Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [68]
I’d never noticed him before. He was older than the rest of them, at thirty-something, and even seated I could tell he was quite short, about 5´7. He was slim, dressed head to toe in tight denim and his skin was really tanned, which I liked. Whereas everyone else in the pub had long, trademark, Samson-like biker hair, his was closely cropped. Even his leathers stood out from the pack. The vogue at the time was for tassels, studs and sewn-on patches – the more outlandish, the better. His jacket was more Lewis Collins from The Professionals, heavy and practical.
At first glance then, he was unusual, but certainly not eyecatching. So why did he have such an audience?
I pulled up a chair and realized why everyone else was so quiet. The stranger had such a thick accent that I could barely make out every other word. I don’t think I’d ever heard a Scottish accent before and this Glaswegian brogue was almost impenetrable. The man spoke quietly but with passion and the more I struggled to understand him, the closer I leaned in and the more I became hooked on his every word.
At one point I caught his eye and he paused. Then he took another puff on his Old Holborn roll-up and carried on speaking about the wounds he’d picked up during service on the front line.
‘I’ve still got shrapnel in my wrist,’ he said, pulling up his right sleeve for his audience to examine, ‘but the worst of it is in the back of my skull.’ He reached behind to the top of his neck. ‘Just here.’
‘Does it hurt?’ someone asked.
‘What do you think?’ he replied with a wink. ‘I’ve got drugs for it, but the pain never really goes away.’
I really was rapt. It was like watching one of those Sunday-night documentaries Grandpa loved. But this guy wasn’t on television, he was right here in the Hungry Years. Most of my friends had never been outside Sussex. This bloke seemed to have been everywhere. This was a man who’d fought for his country in Aden. I didn’t know where that was, but it sounded important. As for the shrapnel embedded in his body – that just made him the bravest person I’d ever met.
At some point, the group broke up for more games of pool and a bit of dancing, but when we all got on our bikes to go home I found myself seeking the stranger out to see what he was riding. I wasn’t disappointed. He had an old Honda CM250 with drop handlebars – my favourite.
A few days later, I saw the man again. When I walked into the Hungry Years he was already at the bar. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked. I was flattered. After all, I didn’t even know his name. A few minutes later we’d found a table and I was learning even more about his incredible past. He’d risked his life repairing oil rigs and had held high-powered jobs, with hundreds of people under him. Everything he said sounded so glamorous and so, so grown up. The people he’d met, the things he’d done, the danger he’d been in – it was an intoxicating cocktail for a girl desperate for something better. And best of all, not one of his stories was about scaffolding.
To be fair to Simon, I wasn’t exactly setting the world alight with my own conversation. It’s not easy to compete with a war veteran and I felt embarrassed that I’d done so little with my life. I found myself telling him that my mother had died when I was young – I didn’t reveal how – and that I didn’t really know my dad. I even heard myself telling him about the frustrations of living at Tremola Avenue. He laughed and nodded in all the right places, but I was convinced I must be boring him. What on earth did I have to offer a man like him?
He had plenty to offer me though. When I told him about my money worries, he just shrugged.
‘A girl shouldn’t have to worry about money. I’d never let a girl like you worry about money.’
‘But I like