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March 2009
The Crows Nest was known for its fine selection of real ales and socially varied clientele. Nicks started to drink there after his wife died. Ovarian cancer. She was 47.
Despite their brave fight, Mary passed away, next to him, one morning 14 months after he’d retired and 13 months after they’d learnt the awful truth.
He’d been awake next to her; all that night she lay in a morphine ‘sleep’, her breathing heavy and laboured, clinging to life until she felt it safe to leave him.
He’d called the District Nurse who injected her with something to clear her lungs. They turned her on her side and he’d continued his vigil. Eventually, exhausted and unaware, he’d fallen asleep.
At 5.45 am he awoke suddenly in fright. She was breathing normally and was peaceful. He saw a hint of a smile on her face. He’d tried to stay awake but drifted off again. He woke at 6.30. She’d left him, softly like the song.
It was what she wanted. She knew he’d have begged her to stay: one more day, one more hour. Her heart would have broken.
During the day he’d pretend she was at work and would be home as usual but, as 5 pm approached, the fantasy would crumble. For that reason every day at 4.30 pm he could be found at the Crows Nest. And thus they found him.
It was a chilly dark evening and Nicks sat at a heavy wooden slatted table in the car park. He was alone and that’s how he preferred it. People would come out for a smoke, remark how cold it was and stand chatting to each other. When finished, they’d disappear rapidly back into the warm interior of the snug, lounge or public bar according to their social loyalties. Others would come out alone and there’d be an exchange of small talk before they too fled to warmer climes. Nicks did his best to be pleasant.
With his fourth pint of the night, he sat down on the bench seat, took a mouthful of ale and lit a cigarette when the man approached him. He was wearing black trousers, shiny shoes and an expensive long black overcoat. Around his neck, he wore a patterned scarf which Nicks thought was probably expensive too. His hair was thinning but brushed forward in an effort to disguise the fact. His broad and conspicuous nose sat above thin lips which, when he spoke or smiled, displayed teeth with a hint of prominence. It wasn’t an unpleasant face but could never be described as handsome. Nicks decided he was most probably a solicitor and pondered whether or not the man recognized him from his days of evidence giving in the courts. He was, he concluded, definitely looking for him, or he was the world’s loneliest man.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” he said placing his pint on the table and sitting down, not waiting for a reply. “It’s very chilly, isn’t it?”
“Not if you’re wearing the right clothes.” Nicks was dressed in combat trousers, layers topped with a hoodie and a windproof softshell jacket.
“Yes, quite,” the man nodded in agreement. “I should really have brought a hat.”
He’d a refined voice with the plummy overtones of English public school education. Nicks promoted him to a Barrister.
“It’s Nicks, isn’t it.” It was more statement than question.
He was wary. “Sorry, do I know you?”
“No, Nicks, you don’t, but I know you or should I say I know of you.”
The man ignored the fact he’d received neither confirmation nor denial. He didn’t need it. He sipped his beer. Nicks was intrigued but before he could say anything the man continued in measured tones:
“I’ve been receiving very good reports about you for a long, long time now Nicks and I’m here to offer you employment. But,” he held up his left hand, two fingers extended as if giving a blessing, “before you say anything I must tell you it’s a very challenging, exciting opportunity requiring the ability to work as a team whilst using one’s initiative in situations that could be, shall we say, quite fluid. It needs loyalty, courage, determination and a belief in justice and what’s right. Things I believe you possess in abundance. If you accept, you’ll be working in this country and perhaps occasionally on the continent.”
It was almost as if he’d lifted it directly from a standard job description the Police were fond of using. The man sipped his beer again.
Nicks quietly said: “But I’m not looking for a job.”
“No, I know you’re not,” the man replied matter of factly before adding: “And may I just say I’m very sorry about Mary, we all are, but we’re looking for you, Nicks. Or should I say we’re looking for who you were before you decided to try and drink yourself to death.” He paused momentarily. “It takes a lot longer than you’d think,” he said as if, for a split second, he was somewhere else. “You know she wouldn’t approve of what you’re doing, don’t you?”
Nicks stared at his pint then took a mouthful, swallowed slowly and thoughtfully and said: “I know.”
“I don’t want an answer now but if you’re interested just phone this.” He proffered a plain business card divulging only a telephone number. “Just leave your name and mobile details and we’ll text you with information in respect of where you and I can meet again to discuss this further.” He took a sip of his drink and declared: “Excellent beer.”
Nicks took the card: “Is this a Government job?”
“Hmmm. The best I can tell you now, Nicks, is that it’s not officially a Government job. I’ll explain should you wish to meet again.” Another sip then he rose from the table. “It would be nice if you didn’t mention this to anyone.”
“No problem,” Nicks replied with a shrug.
“By the way, my name is Don.”
Leaving his beer on the table, he turned and walked away. Nicks looked at the business card and emptied his glass. When he looked up Don had already disappeared. He stared at the unfinished beer on the table. Picking it up, he drank it in several gulps then went inside for yet another.
Four days later he phoned the number on the card.