Composite Creatures by Caroline Hardaker (best story books to read .TXT) 📗

I didn’t really expect him to change his mind, but as soon as I’d said the words his eyes lit up. He drove us to a bar an hour south of the picnic ground, and all the while I smiled – knowing that he was choosing to take me somewhere rather than answer Kelly’s call.

As we climbed out of the car, he told me that he’d read about the place on a referrals site when he first arrived in the UK and driven all the way here just for a drink. It was the first place he found that he felt at home, and he came here once a week or so before he met me. It did seem strange that he hadn’t told me about it before, but then it was just a bar. It was hardly a representation of his heart and soul. But still – in those early dates of showboating ourselves through little adventures around the north, why hadn’t he taken me there?

Called the Red Room, it wasn’t what I’d expected at all. From the outside, with its glass windows and rustic oak signage, I expected it to be a hipster hangout spot, but inside the place was set up like an old public house from the 1940s and was inhabited by men in twos and threes who were a fair bit older than we were. All the tables and seating seemed just a little bit smaller than in a normal pub, and the walls curved inwards towards the ceiling as if we were beneath the canopy of a circus tent. Most of the furnishings were blood red or a deep purple, the wood all dark and glossy mahogany. Art led me to a two-seater table in the corner towards the back, and grabbed a drinks menu from the next table.

“If I’m to get you drunk, let’s do it in style.” His finger skimmed down the list of cocktails.

“No, my idea, my treat. I’m paying.”

“Oh. Well in that case.” Art chose a bottle of some dark brew, and after he promised that he’d let me try a sip when it arrived, I stuck to wine. When I returned to our table, Art was tugging on his ear self-consciously, perhaps suddenly bashful that he’d chosen such an odd place to take me to. I don’t blame him, I would never have matched it with Art at all. But as he reached the end of that first bottle his fires were stoked again, his voice now loud enough to rouse some of the older people who were sitting alone from staring at their beermats.

Without asking me, Art bought us the same two drinks again. I sipped at my wine as he told me the story of his first few months in England. I’d heard it all before of course, but this time he told some of the details differently. In one, he’d seen a woman get mugged on his second day in the UK, but in this latest retelling it was a young girl who was mugged, and it was Art who called the police. Some of his stories I didn’t remember so well so I couldn’t be sure about those, but others I did remember – having heard them two or three times already. The way he told them in the Red Room you’d have thought he was on stage, giving a reading from one of his books. But he was so obviously enjoying himself by this point that I didn’t raise it. What’s the harm in his trying to entertain both of us?

Art picked out a different beer for his third, and I chose a diet coke, but asked at the bar for it in a spirit glass. We raised our glasses to ourselves with a customary chink. I was already feeling a bit light-headed, but the cool weight of the soft drink helped a little. Art kept at it, downing drink after drink like a starving man with water. His mood peaked and dipped and peaked again between victor and underdog, his rollercoaster ride entirely self-driven.

This out of control Art was an alien creature to me, an animal to study behind a pane of one-sided glass. All I needed to do was sit back in my seat, and watch him break himself down in that superficial way drunk people do, dissecting his deepest self with blind eyes, forgetting first to remove the skin.

Art’s fingers prodded his chest clumsily, and he leaned forwards conspiratorially, breathing hot beery words in my ear. “You know why I really like this place?”

Keeping my eyes wide I shook my head. “Remind you of somewhere?”

He twisted his face. “What? No. Like where?”

“I don’t know, you’re the one making me guess. Somewhere back home?”

He looked like he was laughing but no sound was coming out. “No. I don’t want anywhere to remind me of back home. Ever.”

Art had never spoken to me about the photo I’ve seen after our first date. “I liked seeing your parents’ faces. In your portfolio. They looked… nice.”

Art stared back at me. “I don’t remember putting that in there.”

I shrugged. “Well, it was. You were only little. On a farm? Are they scatterers?”

Art coughed, but kept his lips pinned shut. “They were, yeah. They’re dead now. The usual. They greyed.”

“Oh.” Shit. Why did I bring this up? I should have known. He said he didn’t want to talk about the topic, so why did I pursue it? Stupid stupid stupid. There was nothing to say, so I reached across to brush my fingers across his knuckles. He didn’t move. “OK, so it’s not back home. Why’s this place so special?”

He stared out at the bar as if he’d forgotten what he was going to say. He looked sad, smaller, and I wished I hadn’t said anything at all. Everything I did was wrong. He took a swig of his drink and shook his head as if dusting