It was only as they entered the road where the Bay Horse lay that Robin, for the first time in her life, wondered why it was called Silver Street. Thoughts of masonic centrepieces, mauls and set squares filled her thoughts again as they joined the throng inside the pub where she’d had her first legal drink and, later, celebrated her A-level results, little realising how short her university career would be, and why. The pub had three sections, two either side of the main door and a room at the back, and, as was predictable on Christmas Eve, it was packed. When Murphy bellowed that he’d get the first round in, Robin asked for whisky. The last three times she’d drunk it had been with Strike. On all three occasions she’d needed the sharp, immediate relief of spirits, firstly, because he’d just given her a nosebleed and two black eyes, secondly, because she’d made what she’d feared would be a catastrophic mistake in a case, and lastly, because she’d been interviewed under caution.
The Scotch had its usual welcome effect as she gulped it down, burning her throat, starting to relax the hard, tight knot in her chest. It was easier, now, to reach out and to clasp Murphy’s hand, and he returned the pressure, then bent to kiss her on the mouth, and they smiled at each other, and Robin thought,
‘Robin,’ bellowed Martin in Robin’s ear, ‘this is Carmen.’
Robin turned to see a woman taller than herself, with the sides of her head shaved and the rest of her hair dyed a vibrant tomato red and tied back in a pony tail. She was wearing a leather jacket over a clinging vest dress, and the skin above her breasts was a solid mass of tattoos: the wreck of a galleon at sunset, with mermaids on rocks. Her pregnant belly seemed not, quite, to be part of her, the rest was so skinny.
‘Hi,’ shouted Robin, as Slade began to sing ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ over the speakers. ‘Lovely to meet you.’
‘And you,’ Carmen shouted back.
‘No, I’ll get this round,’ Robin said loudly to Jonathan, when she saw him fumbling for his wallet. ‘Carmen, what would you like?’
She expected the woman, seven months pregnant as she was, to say fruit juice, but Carmen said, ‘Double vodka on the rocks, please.’ Robin released Murphy’s hand to go to the bar.
Yet another pregnant woman was standing in line at the bar; she was blonde, with a bob, and her face was somehow puffy yet drawn, just like Jenny’s, back at the house. The woman glanced at Robin as the latter drew alongside her, and only then, with a shock of surprise, did Robin recognise Sarah Shadlock, her ex-husband’s old university friend, mistress and, now, second wife.
‘Hi, Sarah,’ said Robin automatically.
Sarah mumbled, ‘Hi’, and moved into the empty space left by a man who’d moved away from the bar, clutching four pints in his huge farmer’s hands.
‘Lemme help,’ said Murphy in Robin’s ear, and when she turned, smiling, he kissed her on the mouth again. She might have thought he was as tipsy as the men singing along with Slade in the corner, he looked so happy that their row was over, and she saw Sarah glance back at them, before placing her drinks order.
In the warm, fuzzy glow engendered by Robin’s second double whisky, she thought she might seek a reconciliation with Linda early the next day, before everyone else was up. Carmen and Martin were bellowing into each other’s ears, and it was hard to tell whether they were exchanging endearments or insults, but they’d probably work it all out in the end, Robin thought, before asking Stephen, whose round it was, for a third whisky. He and Murphy were getting on particularly well; laughing at another joke Robin hadn’t heard, but wasn’t this what Christmas was supposed to be about? She felt a blanket goodwill towards everyone right now, and what was needed was more whisky, to keep this going, and when Stephen thrust her third double Scotch into her hand, she said, ‘I love you, Button,’ and he laughed at her, and said, ‘You’re pissed, Bobbin,’ which was his old childhood nickname for her, as Button was hers for him.