Free Weirdo by Cathi Unsworth Page A

back of it. His short, spiky hair was defiantly dyed black, despite having receded to the middle of his crown.
    They looked about the right age. Sean moved in their direction, passing them to hone in on a spot where he could subtly examine the opposite side of the pub too, noticing the sort of crutch he was all too familiar with, propped up beside the larger man’s bar stool.
    Sean leant against the counter. He hadn’t seen any sign of a landlord, so far, but three men were talking by the side of the pool table that dominated this side of the pub, along with an old-fashioned jukebox, the sort that still played 7-inch singles. Sean turned his head and saw one of them break off his conversation, walk over and lift up the hatch, coming around the bar to greet him.
    “Good evening, sir,” he said. “What can I get you?”
    The man looked to be in his early forties, a round, smiling face with brown eyes, crinkly ginger hair and sideburns, anold beige cardigan with leather buttons over a striped shirt. He spoke with a London accent.
    “Pint of the Foster’s, please,” said Sean. He had already overdone it with the booze tonight but he could scarcely come into a place like this and ask for a mineral water.
    “Right you are,” the landlord’s smile was as crinkly as his hair.
    “That’s an interesting jukebox you’ve got there,” said Sean, taking his wallet out of his jacket pocket. As he spoke, Martha and the Vandellas replaced Bob Marley. “Jimmy Mack”, one of his all-time favourites. “Good music and all,” he added, as the landlord placed the pint down on the mat.
    The man beamed. “Glad you think so. You could say it’s a pub heirloom. Most of the stuff on that jukebox has been there twenty years. You a bit of a connoisseur then?”
    “I was brought up on it,” said Sean, handing over a fiver, antennae prickling. “You’ve not been here twenty years yourself, though?”
    “On and off.” He took the note. “Come here, went away, come back again. Ilford, Israel, Arizona, Ernemouth – maybe I should have that written over the door. You’re from London, ain’t you?”
    “Ladbroke Grove, born and bred,” said Sean, feeling prickles running up and down his legs, feeling eyes on him now.
    The landlord handed Sean his change.
    “Thanks,” said Sean, “Mr …?” he realised he’d forgotten the name Francesca had told him, hadn’t taken notice of the publican’s sign above the door when he came in either. Not like him. He’d been too busy thinking about Captain Swing.
    “Farman,” said the landlord, offering his hand. “Marc Farman.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” Sean shook.
    “And you are?” the landlord asked.
    “Sean Ward,” he said, thinking:
Farman was here twenty years ago, how many of the rest of them were?
His eyes made a quick swoop around the pool table.
    The two guys playing were old punks, the taller one still with a black Mohican that flopped sideways on his head, his shorter friend with a shaved head, a row of sleepers up one ear lobe. A couple of girls watched them, one small and dark, the other, much younger, with a bright pink barnet. To their right, on a different table, another biker type with a beard and granny glasses sat with a girl with long black hair, wearing a leopardskin coat.
    Was Farman part of Corrine’s gang, come back to reclaim his old roost?
He picked up his pint, took a contemplative sip, as the landlord leant across the bar towards the guys who had originally caught his eye.
    “Mr Ward here’s interested in our jukebox,” Farman said. “He’s a man of taste. Mr Ward, these are some regulars of mine, Shaun and Bugs. They can remember when the thing was installed.”
    Shaun, the one with the crutch, offered his hand. It was big, thick and calloused, the hand of a manual labourer. “Had me first drink in here the summer of ’81,” he nodded confirmation. “What bring you round here then?”
    “I work for the government,” Sean improvised a line