Free The Year of the Ladybird by Graham Joyce

do?’
    I told him about Ken’s building business.
    He sniffed noisily. ‘Movver work?’
    ‘No.’
    He had an odd style of driving, tucking his chin into his chest and looking up from under his brow. It reminded me of a boxer’s defensive stance. We drove through the Lincolnshire
countryside with all the windows of the Minx wound down. The land was dusty and parched and we occasionally passed roadside signs: Danger You Are Entering A Drought Area Conserve Water. But somehow
it didn’t concern me and I had faith that every natural order would soon be restored.
    Eventually we drew up at a pub with a thatched roof. It was called The Fighting Cocks and it had a lovely beer garden with a tall slide and a play area for children. Though there was no breath
of wind to move the flag, a smart Union Jack hung from a freshly painted white pole. A number of cars were drawn up in the car park but Colin stopped at the entrance.
    ‘Out,’ said Colin. ‘See you inside.’ I made to open the door but Colin put his leathery hand on my arm. ‘Not you.’
    The other two lads got out as directed and hurried into the pub. I noticed that they were both wearing highly-polished Doc Marten lace-up boots. Even though it was ridiculous footwear in this
heat it made me feel exposed in my open-toed sandals. My stomach fluttered. Colin eased into the car park at the back of the pub where a steward beckoned him into a reserved space. Two tall and
rather impressive men in dark suits were leaning next to a highly polished Bentley. They were exchanging a few words and both were smoking cigars.
    We got out of the car and Colin walked over to the smoking men. I assumed I should follow. Colin shook hands with each of them in turn. If they noticed me loitering in the background they
didn’t show it.
    One of the men, completely bald and with a very thick neck, said, ‘Mills has cried off.’
    ‘Oh the cunt,’ Colin said.
    ‘About two hours ago, what do you think of that?’ said the second man. Unlike his colleague he had a thick head of black hair, swept back and fixed with Brylcreem.
    ‘That’s what happens,’ the thick-necked man said, ‘when you give people like that the opportunity.’
    Colin rolled his neck as if to relieve some muscle stress. ‘Tony here?’
    ‘He’s in the pub,’ the second man said. ‘But he says he don’t want to do it.’
    ‘He’ll do it,’ Colin said. ‘He’ll warm ’em up til Carter gets here. No worries.’
    At last the bald man acknowledged my dithering presence. ‘Who’s this then?’
    ‘This is David,’ Colin said, ‘Student. Just here to take a look at us.’
    The man held out his hand and gave me a warm handshake. ‘Good to have you here, David. I’m Norman Prosser and you are very welcome amongst us. Student, are you? Well, good for you,
lad. We need more students. You see, we need to get amongst the students and explain properly what we are about.’ He took a step back and looked me up and down. ‘If Colin spotted you,
you must be all right. You look smart, handsome and you look the part.’
    What
part
I was supposed to look in my T-shirt and sandals I had no idea. But then the second man with the oiled hair stepped forward and gave me a very firm handshake – too hard
– and told me his name. ‘John Talbot.’ Though he didn’t say any more, he looked hard into my eyes as if to prove some kind of a point.
    We went into the pub and, as I blinked into the darkness of the bar after the brilliant light outside, I felt Norman Prosser’s hand in the small of my back gently steering me. ‘Now
let’s buy you a drink, young man. What will it be? A fine single malt or a pint of ale?’ He spoke like he’d already adopted me. ‘And you just remember the name Norman
Prosser and you come to me for anything, you understand? Any problem, however big or small, come to me. Because once you’re in our circle we look after each other.’
    Colin, crowding me on the other side, winked at