Last Orders

BERMONDSEY It aint like your regular sort of day. Bernie pulls me a pint and puts it in front of me. He looks at me, puzzled, with his loose, doggy face but he can tell I don't want no chit-chat. That's why I'm here, five minutes after opening, for a little silent pow-wow with a pint glass. He can see the black tie, though it's four days since the funeral. I hand him a fiver and he takes it to the till and brings back my change. He puts the coins, extra gently, eyeing me, on the bar beside my pint. 'Won't be the same, will it?' he says, shaking his head and looking a little way along the bar, like at unoccupied space. 'Won't be the same.' I say, 'You aint seen the last of him yet.' He says, 'You what?' I sip the froth off my beer. 'I said you aint seen the last of him yet.' He frowns, scratching his cheek, looking at me. 'Course, Ray,' he says and moves off down the bar. I never meant to make no joke of it. I suck an inch off my pint and light up a snout. There's maybe three or four other early-birds apart from me, and the place don't look its best. Chilly, a whiff of disinfectant, too much empty space. There's a shaft of sunlight coming through the window, full of specks. Makes you think of a church. I sit there, watching the old clock, up behind the bar. Thos. Slattery, Clockmaker, Southwark. The bottles racked up like organ pipes. Lenny's next to arrive. He's not wearing a black tie, he's not wearing a tie at all. He takes a quick shufty at what I'm wearing and we both feel we gauged it wrong. 'Let me, Lenny,' I say. 'Pint?' He says, 'This is a turn-up.' Bernie comes over. He says, 'New timetable, is it?' 'Morning,' Lenny says. 'Pint for Lenny,' I say. 'Retired now, have we, Lenny?' Bernie says. 'Past the age for it, aint I, Bern? I aint like Raysy here, man of leisure. Fruit and veg trade needs me.' 'But not today, eh?' Bernie says. Bernie draws the pint and moves off to the till. 'You haven't told him?' Lenny says, looking at Bernie. 'No,' I say, looking at my beer, then at Lenny. Lenny lifts his eyebrows. His face looks raw and flushed. It always does, like it's going to come out in a bruise. He tugs at his collar where his tie isn't. 'It's a turn-up,' he says. 'And Amy aint coming? I mean, she aint changed her mind?' 'No,' I say. 'Down to us, I reckon. The inner circle.' 'Her own husband,' he says. He takes hold of his pint but he's slow to start drinking, as if there's different rules today even for drinking a pint of beer. 'We going to Vic's?' he says. 'No, Vic's coming here,' I say. He nods, lifts his glass, then checks it, sudden, half-way to his mouth. His eyebrows go even higher. I say, 'Vic's coming here. With Jack. Drink up, Lenny.' Vic arrives about five minutes later. He's wearing a black tie but you'd expect that, seeing as he's an undertaker, seeing as he's just come from his premises. But he's not wearing his full rig. He's wearing a fawn raincoat, with a flat cap poking out of one of the pockets, as if he's aimed to pitch it right: he's just one of us, it aint official business, it's different. 'Morning.' he says. I've been wondering what he'll have with him. So's Lenny, I dare say. Like I've had this picture of Vic opening the pub door and marching in, all solemn, with a little oak casket with brass fittings. But all he's carrying, under one arm, is a plain brown cardboard box, about a foot high and six inches square. He looks like a man who's been down the shops and bought a set of bathroom tiles. He parks himself on the stool next to Lenny, putting the box on the bar, unbuttoning his raincoat. 'Fresh out,' he says. 'Is that it then?' Lenny says, looking. 'Is that him?' 'Yes,' Vic says. 'What are we drinking?' 'What's insiSwift, Graham is the author of 'Last Orders' with ISBN 9780517304815 and ISBN 0517304813.