CHLOE

Another dull, grey morning. Another bus rumbling past. Another argument between the couple in the flat downstairs, screaming obscenities at each other that are barely muffled by the creaky floorboards and the paper-thin walls. Another trashy chat show on the television, another cup of tea forgotten, another cold shower because the boiler is temperamental and my landlord refuses to come out and fix it.

Another day in my life.

I stare blankly out of the kitchen window of my flat as I finish the last of my cereal. From here, I can just see the corner of the high street in the distance, between the wall of my building and the adjacent row of shops barely a stone's throw away. Most of my area of London is built like this: row upon row of cheap accommodation; stacking people on top of each other to combat the increasing housing problem, in unattractive brick buildings with no character, no life and no soul. Flats above shops, owned by the council and funded by the taxpayer, inhabited by single parents struggling to make ends meet or old people who have nothing to show for their seventy-plus years on this planet. Or people like me: no prospects, no family, no assets; just a few items of clothing, a couple of tins of beans in the cupboard and a job serving drunken reprobates in the pub on the edge of the housing estate.

I'm due to work the evening shift tonight. Weekdays and weekends blur into one in this part of the world. Not many people around here have a job - they don't have to be up early so they spend most of their evenings drinking away their money or snorting it up their nose to get a cheap high and forget their miserable reality. I may be just as miserable as they are, but drink and drugs have never appealed to me, therefore I don't fit in with their crowd. And they don't hesitate to remind me.

The afternoon is warm and close by the time I make the short walk to work just before my shift is due to start. The park is empty as I cross the children's play area, reading for what feels like the millionth time the graffiti scrawled onto the rubber matting beneath the one remaining tyre swing: AINT NO HEROES. GRASS. These senseless words have been here since I moved in, and probably for years before that, sprayed in yellow paint by a nameless, faceless thug. 

No children play here. It is used by the local teenagers as a place to smoke weed, drink cider out of cans and set fire to other people's possessions. I have learned to avoid this route in the dark, instead choosing the well-lit streets which take me twice as long but are by far the safer option. However, at this time on an early-May afternoon, it poses no threat.

I push open the door of The Flute and Fiddle and walk quickly across the room to the staff door at the side of the bar.

"You're keen."

"I'm only ten minutes early," I reply, ignoring the mocking stare from Katie, one of the other barmaids, and let the door shut behind me, muffling the steady hum of conversation filtering through from the bar lounge. I haven't brought anything with me except my phone and my front door key, both of which are stowed deep in the pocket of my jeans. I know better than to leave anything of value lying around in this place. I grab a small, burgundy waist apron from the back of the door and put it on, adjusting the strings at the back so my thighs are covered. I quickly check my appearance in the mirror before opening the door through to the bar. 

Katie is serving Jock, one of our regulars. His eyes are staring at her breasts in her tight top as she pulls the beer pump, filling his pint glass. His hair needs a brush and his clothes need a wash, but this is nothing out of the ordinary. His gaze flicks to me as I step behind the bar, and he gives me a brief nod of acknowledgement.

"Evening Jock," I greet him.

"Looking good, girl," he observes, his eyes sweeping up and down my body, and I disguise my shudder of disgust and paste a smile on my face. He beams back toothlessly, and turns his attention back to Katie as she sets his drink down on the bar in front of him. He counts out the coins into her outstretched hand before turning away and taking a seat at one of the grimy tables, facing the window.

"You in til the end?" I ask her.

"Only til nine," she replies. "Ian and Colette are on the close with you."

Ian and Colette are the landlord and landlady of this establishment, and fight like cat and dog. Ian hates Colette flirting with the punters, and Colette hates Ian propping up the bar while she runs around like a headless chicken. I'm sure they drink away most of the profits, but that's their prerogative, I suppose.

I pick up a tray from underneath the bar and begin a sweep of the lounge, collecting dirty glasses and tucking chairs underneath tables as I go. I try to avoid eye contact with any of the customers as best as I can, as I feel deeply uncomfortable at the leers that I (and the other barmaids) attract from the various men drowning their sorrows at four o'clock in the afternoon. I drop the glasses off in the kitchen to be washed, and then return to the front-of-house with a damp cloth and a cleaning spray, and begin my usual routine of wiping down the tables. Katie surveys me with amusement as I work my way around the room, cleaning up the dregs of people's drinks and condensation from the glasses (and no doubt worse) glistening on the table tops. 

"You don't have to do that so often," she reminds me, once I have finished of course.

"I know," I mutter. "But I like to try and keep on top of it. Sticky tables make me feel sick."

She smirks but keeps quiet. She finds it amusing that I like to keep the lounge clean. As she rightly points out, our clientele couldn't care less if the tables are sticky, or if the beer mats are frayed, or if there are crumbs on the chairs. But I cannot stare at filth, and would rather keep myself busy by wiping everything down repeatedly than stand behind the bar making idle conversation with people that make me nervous.

I rinse the cloth out in the kitchen sink, and as the bar is fairly quiet I take it upon myself to wash the glasses I have collected, standing them upside down on the draining board to dry before heading back out again.

Katie is standing behind the till, texting on her phone. She looks up as I reappear. 

"Barrel needs changing."

She could have done it herself of course, but she has deliberately waited until my shift has begun. I could tell her to do it herself, but I don't, and instead ask, "Which one?"

"Bitter."

I nod, and make my way down the back steps to the cellar door, silently cursing myself for lacking any kind of confrontational instinct and allowing myself to be walked all over like this constantly by everyone around me. I wish I could be one of those confident, ballsy women who doesn't take any shit. But that's not me; that's never been me. I allow myself to be bossed around, and everyone knows it.

I sigh as I reach the Bitter keg and turn off the gas at the valve. I let my mind wander as I check the dates on the new barrels and find the oldest one, and heave it with difficulty across the filthy floor into position. I imagine the look on Katie's face if I had simply responded with, "Do it yourself, you lazy bitch." I imagine for a minute being that self-assured woman that I long to be; the kind nobody messes with, the sort that stands up for their rights, for what they believe in, and commands respect from their peers. 

My phone beeps with a text, jolting me out of my reverie, and I stand up straight once the pipes are reconnected and pull it out of my pocket. It's from my landlord: Rent's due tomorrow. No late payments.

I shove it away again, and make my way back up the cellar steps to the bar, taking a detour past the bathroom to wash my hands.

By the time I emerge, there are a few more customers waiting to be served.

"About time," Katie snipes. "We've got punters waiting."

I smile at her, and take my place behind the pumps, ready to serve. One day I'll get out of this shit-hole. 

It takes about fifteen minutes before there is no longer anyone waiting and I can reach over and collect a few more empties from the bar. I am just about to take them through to the kitchen when the doors to the pub bang open.

Chris, one of the estate's resident drug dealers, is walking in with his usual swagger, surveying the room with undeniable arrogance, waiting for someone to challenge his authority. Nobody does. A few punters look up from their drinks, fingers curling absently at the corners of tatty beer mats, but no one is really interested. After a couple of seconds their heads are bowed again and they return once more to the miserable depths of their pints.

I watch Chris as he approaches the bar, his pale skin spottier than usual, his permanent smirk etched upon his face.

"Pint."

I choose not to comment on his lack of courtesy. 

While the amber liquid swirls into the glass from the pump and foams gently, I fantasise about slowly raising my arm and smashing the drink over his head. Smiling at my own thoughts, I tilt the glass upright to create the perfect head on the pint and set it down on the bar.

"Girl always did know how to give good head," he remarks.

I look up at him, unable to hide my expression of disgust, not only at his vile remark but at his obvious pride at having come up with it. A flutter of unease begins in my stomach. I despise Chris, and his ability to degrade me with a few well chosen words. Before I have time to let this grow into a full-on panic, there is a low throaty chuckle from behind him, and my attention is drawn away briefly to someone standing with him. I'd been so wrong-footed by Chris' comment that I hadn't noticed he had a companion.

"Get me a pint would you?" the stranger asks, and he leans around Chris to look at me, to check I have acknowledged his order.

I find myself staring into eyes of forest green, my breathing halting momentarily as I take in his features: Smooth, clear skin; a perfectly sculpted nose; a jawline that could cut glass. 

A shiver runs down my spine, as though someone has just walked over my grave. I have the strangest feeling that this man has a soul as black as night.

"Er, pint?" he says again, slowly this time, and Chris snickers as I swallow nervously, fumbling for a clean glass on the shelf under the counter. My fingers jab clumsily, knocking one to the floor where it smashes with a delicate tinkle on the tiled floor.

A cheer erupts in the room, and Chris guffaws delightedly and thumps his fists on the wooden bar top as my face burns with humiliation. Katie watches me from the far end of the bar but does nothing to help as I grab the dustpan and brush from under the till and sweep up the shards of glass. I stand up and tip them into the bin and push my hair out of my eyes, knowing my cheeks are on fire.

"What's the matter darlin'? You wet for him or something?" Chris leers as I pick up another glass with trembling hands, and begin pouring the pint.

I ignore him, concentrating on the glass, praying I don't mess this up and give him another excuse to ridicule me in front of everyone. Thankfully it turns out alright, and I carefully set it down once it is poured, and hold out my hand to him.

"Seven pounds, please," I mutter.

"And one for yourself, sweetheart," Chris smirks, handing me a ten pound note and deliberately dropping his gaze to my chest. He looks up at me again to see if I will react, but of course I don't, as he knows I won't, and I key the drinks into the till and hand him his change, gritting my teeth as I thank him for the tip.

He laps his tongue against his top lip in an overtly sexual gesture, and I feel bile rise in my throat as I turn away from him. I feel the eyes of the stranger on me as they walk a few steps to the nearest table, and only once they are seated and deep in conversation can I release the breath I am holding.

I hate him for his smugness. I hate him for forcing me to be polite to him just because he has tipped me. I hate him for believing he calls the shots around here, and I hate everyone else, including myself, for letting him.  

Katie eventually approaches me, her head cocked in confusion.

"What's with you? You're jumpier than usual tonight."

"I hate that smug bastard," I mutter.

"Chris? Just ignore him. He's like that with everyone."

"He makes my skin crawl," I hiss. "I hate the way he makes me feel. Embarrassed, and degraded, and dirty..."

Katie is staring at me as though I have grown another head.

"Um, it's just banter, Chloe. He's a prick, but don't go thinking you're anything special."

"I don't."

"He speaks to most women like that."

"I know."

I hate him even more for treating everyone so appallingly. I hate the way he makes me feel. 

I serve another customer at the other end of the bar, and when I return to the till Katie is picking at one of her nails, leaning against the counter. I risk a glance at Chris' table, to survey the stranger again. He has soft, unruly, dark curls that are pushed back from his face, and his left arm is covered in various tattoos. He twirls a beer mat with both hands as he talks to Chris, and I notice several chunky rings adorning his fingers. He can't be more than about twenty one, and he is far too good-looking to be in a place like this, or to be hanging out with people like that.

"Who's that with Chris tonight?" I ask Katie as casually as I can, and she glances across the bar to their table. "I've never seen him before," I add.

"No you wouldn't have. He drinks in The King's Head, mostly. Nasty piece of work he is, too. Been in and out of prison for various things, but never learns his lesson. He and Chris go way back."

"Who is he?" 

Katie is eyeing me knowingly. "Why are you so interested?"

"I'm not."

"Liar."

There is a pause while I don't answer and Katie peels a bit of red nail varnish off her thumbnail and lets it fall to the floor before pushing herself away from the counter, standing up and looking me straight in the eye.

"His name is Harry. And if you've got even an ounce of sense in that airy little head of yours, you'll stay well away from him."