Meeting Her

He met her in a small bar on the backstreets of Brooklyn. To be completely accurate, she was actually standing outside the bar when he tried to enter it, but since they shortly moved inside, he only recalls them meeting there. It wasn’t a particularly imposing or interesting exterior, although she herself was both of these things. 1

She seemed to have set herself up as a bouncer – at least she had the bearing of one, though even then he remembers thinking that she gave the impression of having adopted all of her characteristics from somebody else. Later, he would talk about this strange sense of borrowed personality in terms of siphoning – as if she had seen aspects of other people that she’d thought were impressive or intriguing, and taken them for herself. We all get influenced somewhere along the line, but this was more than that – it was like an act of mimicry. So much so that when she deftly stretched out an arm for him to collide with, forcing him to come to a halt, his first thought was: ‘Oh, it’s her.’ 2

This, predictably, translated as an apology – from him, though he knew perfectly well that she’d made him bump into her on purpose. 3

“Sorry,” he blurted out, stepping to one side as if seeking another way round. It was a bit of clumsy manoeuvre, not to mention slightly pointless, since she was blocking the entire doorway. She smirked.4

“No worries,” she said, “I was just about to stop you anyway… got a light?”5

For some reason, the look on her face – pleasantly expectant – caused him to rummage in his jacket pocket, as if searching for a lighter, though he knew he didn’t have one. He didn’t even smoke. But it seemed, in that split second, perfectly possible – even likely – that a lighter would materialise. He almost felt it should happen. But, after a few seconds more spent foraging in vain, he had to accept that it wasn’t going to. 6

“I’m really sorry,” he said, lamely, “Must have dropped it somewhere. I might have left it… somewhere.” He’d been trying to avoid repeating the word “somewhere”, but the pause while he searched for a synonym seemed too awkward to be stretched out. He wondered why he even cared, anyway. It wasn’t like she was going to notice. However, he still felt like he’d let her down by repeating himself – and that meant he’d let her down twice in the short time since they’d met. If only people didn’t judge on first impressions, he thought. 7

She didn’t seem too disappointed, though. If anything, she appeared to be amused. Her smirk was back again. I must be doing something right, he thought. Which made no sense – why should it matter, he didn’t even know her – but for some reason he wanted to impress her. She seemed like the kind of person it was important to impress. 8

“It’s alright, no worries,” she said. “I should probably give up anyway. Bad habit, and all that. Don’t want to be dying, do I? Not yet, at any rate. How about you buy me a drink, instead, and we’ll forget all about it?”9

“Ermm, yeah, sure,” he stammered, “You’ll… have to let me in first, though…” 10

It was intended as a joke, but the smirk disappeared for a second, and was replaced by a twitching of the lips that seemed to contain hints of aggression. Maybe I’m not doing this right after all, he thought. It had been a while. 11

“Sure, sure,” she said. The words seemed amiable enough but he could have sworn she was gritting her teeth. She moved out of the doorway and into the bar, calling to him over her shoulder: “Straight vodka, if you’d do the honours. I’ll find us a seat.”12

Straight vodka… It seemed an odd choice, though he couldn’t have said why. He’d been expecting a different request – wine, maybe? – but if she wanted vodka, who was he to refuse?13

A total stranger, he reminded himself. She doesn’t know you. You could be anyone. In fact she’s being quite rude, expecting you to get her a drink. Maybe you should just walk away. She’s got no right to make you buy her a thing.14

He glanced round, then, realising it was true – who the hell was she, and why had she stopped him like that? The bar was more crowded than he’d expected – mostly melancholic guys drowning their sorrows, and a few couples scattered around. He could imagine why some cocky young kid might bring his new girl here – it’d make him seem trendy, like he came to places like this all the time. Deep down, he’d probably be terrified, but he’d put on a front, slide his arm round the girl’s shoulders like he owned her, take in the competition through a series of furious, challenging glances. He knew that mindset – he’d been through all that himself. Not for a while, but somehow being here – with her – brought all those feelings back. And there she was, looking straight at him, like she had some sort of radar pointed towards him. 15

Pretty unnerving, he thought. You’re not sure about her, are you? She’s a bit… weird. 16

Yet at the same time, she wasn’t weird at all. He felt like he’d known her… well, if not all his life, then for a substantial part of it. She was familiar. 17

And probably thirsty now, he reminded himself, Get the girl a drink, like she told you to. 18

His attempted saunter up to the bar became more of an uncertain shuffling. God, what was wrong with him today? It wasn’t like him to get so flustered over a woman. And she wasn’t exactly a stunner, was she? Not likely to win any beauty pageants with that face. 19

“What can I get you?” the barman asked. He was leaning slightly too far across the counter, which was presumably meant to be friendly and welcoming, but which was actually a bit off-putting. He was burly, this barman – that was the only way to describe it. Looked like the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to get in a fight with. Not that that was his intention, of course. He’d only come here for a drink, which had now turned into two, thanks to her in the corner. 20

“I’ll have a…” For a second he forgot what she’d asked him to get her. “A straight vodka. And a bottle of Bud.” 21

For some reason this set off a variety of facial tics in the barman, which he got a feeling were faked, for the guy’s own amusement. Some people liked doing stuff like that – they got a kick out of making others feel uncomfortable, he supposed.22

“Straight vodka, is it?” the barman said. “Classy! I’m guessing that’s for your lady friend over there?”23

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he replied, non-committal. Damn it, he could feel his left hand shaking now, like something vibrating in his pocket. He took it out and attempted to look nonchalant as he grasped the counter with it, unconsciously mirroring the pose the barman had adopted, leaning ominously forwards across the wooden countertop. It wouldn’t stop trembling. Thank god the barman was too busy fixing their drinks to notice. It was downright embarrassing. He felt like a school-kid, too self-conscious to talk to a girl he liked. Weird, though – he’d never suffered from this kind of crippling nerves when he’d actually been at school. He’d been pretty lucky with the ladies, all told. So why had this one got him all shook up? 24

The barman finished up pouring the vodka and set it proudly on the counter in front of him, as if expecting applause. 25

“Hey, best of luck, buddy,” he grinned, nodding in the vague direction of where he knew she was sitting. “Ha, that reminds me… Nearly forgot yours, didn’t I?” He reached down, opened the fridge on his left, and produced a bottle of Budweiser – not quite ice cold, but getting there. He popped it open and placed it next to the vodka, then leaned back over the counter. The two of them were now so close, their faces were almost touching, and it must have looked to any onlookers like they were squaring up across the bar – two warring cowboys in a Wild West saloon.26

“Seriously, good luck to you,” the barman said, and there was something about the way they were standing that made his words seem far more sombre than he’d probably intended. “It’s not the first time… well, never mind. You’ll find out soon enough, won’t you? I reckon you will!” 27

He sprang back, like a dog on a rope, and gestured to the two drinks. 28

“All yours, my friend. For a price, of course.” 29

It took a few seconds for it to register that the barman wasn’t referring to some dark sacrifice but to the simple act of purchasing his drinks. He retrieved a 10 dollar note from his wallet and pushed it across the counter. 30

“Keep the change,” he muttered, picking up the glass and bottle. It was a pretty big tip, much bigger than the guy deserved – and who tips the barman in a joint like this? – but he’d wasted enough time already, he figured. She’d be getting bored. Restless. She might be regretting the whole venture, and plotting how to slip away from him without being noticed. 31

But no, there she was, still sat in the same place, her elbows propped up on the table, chin resting on her hands. He’d seen identical postures adopted by women in bars all over: women who were alone, and therefore vulnerable. She was looking up as he came over, attentive. Alert. 32

“You took your time,” she said, as he sat down. 33

“Did I?” he asked. He didn’t think he’d taken that long. Not really. 34

He passed over her vodka, which she immediately raised to her mouth and sipped from before answering.35

“Well, sure, you took your own sweet time. No hurrying there, was there? God, anything could have happened to me while you were gone! Just think.” She placed her glass back down on the table, wiped her mouth with her sleeve and smiled. “I don’t mind, of course. Doesn’t matter to me. Not one bit. You have every right to take things slow. Just as long as you get there in the end, if you catch my drift…”36

She laughed – a surprisingly robust sound. It echoed off the wall behind him and ricocheted back towards them both. He guessed she’d been playing with him, just then, but he hadn’t really been listening. He’d been too busy trying to take her in – to get a grip on what she looked like, and why she seemed so familiar. She had a pretty distinctive face, but it only remained clear for a couple of seconds at a time, tops. It was like there was a screen between them and the dust stuck to it faster than it stuck to anything else, so the view kept getting obscured. He had the strangest urge to reach forwards and wipe her face clean, which he was just about managing to suppress because it made no sense. There was nothing dirty about her – she was pristine, like cut glass. 37

“Sorry,” he mumbled, helplessly, prompting another raucous laugh. 38

“You apologise too much,” she told him, “The world’s not your fault. You don’t have to blame yourself for it.”39

“Is that right?” he said. Right little philosopher, this one. It made him feel more sure of himself, thinking of her like that. He could put her in her place, at least inside his head. She thought she knew what he was like, clearly. He’d always been wary of people who treated him like their best buddy when they’d only just met. It was supposed to make them both feel comfortable, he supposed, but if so it usually backfired. You needed charisma to pull off a stunt like that. She was giving it a good go, though - he’d grant her that. 40

“That’s right,” she nodded, “Nobody’s fault but Him upstairs, and there’s sweet old nothing we can do about it.”41

Her accent – the whole way she talked, in fact – was an oddity, too. Some of her words, the phrases she was coming out with… They seemed pre-programmed, almost. Unnatural. Not things someone like her should be saying.42

Still not sure, are you? He thought. But she’s interesting. If you walked away now, you’d be throwing away your chance at something pretty exciting, that’s for sure. God knows your life’s getting a bit stale. Could do with spicing up. She looks like she could be pretty spicy, right?43

“So whereabouts are you from, then?” he asked her.44

She smiled.45

“Easy, big boy. You don’t even know my name yet. And there I was thinking you took things slow, with your little performance at the bar. Anyway, can’t you tell? This accent’s not exactly subdued, is it? I’ll give you three guesses, how’s about that?”46

As a matter of fact, her accent was pretty difficult to pin down. She sounded like she might be from the South, but at the same time there were layers on top of that, and he actually got the impression she didn’t herald from the US at all – or maybe that was a result of her drink selection. Had she picked vodka deliberately, to confuse him? If so, it seemed to be working. There were tinges of Russian in there, maybe, but as for where she came from originally…47

“I honestly don’t have a clue,” he admitted. 48

“Shame on you!” she exclaimed, jokily. She added a couple of exaggerated ‘tutting’ noises, for effect. “Pretty poor show. Just for that, I don’t think I’ll tell you.” She smirked, as if she’d just won a race – and without even having to break a sweat, while he collapsed in a heap on the floor and panted his lungs out. 49

“Anyway,” she continued, “I could tell you were a New Yorker before you even opened your mouth. I know a New Yorker when I see one, every time.” 50

“Nice skill to have,” he commented, only half meaning to be ironic. 51

“Ouch, what a sharp wit!” she retorted, smiling cheekily again. “I wouldn’t wave that around, you might hurt somebody… Then again, someone might want to get hurt, I suppose…”52

She left the words to hang in the air, like a mafioso dangling a threat, subtly, in his face. He hadn’t just imagined it – she had definitely intended the erotic undercurrent he’d heard in those last few sentences. 53

Maybe you are getting somewhere, after all, he told himself. 54

“I’m from Massachusetts, actually,” he said. 55

“Sure you are. You keep telling yourself that, darling. No, you’re no Massa man – believe me, I know. I’ve known a few Massa men in my time, and you… No, wait for it…” She’d noticed the look on his face. “Men from Massachusetts are all dead-enders. You go with one of them, you’re going nowhere. I’m telling you. Give me a sturdy old New Yorker any day.”56

She seemed to be getting carried away, he noticed. Her hand was hovering over her top, fiddling with the lowest fastened button – she’d undone the top three or four, exposing an incongruously slender neck and the top of her cleavage. 57

Not bad, he thought. He found he had to force his eyes away from that hand, and his mind took even longer to stop imagining what he was sure she intended him to envisage. Not bad at all.58

“So, do you come here often?” she asked. Her hand was still playing around with that button, and his willpower had to work overtime to keep his eyes turned decorously away from it. The question struck him as the kind of thing that men usually asked women, not the other way round, but he welcomed it – as a distraction from his wandering thoughts. 59

“First time, actually,” he replied. 60

“I thought as much. Are you planning to actually drink any of that? Seems a shame to let it go to waste, especially when you tipped so generously…”61

She didn’t miss much, did she? He’d been fairly sure she hadn’t overheard his conversation with the barman. She must have great hearing – he certainly couldn’t hear what was going on at the bar from where they were sitting. Somewhat guiltily, he lifted the bottle to his lips and swallowed. Not the best Bud he’d ever tasted. Not even close. But his throat was feeling a little dry, so he kept drinking for a couple of seconds, and then lowered the bottle back onto the table between them. As if this was a signal they’d previously decided on, she immediately picked up her glass of vodka and drank deeply from it. Her hand had, through necessity, moved away from her button, meaning he was able to look at her again without the danger of blushing. He was sure her hair hadn’t looked like that before – he’d got the distinct impression it was short, blonde and spiky. Now it was clear he’d been mistaken – her hair was very obviously sleek, lengthy and brown. He was still having trouble working out what her face looked like. Even though he was looking directly at her, it was as though she kept dodging away from him just as his eyes were beginning to focus, so all he got was a blurred after-image, indistinct and fuzzy. 62

“I’d be careful with that stuff,” he said, and instantly regretted it. He sounded like her father, for god’s sake. “It packs a punch.”63

“I can handle it,” she replied. He didn’t see her lips moving but he was sure she was trying not to laugh. “In Russia we knock this stuff back at a rate of knots, and it’s never had any side-effects…”64

She said side-effects as if the very idea was laughable to her. Perhaps she thought it made her seem fearless, to laugh at potential danger. Instead, he was beginning to think she was just amused by everything she came across – like the world was one big joke. He supposed it was a healthier attitude to have than thinking everyone was out to get you, like some people did. And wasn’t laughing supposed to be good for you? He swore he’d heard that, once. It wasn’t exactly a tactic made to inspire a relaxed atmosphere though. He kept wondering if she wasn’t just simply laughing at him, rather than the things she was making out she found amusing. 65

“You’re Russian, then?”66

“What?”67

“You’re Russian, right? I’m not much of a detective, but you…”68

“Do I look Russian to you?”69

She still had the same expression on her face, as if she was about to burst out laughing at any moment. 70

“Well no, not really…” Not that I can see your face. “But you said…”71

“Did I switch to Russian? I’d be surprised, I don’t speak a word!”72

“No, you were still speaking English, but you said…”73

“What? What did I say?”74

She suddenly leaned forward, just like the barman had done. She came close to colliding with his nose, her chin jutting out. She looked defiant, as if she was daring him to quote her words back to her.75

“You said something like… ‘In Russia, we…’ So I figured you must be Russian, otherwise you wouldn’t have said…”76

“I never said that.” She said it breezily, as if it didn’t really matter either way, but beneath that surface calm he could sense a steely determination to be right. He’d often heard that same tone in his last ex’s voice, when she wanted to win an argument.77

“But you did. You said…”78

“I said they. Not we. Why would I say ‘we’, when I’m not Russian? And I’ve never been there either, before you suggest that. You’re so silly! Imagine thinking I was Russian! You’re looking at a pure-bred, honest-to-goodness American woman! God, I’ve heard a lot of crazy-talk in my time, but Russian? Give me a break!”79

She leaned back, as if the matter was closed, and picked up her vodka glass once more. But then she saw him open his mouth again, and cut him off by saying, “You’re funny though, I’ll give you that. You’re a riot! We’ve had some good times, haven’t we?”80

What? They’d only just met! Hadn’t they? They’d met right here, in this bar… So what was she talking about? He thought it was probably safest to nod, however. He didn’t want to start another argument. Especially not when her hand had drifted back down to her top button, and looked like it was coming close to undoing it. 81

Just keep quiet, he told himself, Just keep quiet and go along with it. She’s probably just a bit confused, that’s all. And it’s easy to take advantage when they get a bit tipsy, right? You should know. You’re an old hand at that kind of thing. And old hands make light work, right? No, wait, that’s not right…82

“Yeah, you’re fun to be around, I’ll say that for you,” she was saying, “In fact…”83

She took a sip from her vodka, and placed it back on the table. Her other hand remained on her button. He couldn’t take his eye off that hand, wandering over that little plastic disc, pushing up against the corners, tugging it left and right like a dog on a leash. She knew what she was doing, alright. And he didn’t mind one bit. 84

“In fact, your sense of humour…”85

She leaned forward. He lowered his head to meet hers. And now he could see her face, crystal-clear in front of his. She was stunning – she was all his fantasy women, all those girls he’d ever got off dreaming about, rolled into one. She was… she was rolling her tongue across her lips, looking right into his eyes. This was it. She wanted him – and damned if he didn’t want her! He opened his mouth, but quick as a flash her finger leapt from the button of her top to his lips, pressing up against them.86

“In fact,” she said again, “Your sense of humour…” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. He could feel them in his ears, like the crackling of flames when they first catch alight. “Your sense of humour is the only reason you’re still alive.”87

Suddenly, that finger on his lips felt like it was pushing down, like it wasn’t one finger but four, a whole hand, clamped over his mouth. It felt like she was squeezing something down his throat, something that was too big to fit down there, which would get stuck, and block off all his breath. 88

“You see,” she continued, after a pause, “You’d probably be dead by now, if you weren’t so funny.” She didn’t seem to have noticed that he looked close to death anyway, that the colour had drained from his face, as if her finger was pulling it out, bit by bit. “I come here a lot, you see. I come here all the time.” He could hear the slur in her words – perhaps she was more drunk than he’d thought. “Every week, in fact. It’s gotten so the barman knows me, knows exactly what I’ll be ordering, and where I’ll be sitting – here, as a matter of fact. Right here, where we’re sat now. And you can bet all the regulars know me. They all know who I am – and they all know to avoid me.”89

She was smiling as she said it, but the inane grin didn’t reach her eyes. They looked cold. She was beautiful, alright – beautiful as ice. 90

“But guys like you, they don’t know what’s hit them. When they see me, they think they’ve struck gold. You can’t deny it. I know what you thought when you saw me, no use trying to hide it – nice piece of ass. Must be my lucky day. Hey, it’s alright, I get it all the time. It’s what they’re all thinking, just some of them are better at covering it up than others. You know, men are so… predictable. They’re all the same. So… boring.”91

He was having real trouble breathing by this point. She was surprisingly strong, deceptively so – for such a delicate-looking woman, she had a damn tight grip on his mouth, with that one slender finger of hers. And somehow he couldn’t get his hands to move, to reach up and tear her away from his lips, to push her back. She had him frozen, and she wasn’t going to let go. 92

“Now don’t get me wrong, I love a good flirt just as much as the next girl. It’s fun, seeing how you’ll react. Yeah, it’s fun, don’t get me wrong. For a while. But all that macho posturing, all that bravado, that cock-sure confidence? It gets mighty boring, let me tell you. And let me tell you something else, while we’re here, and not going anywhere – I get bored easily. Easier than most, I’d say. So I flirt for a while, just to see if they’re any different this time. I give them a sporting chance, you might say. If they don’t impress me… well… you could say I kill them.”93

She must have felt him shudder. He couldn’t help it. She… she was a murderer. She lured men in, got them to buy her a drink, and then killed them. She felt him shudder beneath her finger, and she laughed.94

“I don’t think it’s killing though, not really. It’s not murder, if that’s what you’re thinking. No, not murder. I suppose you could say it’s just… putting them out of their misery. Like putting down a pet that’s going to die sooner or later anyway. That’s how I see it. Cos it must be so… miserable. Being a man, it must get so depressing. Always having to be so tough and manly, always trying to impress the girls with your swagger and your toughness. So I’m doing you guys a favour, taking you away from all that. Take it from me, that stuff doesn’t impress anyone. You think girls like me don’t see through you? And you’re all so weak, so… so nothing-y, underneath it all. You’re all a bunch of snivelling, pathetic… losers, underneath! You know what? Guys like that deserve to die! Don’t you think so? Don’t you agree?”95

His vision was starting to blur. He couldn’t see her face anymore, just her hair. One minute it was short, spiky, abrasive, and yellow as straw. And the next it was long, slender, smooth and brown, falling down over her shoulders and swinging around as she spoke, punctuating her words with its fluid motion. He was losing his grip on her, but her hold on him was just as tight, as fierce, as ever. 96

“But you…” She cocked her head to one side, as if examining him, as if deciding whether she wanted to buy him. “You’re different. You didn’t try and impress me with all that silly stuff. All that boring stuff. That acting. You’re something else. That’s why I haven’t killed you… yet. You see, I could have killed you anytime. But I gave you a chance, and you’ve amused me, you’ve kept me entertained… so far. But I could still do it, if you don’t persuade me otherwise. I need you to give me a reason to keep you alive, you see. Otherwise… you’ll be just like all the others. Close, but no cigar. A dead-ender.”97

The echo of her description of ‘Massa men’ was deliberate – she was telling him not to be like them, not to bore her. He wondered how many guys she’d killed before him. Because, now, he’d resigned himself to the idea that he would be next in line – her latest victim. The barmen, and his patrons, knew all about her - and that meant they were complicit in her killings. Besides, it was all very well her saying he’d amused her enough so far to stay alive, but that finger was still pressed against his parched lips, cutting off his air supply. He was going to die anyway. 98

But just as he’d begun to prepare himself for the inevitable, the vision of his own suffocation he’d conjured in his mind was ripped apart. She sank back into her seat, tugging her finger with her. Air came rushing back down his throat, tearing at the sides in its desperate rush to get to his lungs. He felt his head sinking down towards the wooden table, narrowly missing his Budweiser bottle. Her hands snaked out to support his shoulders as the sudden intake of air creased his body into a fit of painful coughs, each one quaking along his bones.99

“God, I’m sorry!” he heard her say, her words seemingly coming to him across some great gulf between them, “Whoa, I wasn’t even pressing that hard! Imagine that, little old me, doing that much damage.”100

He looked up at her, weakly. The coughs were subsiding, little more now than a dry throat’s attempts to clear itself. Her hands dropped from him, and she even managed to look sort of sheepish, before she started laughing. 101

“Oh I get it! God, you really are hilarious! You know that, don’t you? What a riot! Damn it, I’m glad I decided to keep you, it was touch and go back there for a while – but this! I talk about killing a bunch of guys, and you pull this on me! You sure know how to tickle a girl, that’s for sure! You sure do! That’s for sure! Sure as hell you do, sure as sure can be…”102

She’s drunk, he reminded himself. She drank too much, and this is all just drunken rambling. All that crap about killing people, it wasn’t true. No way. She hasn’t killed anyone, she’s just drunk! And what’s your excuse? What was all that about, all that thinking you were suffocating, all that choking? She barely touched you! Get a grip, for god’s sake!103

He felt ashamed, now. He’d made a total fool of himself, in this bar full of people. Sure, at the time it had all seemed real, but looking back he hadn’t actually been in any danger, had he? He’d just got carried away, swept up in the moment. She was an entertaining drunk, he’d give her that. But that was all she was. Not a cold-blooded killer. Not a murderess. Just a girl who drank too much and let it go to her head. 104

“Well, it’s been great,” he said. He looked straight at her as he said it, and – god he was an idiot – there was nothing all that great about her. She wasn’t stunning after all. She was just a silly, drunken, laughing woman. With dark blonde, shoulder-length hair. “Really, it has. But I’d better be off now, I’ve got…”105

He used the gap while he struggled for an excuse to pull himself to his feet. She’d stopped laughing. Now, she was just looking at him. Just looking, staring at him, as if she’d expected something else. As if she was waiting to see what would happen next, now that events hadn’t turned out the way she’d envisaged. 106

“I have killed people, you know,” she said. 107

“I’m sure you have, but I’ve really got to go, I’ve stayed here longer than I thought, I mean look at the time, time flies when you’re having…”108

“We have had fun?”109

“Sure… You know, you said I was funny, but really you’re…”110

“Did I?”111

“What?”112

“Did I say you were funny?” She looked confused – genuinely puzzled. “What else did I say? Cos, not being rude or anything but you’re not… not particularly funny, I mean yeah we’ve had a laugh but…”113

“Maybe I misheard you.” He was attempting to make his exit as subtle as possible. Clearly this girl was a bit unstable. It looked to him like she suffered from some form of multiple personality disorder. 114

“I could still kill you,” she said. It sounded sort of plaintive, like she was willing him to believe her. “I’ve got a knife. And I’m not sure you’ve really done enough, you know? Not sure you’ve really convinced me you should live…”115

“Look.” He hadn’t been meaning to do this, he’d fully intended to just get out of there, without hurting her feelings too much. She probably didn’t mean any harm. But she was really starting to get on his nerves. “I think you should stop this now, don’t you? It was fun to start with, but it’s all a bit silly, isn’t it? Maybe you should stay off the vodka, right?”116

He meant the last question as a joke, to soften the blow, but she didn’t seem to find it funny. She was pulling herself to her feet too - slightly unsteady, but upright.117

“I don’t need your advice,” she said. She was gripping the edge of the table for support, but her words were firm. “OK? I don’t need you to tell me what to do. I’m not some little girl, alright? And I had you going there, didn’t I? You can try and hide it, but I know I convinced you. And you know I did. You really thought it was all true. So don’t try and pull that bravado stuff on me, OK? OK? You got that? Cos I don’t think you’re in any position to act all tough and macho now, alright? Just… Just shove it! Just get away from me! I mean it! I’m not joking! I’m not fooling around, you’d better get out right now or I’ll…”118

Why hadn’t he noticed the crazy gleam in her eyes before? All this time they’d been sitting opposite each other and he hadn’t seen how mad she looked. She wasn’t just drunk. Maybe she wasn’t even drunk at all, actually – she hadn’t had that much of the vodka, not as much as he’d thought at the time. But she was clearly insane. Delusional, and unstable, and…119

He didn’t need any more prompting. He got out of there. 120

He only turned round once. The bartender, smiling inanely, leaned forward as he passed and said, “Hey, buddy, don’t say I didn’t try and warn you…”121

He turned, then. She’d slumped back into her seat, and her head had fallen onto the table in front of her. She’d knocked into her glass on the way down, and the vodka was flowing freely across the wood, and over her dirty blonde hair, which was all he could see of her head. His abandoned bottle of Bud stood there, like a sentinel - as if it was guarding her. Like a bouncer, blocking the door.122