9.4

 

When the rain began, Roisin took note of her surroundings. She’d wandered aimlessly, letting her feet take her wherever the pavement led. She had, by sheer habit, walked all the way to the bottom of Darlington Street and into the underpass toward Chapel Ash. She used to live this way, a long time ago and only briefly. She’d had an affair with the bar manager of the Hare and Harper on St. Marks, five minutes from here. Had it not started raining, she would have been tempted to see if it was still there. It wouldn’t have been the same manager, of course. The fallout from the affair and their subsequent divorce, in which she’d been named as co-respondent, had seen to that and was partly responsible for her decision to change her name before returning. Not that she would dare work behind a bar again. A broken bottle to the face can be a great motivator for a career change.

Considering the rain, she turned right onto Chapel Ash proper, and hesitated at the last few yards of tunnel, hoping the downpour would stop, or at least, reduce in intensity. There was chalk graffiti on the subway walls which was being washed off, the colour sliding off the images and dashing playfully past her into the council-planted garden below. Calling it a garden was a stretch. Basically, it was a series on patches of muddy grass and clumps of the leafy green evergreens they plant everywhere because they’re cheap and tolerant of neglect. You see the same ones planted in front of houses designed for first-time buyers and built of plasterboard and concrete. Plants might help sell a house, but nobody said they had to belong to an English cottage garden.

Seeing no lighter patch in the clouds, she made a dash for it, clutching her bag of materials and her sketchbook close to her chest and hunching forward to protect it from the elements. She hadn’t the stamina to run far, but she was happy to see the welcoming fogged-up window of a coffee house next to the stand for buses heading back into town. She pushed open the wide door and was enveloped by the heady aroma of fresh coffee and hot pastries. Her mouth watered and she fumbled her phone out of her pocket. It was mid-afternoon, and she hadn’t eaten since leaving the house.

“What can I get you?” The barista asking was younger than her, and probably also a student. That was the way of university towns – often, all the entry level jobs were taken by students to supplement whatever meagre income they had, or graduates because no-one could employ them in the field they were trained in. Hence her job behind the bar at the Hare and Harper and if she didn’t start selling more work soon, she’d be scouring the recruitment sites, too.

“Er…” She scanned the menu above his head, looking for the cheapest item. Americano was usually within her budget, but it wasn’t listed. “Just a black coffee, please.”

“Sure.” He rang it into the till with a combination of buttons. “Anything else?”

“No thanks.” She gave him a smile, anyway. He was cute, with a look that when she was his age she would have termed ‘preppy,’ but That was probably an insult now. Short hair in a wave, clean shaven, easy smile. Easy on the eyes with a lean, athletic build, what she could see of it.

“Four euro.” He nodded toward the card reader, and she fumbled her bank app open with her thumbprint and tapped the phone against the sensor. It beeped cheerily, echoing the relief she felt that she had the credit available.

“I’ll bring it over.” He smiled back and she was left with the decision of where to sit. The café was almost empty, only a couple of women with a pushchair and a toddler with a milkshake in a booth near the window. She chose a table near the middle of the room and sat facing the door. An old habit easily recognisable by any survivor of violence.

Inspecting her sketchbook, she noticed the rain had reached part of the back cover and soaked through to several of the pages inside. She hadn’t filled them yet, so there was no damage other than a little crinkling, but she spread it out on the table, hoping it would have time to dry while she had her coffee.

“Here you go.” The barista put a cup of black coffee that smelled like his inner angel had picked and roasted the beans personally, and a small plate with a croissant and a chocolate muffin on it.

“I didn’t order those.”

“No, but I’m closing soon and I’d only have to throw them out, so they’re yours if you want them. No problem if you don’t though.” He frowned. “Unless you’re vegan?”