‘The Queen’s’ by Noelle Northstar
I wandered down the street book in hand and slipped into the Queen’s Head. Music was playing.
I got lost in the book and read like a maniac. My eyes glaring intently ahead, I jumped up at certain passages with unblinking page turning. Then the book was over, and I was alone in this pub with eyes on me. Four young punk rockers, too late for their times, sat behind me and I moved off.
Then the book was over, and I was alone in this pub with eyes on me
I guess I must have been in there from half eight to ten. Then a band came in. The singer told me he liked the Small Faces. He invited me down to their studios to hear them recording. ‘Cool’, ‘cool’ we kept saying and ‘Yes’, ‘Yes’ everything was energetic. His two bandmates hung back but smiling all the same.
We zoomed out into the night and parted. I charged up the road for last orders at a cocktail lounge, but it was closing. A drunk man was getting hurled out and he swore.
‘Yes. You know’, I said. A hostile stare ensued from the proprietor. We scuttled off, scanning the rainy gutters for our reflections. ‘So long’ we said, and I raced off.
While I had been in the Queen’s I’d seen two white long beards. As I came into the next pub, I spied one of the beards up at the bar. This man was 73 and an artist and had his works with him. He was called Alan. ‘Alan’ I thought. Wow. I have never seen an Alan like this before.
This man was 73 and an artist and had his works with him. He was called Alan
We started talking, I cannot remember what about, except for not liking loud music, discussing Scotland, and remarking the beer was better in here. It was just £2.50 a pint. ‘Oh dear’, I thought as I tucked in. We chatted crazily and the bar staff started laughing.
But the thing about this Alan character is that he was closer to a ghost than a man. There he was with his white beard, just sat at the bar. He was small and only just made it over the counter. We spoke and spoke.
Then we had a ‘Death in the Afternoon’. And as the absinthe floated through my veins a voice came out of red mist.
My legs were dangling over a platform and I had to pull them up and I rolled backwards and landed in my bed. An announcement came on: ‘There will be no service between Finsbury Park and Oxford Circus today’.
As the absinthe floated through my veins a voice came out of red mist
Shaking my head, I stretched a cautious foot out from under my covers and planted it on my wooden floor. A reassuring rush flooded upwards and settled in my chest, slowing my breathing. I lolled up at the ceiling and rolled my tongue round over the roof of my mouth.
Last night’s tastes were still there but fading, soon they would be gone, and the dulling thud of a hangover would grip me. Deciding if I closed my eyes it would all go away, I lay back on my pillow and attempted to yawn.
The effort and muscular contortions proved too much for me and I merely lay their mouth agape, wondering how much money I had spent the previous night. Then the terror took hold and I began to tot up the drinks one by one.
‘What will I do?’ I implored myself to see reason and to hold back on the booze for a while.
The phone rang, it was a friend, he wanted to meet up for a ‘session’. What can you do?
Disposable Cam is a Scouse journalist. He is in the pub.
