed away.
Gunnymede stepped outside and took a moment to get his bearings. To his surprise, Aristotle was standing a few metres away looking at him.
Gunnymede smiled. ‘Socrates,’ he called out, heading over to him. ‘I was just thinking about you. Fancy a drink?’
‘I don’t drink.’
‘That’s okay. I just need your funding. I’ve spent my allowance. Where shall we go?’
‘That’s what I’m here to find out.’
‘Of course you are. Well, let’s just say for the time being I’ve decided to return to the fold.’
Aristotle nodded.
‘Lead on,’ Gunnymede said, swinging himself round in the opposite direction to the one Aristotle headed.
‘We should celebrate,’ Gunnymede said jovially, catching him up. ‘There’s a pub I used to frequent just off the King’s Road. You can tell me all about the business these days and how you ended up with old Harlow.’
Back in the bar, the thug was playing with Gunnymede’s phone when the screen flashed brightly enough to startle him. A second later a picture of his face filled the screen with a message stating THIS IS NOT YOUR PHONE! It was followed by a clock counting down from ten seconds. The thug dropped it onto the bar as if it might explode. When it reached zero the screen image crackled and went blank. As he stared at it he realised something was missing. ‘Where’s my car key?’
The thugs ran for the doors.
Aristotle and Gunnymede reached the top of the street where the MoD car was waiting. Aristotle felt a vibration in his pocket and took out his phone. The thug’s face filled the screen.
‘You know this person?’ Aristotle asked, showing it to Gunnymede.
‘Nope,’ Gunnymede replied as looked at the thug’s car fob in his hand. He pushed a button and a shrill double beep came from behind them. They turned to see a shiny, fully loaded Range Rover, its lights flashing, parked on a double red line below a sign that strictly forbade it.
Aristotle climbed into the back of the MoD car. Gunnymede got in beside him and as he closed the door he saw the thugs jogging up the street. He slid down the window and held out the car fob. The thug leader saw him. As the MoD car pulled away, Gunnymede released it.
The thug arrived at the kerb out of breath and looked down to see a drain and no fob.
His henchman took a photo of the departing car using his phone. ‘I got the plate, boss,’ he said, checking the image.
The leader’s expression contorted into a one of hatred. ‘Get me an address,’ he growled. ‘We’ll pay that bastard a visit.’
Gunnymede sat back with a sigh. ‘I can’t
