Free That Summer He Died by Emlyn Rees Page A

not obscured by the current crowd. To the right, tables and chairs stood stacked on a raised section of floor, next to a couple of giant speakers. Two of the walls had been graffiti-ed, not smartly by someone like Banksy but by a whole host of different people, more drunken scrawl than art.
    James turned away, followed Alan across the room to the bar and squeezed in next to him. A fog of steam hung in the doorway to the kitchen beyond. The contrasting aromas of brewing coffee and frying bacon drifted temptingly through. Behind the counter, a burly man in an apron was rapidly logging down a serial breakfast order on a pad. He finished and, looking up, caught Alan’s eye.
    ‘Good to see you, Al,’ he said.
    ‘You too, Jimmy.’
    Al. . . so someone was on familiar terms with Alan, at least.
    ‘Shame about the circumstances.’
    Alan nodded. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Still, I bet it’ll turn out to be a load of fuss over nothing. . .’
    ‘Let’s hope so, eh?’ Alan said.
    James turned his attention from them to the laminated menu on the counter. The scent of food in the air had acted like a catalyst on his previously inert stomach, sent it into a series of spasms and groans. He scanned the available options, searching for a remedy: full English, continental, burgers, fries, bacon rolls; pretty much what he’d expected.
    ‘Everything’s off except the rolls,’ a woman’s voice said. ‘Sorry, but there’s been kind of a rush.’
    As James turned and his eyes locked with hers, the movie of his life was put on pause. Sight became predominant, as if the nerve endings comprising his other senses had been singed, left immune to stimulation. The sounds of the people around him – his uncle’s grunted conversation and the livelier chatter behind – cut to a vacuum. The smell of food evaporated. His fingers clung numbly to the menu.
    Only her image remained, frozen there like a screen-still.
    Then, as quickly as it had occurred, the moment was over. He watched her blink, long eyelashes momentarily stealing her mahogany-coloured eyes away from him, taking his image with them, swallowing him whole. She brushed a hand across her glistening brow and smiled at him, obviously amused by his staring.
    She was stunning.
    ‘You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,’ she said.
    He shook his head, felt the skin across his cheeks prickle and burn. ‘Sorry,’ he said, glancing down at the menu. He looked up again, avoiding the time-trap of her eyes, and took in her slender figure, the short black hair tucked behind her ears, the two silver studs in her right ear and the silver star in her left. ‘I’m tired. Haven’t quite managed to get my brain into gear.’
    The smile broke out on her face again, more open this time, emphasising her high cheekbones. ‘You’re tired? You should try serving this lot.’
    His stare fixed on her glossed lips, the crenellations of bright teeth between. Jesus. Just looking at her made him feel like a miniature acrobat was using his stomach lining as a trampoline. ‘Tough start to the day?’ he managed to say. ‘I take it things aren’t usually this busy?’
    ‘If only. I’d be able to retire by the end of the summer.’
    ‘You’re too young.’
    She laughed. ‘You’re never too young to quit work.’
    ‘No, I suppose not.’
    She took a good look at him. ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well, if it was a quiet breakfast you were after, you picked a bad day. Are you down here on holiday?’
    ‘Sort of,’ James said, nodding towards Alan. ‘I’m with him.’ She looked at Alan, then back. ‘Al L’Anson?’
    ‘He’s my uncle. I’m staying with him for a while.’ He offered his hand across the counter. ‘I’m James.’
    She raised a tanned arm from her side and pushed her hand towards him before hesitating, lifting her palm to her face and examining it. ‘Cooking oil,’ she commented, wiping it across her apron then shaking his. Her grip was strong and he