Selene by Stewart Giles

Author:Stewart Giles [Giles, Stewart]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers & Suspense, Crime, Murder, Crime Fiction
Amazon: B01E16SEOC
Publisher: Stewart Giles
Published: 2016-05-01T22:00:00+00:00

FORTY TWO

The Fringe Club was a small intimate venue just outside the city centre. It was one of those so called alternative night spots frequented by students and wannabe hipsters keen to escape the drudgery of their nine to five existences. Smith and Whitton had arrived at half past seven and by eight the place was slowly filling up. Smith had chosen a table in the middle of the room; not too far away from the stage but not to close that the close proximity to the band would leave him half deaf for the next few days.

“Look at them,” he said to Whitton, “York’s finest. Top ten percent. We’re all doomed if they’re the future of this country.”

Scores of young student types were propped up at the bar frantically drinking to make sure they took full advantage of the mid week booze specials.

“You’re so cynical,” Whitton knocked back half of the beer in her glass, “they’re not that bad. I was a student once you know.”

“Me too,” Smith said, “that’s how come I know so much about them. I’m going to get a few drinks in before the band come on. And before that rabble drink the place dry.”

He walked towards the bar and pushed his way through the aliens with their peculiar hairstyles and obscure attire. He was suddenly aware that he was being observed. He had experienced the feeling before. It was as if the pair of eyes that were watching him were burning through his skin. He turned round but he could not see anybody who appeared to be out of place.

“Four pints of Theakston,” he said to a sweaty bull of a man with long greasy hair, “the beer’s not watered down is it?”

The barman glared at him.

“Of course it isn’t,” he said.

“These student bastards wouldn’t even notice,” Smith said, “but I would. It’s illegal you know.”

“What are you?” The barman poured the beers, “The beer police?”

Something like that, Smith thought but decided to hold his tongue.

Smith took the drinks back to the table. The feeling that he was being watched was still with him.

“About time,” Whitton took a long drink from the glass, “what time are the Greasy Pigs on?”

“Sweaty Pigs,” Smith said, “Their first set is at nine. I think someone’s watching me.”

“Watching you?” Whitton looked around the club, “Everybody’s watching you. You’re not exactly dressed like the rest of the elite clientele in here. You stick out like a sore thumb.”

Whitton’s words instantly made Smith feel depressed.

“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?” He said, “Anyway, I used to rock in clubs like this one. You’ve seen me play.”

“That was a long time ago,” Whitton said, “you’ve grown up since then.”

“What a terrible thing to say,” Smith said, “you’re making me feel old.”

“Not old,” Whitton said, “just more mature.”

“That’s even worse.”

Smith thought back to the many times he had stood on the stage of The Deep Blues club and played off the top of his head.

I’m buying myself another guitar, he thought, as soon as this awful investigation is over.

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