Part 10 (2/2)
”Uh ... yeah?”
He'd finally twigged my real age, I was certain.
”Your father's right.”
”My what? ... Ah, yes. I was just, er ...”
”There is another Blue Posts around here.”
I gaped at him.
”Is there?”
”Yes,” he laughed. ”We call it the Teenage Posts, although it's actually older than this pub, strange as it seems. But full of teenagers, y'see. Snotty little place, in my opinion, but I guess you'd prefer it.”
”What? Oh, s.h.i.+t!”
This met with a stern frown.
”Sorry, sorry! I don't suppose you could tell us how to get there ... Alan!”
A minute later we were sprinting back the way we'd come, veering left and left again into the alleylike Hanway Street, where we slowed to a fast walk. There was a palpable s.h.i.+ft in ambience as we hurried past a few unnamed drinking dens and characters of questionable occupation. A skinny woman lighting a cigarette in a doorway asked us if we wanted to come in and play with her Lego.
”f.u.c.king patronising cow,” Alan growled under his breath. ”I've been going out round here for ages.”
But not, as it turned out, long enough to be aware of the funny-looking pub at the Tottenham Court Road end of the street, with a wonky Courage brewery sign bearing its name. It didn't look like many London boozers I'd ever seen, the outside resembling a narrow shop or funeral parlour rather than a pub. But it did look suitably old and tatty, and the colourful movement we could detect through the frosted gla.s.s suggested a place considerably livelier than the one we'd just left. It was also infuriatingly close to the tube exit we'd surfaced from a little over an hour ago.
”Hang on, let's get our breath back,” I commanded, leaning on a lamppost. Alan was frowning, looking up and down the street.
”s.h.i.+t, you know ... I think I have been to this place.”
”Yeah,” I replied, unconvinced.
”D'you reckon they're still in there?”
”I guess we're about to find out.”
”f.u.c.k, man. What are we going to say?”
”The truth,” I shrugged. ”That you got the wrong pub.”
Alan drew breath to protest but I was already heading through the door.
It was as obvious that Carter would frequent this Blue Posts as it was doubtful they'd ever darken the threshold of the other one. Crunchy indie music was merrily careering out of a copious-looking jukebox; young alternative-esque people of various shapes, sizes, hairdos and T-s.h.i.+rts were lounging around smoking and notching up empty pint gla.s.ses; and the bar staff looked tame. It was clearly a place we'd want to spend time in, Carter or no Carter. Which was just as well.
”Throwing Muses, man,” commented Alan, nodding at the jukebox speakers.
”Never mind all that. Where the f.u.c.k are Carter?”
Not there. The pub was small enough to ascertain this within seconds. They might have both been in the loo, but this seemed unlikely. All the more galling was the distinct impression that they had had been there; I could see several Carter T-s.h.i.+rts in the room, most tables had more empty gla.s.ses than seemed possible for the amount of drinkers present, and the general atmosphere was laced with antic.i.p.ation. This was indubitably the pre-gig drinking hole, and Carter weren't really big enough yet for there to be several of them. I locked onto an appropriate-looking group of folk and, fortified by the pair of pints inside me, stepped forward. been there; I could see several Carter T-s.h.i.+rts in the room, most tables had more empty gla.s.ses than seemed possible for the amount of drinkers present, and the general atmosphere was laced with antic.i.p.ation. This was indubitably the pre-gig drinking hole, and Carter weren't really big enough yet for there to be several of them. I locked onto an appropriate-looking group of folk and, fortified by the pair of pints inside me, stepped forward.
”Er ... excuse me, this may seem like a silly question, but ...”
A girl with cropped bleached hair and slightly mad eyes looked up.
”Hahaha! How silly?”
”Er ... pretty silly,” I admitted. ”You know the band Carter?”
”Yes?”
”You just missed them actually, mate,” volunteered a bespectacled bloke who sat next to her.
”They were here?”
”They were,” confirmed the girl, pointing to a couple of empty chairs. ”Right here. And now they've gone. Haha!”
”f.u.c.k,” I gasped, turning to Alan.
”Do you know them?” Alan asked the girl.
”Sort of,” she smiled.
”Did they say anything about being interviewed?”
A long-haired guy in a Mega City Four T-s.h.i.+rt across the table suddenly wagged his finger.
”Oi! Are you the fanzine?”
Gingerly I raised my hand.
”I am the fanzine.”
The whole table erupted with laughter and suddenly everyone seemed to be pointing at us. Alan and I stole a quick glance at each other for support.
”You k.n.o.bs!” screeched the girl. ”They've just been sitting here slagging you off for the last half an hour!”
”Really?”
”Yes! Hahahaa! 'These b.l.o.o.d.y fanzines,' they kept saying, 'they always stand you up.'”
”Are you serious?” frowned Alan.
”Yeah!”
”s.h.i.+t. We were in the wrong pub,” I explained. ”It was his fault.”
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