Free Moriarty Returns a Letter by Michael Robertson

occasionally on her shift; but she was usually more perceptive. He wasn’t wearing a ring. And there were other signs; he had that look about him. It wasn’t good practice to remind paying customers why they were still hanging about and spending their money in the pub at closing.
    “Home is home, anyway,” she offered. “I know lots of gents would prefer to just have the peace and quiet.”
    Marlowe, the only remaining gent in the pub other than Cheeverton, came up to the bar now to get his last pint. He looked up at the telly screen, which was showing a taxi company pic of the woman who had been driving the Tower Bridge cab.
    “A shame,” said Marlowe. “That’s a lovely bird right there. Too bad she’s fish food now.”
    “She’s wanted by the police,” said the barmaid. “She killed a man, they say. Maybe two.”
    Cheeverton looked up at the telly now, at the shape of the woman, and it reminded him—in a general sort of way—of the shape of the young woman who had married and abandoned him thirty years ago.
    That was the past, of course. He knew such shapes would not come his way again.
    “Still a shame,” he said, out loud.
    As the two men stood waiting for their beers, Marlowe put an advert card—peeled from the inside of a phone box in London—on the counter in front of Cheeverton. In glossy pink, yellow, and purple, it showed a very buxom bare-breasted young woman, advertising her services. There were some specifics.
    “Last time I was in London,” said Marlowe, “I rang this one.”
    Cheeverton looked down at the card. He’d seen such adverts many times before of course; nearly every phone box in London was plastered with them. He had rung some of those numbers and tried some of those services, not infrequently, at an earlier time. But those ladies were expensive. And patronizing them did not seem to recapture what he felt had been lost.
    “What’s she mean by that bit there—‘genuine GFE’?”
    “Genuine girlfriend experience,” said Marlowe.
    “But just exactly what does she do? It says she wants twice as much when that’s included,” said Cheeverton.
    The barmaid had extricated herself from the conversation, so the barman came over and put the last pints down in front of them.
    “It means she fixes your breakfast in the morning, don’t it?” said the barman.
    “No, it doesn’t,” said Marlowe. “It just means she’ll smile when you take her to dinner and she’ll try to make everyone who sees you believe she’s for real—that she’s with you voluntarily.”
    “You mean you have to take her to dinner?” said Cheeverton.
    “Not likely anyone will believe it anyway, with you lot,” said the bar lady, passing by.
    “Even with GFE, you still fix the breakfast yourself, and she’ll just eat some of it if she wants,” said Marlowe.
    “In my book, that’s not much of a girlfriend experience then,” said the barman, in what sounded like bragging, and then he went to put up the chairs from the tables.
    Cheeverton finished his pint and departed the pub. He wasn’t at all sure that he felt any cheerier now than when he had first arrived.
    He walked to the dock, where he had tied up his boat. He got on board, cast off, started the engine, and puttered off into the fog.
    And a short while later, he began to feel better. He was on his boat, he was on the river, back in his element and standard routine, and that helped a bit.
    The tide was on its way out; with the current in his favor, he was making good time. Within a few minutes he was past the Thames tide barrier. There was no wind, and no other river traffic that he could see. The motor on the little boat chugged in a regular rhythm, and the water parted in front of the bow in a regular pattern.
    The self-pity induced by too many beers was beginning to ease. He reminded himself that the sunlight on the estuary in the morning would always be there. And there was still hope that he might someday get a new boat.
    And a pint