The Catch

It was sold to Dan as a mercy mission, a favour for a mate. There was never any suggestion of trouble. He just had to be there with Robbie, a supportive presence in the background while the handover took place.

Dan agreed to it for Cate’s sake: that was the noble motive. But he also had a favour of his own to ask, and a lot riding on the answer. So he ignored the voice in his head that urged him to let Robbie sort out his own mess for once.

He should have known better. Because Robbie had this ability to drag you in, enticing you to share his burden whether you wanted to or not, and once committed you felt obliged to stay and see it through.

A painful lesson, as Dan later reflected, that the path of least resistance can sometimes be the route to disaster.

****

The pub was busier than either of them had expected. On the drive over Dan had remarked on a recent news story on the death of country pubs, and they had reminisced about the dives they’d visited over the years: grumpy landlords, terrible decor, flat beer and greasy food; pool tables where the balls wouldn’t roll straight. At twenty-nine they were old enough to enjoy an occasional wallow in nostalgia; young enough to giggle and splutter as they competed to find the ideal name for a pub in decline.
The Sack of Shit
was declared the winner.

In the same vein, The Horse and Hounds had been rechristened The
Hearse
and Hounds, though it turned out to be a handsome Tudor hostelry on a lonely rural track a few miles north of Steyning. ‘Middle of bloody nowhere,’ as Robbie put it.

The car park was almost full, necessitating a tricky reversing manoeuvre on Dan’s part, easing his weary old Fiesta into a gap between a Land Rover and a trade-waste bin. He made it, but only just, and there was the usual teasing from Robbie about his shortcomings as a driver.

The pub was divided into two bars. Most of the action seemed to be in the public bar, and the reason soon became obvious: live music.

Robbie groaned when he heard the first strains of what sounded like a fiddle. ‘Not folk,’ he said. ‘Anything but folk.’

Now came a flutter of acoustic guitar, the sly rattle of brushes on a snare drum.

‘Folk rock, maybe,’ Dan said. ‘Some kind of fusion. That drum sound is almost ...’

‘Jazz,’ Robbie finished for him, and they grimaced in unison. ‘Shit, no, it’s jazz folk. Jolk.’

‘It’s no jolking matter.’

Laughing, Robbie punched Dan on the arm. ‘For that, you’re getting the first round.’

****

First they checked the saloon bar. It was whisper quiet, the room deserted but for a prim middle-aged couple sharing a banoffee pie, and an elegant young woman sitting alone in the corner. Dan would have waited until he could meet her eye, but Robbie dragged him away.

‘Don’t stare at her.’

‘I wasn’t. Anyway, this client of yours isn’t even—’

‘It’s a precaution, all right? We have to act like we’re nothing to do with her.’

For that reason, Robbie wanted to wait in the public bar, despite the fact that his dislike of the music intensified a hundredfold once he was physically in the presence of the musicians – four of them, all silver-haired but youthful in manner and joyful in mood. It was too noisy to talk properly, which didn’t suit Dan’s purpose. As he watched Robbie drain his first pint in double quick time, it dawned on him that this was the reason he’d been lumbered with driving: Robbie wanted a night out on the lash.

Then the musicians took a break, and after Robbie had bought more drinks Dan managed to steer the conversation round to his business venture.

‘I went to see some brilliant premises in Hurstpierpoint, perfect for a coffee shop. Empty at the moment, but it’s got an A3 classification.’

Robbie didn’t exactly yawn, but neither did he exhibit much interest. Undeterred, Dan went on: ‘I had a meeting with the bank last week. It’s not looking good.’

‘Course it’s not. The economy’s fucked.’

‘So I reckon we may need to find an alternative source of finance—’

‘Honestly, mate, you’re insane to think about starting a business. You wanna stay where you are till things improve.’

‘But Denham’s isn’t secure. It’s only a matter of time before the online retailers wipe us out.’

‘At least there’ll be some redundancy in it.’

‘That’s what Hayley says. But it feels wrong. Like we’re wishing it to fail.’

‘You mean Hayley and me agree on something? Jesus, I’d better retract that.’ Robbie’s glass was empty once more. ‘Your round.’

‘Give me a chance.’ On the tiny makeshift stage, the musicians were preparing to resume. Dan checked his watch: it was almost ten p.m. ‘Do you think he’s coming?’

‘Of course he is. I’ll tell you what, we’ll go next door. I can’t listen to any more of this shit.’

‘All right, but how long are we going to wait?’

A harsh note on the fiddle delayed Robbie’s reply. ‘Plenty of time left yet. I wanna get this sorted tonight.’ A fierce glint in his eye as he emphasised
tonight
. It was a look that Dan knew well – and should not have ignored.

Afterwards he thought about that a lot. He could have done something right then, just put down his drink and walked out, and to hell with Robbie and his silly, greedy mistakes.

But he didn’t. Mainly because of Cate, of course. He didn’t want to let her down.

So he stayed, and they all went to hell. 

Cate watched as they trooped in from the other bar, refugees from a maudlin Celtic ballad. She saw from Dan’s body language that he didn’t want to be here any more than she did – and not just because of the entertainment on offer.

But here they both were, and having waited nearly an hour she was just daring to hope it had been a wasted journey when she received a text:
Running late. There in five
.

Bugger. Dan and her brother were buying drinks from the sulky barmaid, who had added weight to a theory of Cate’s by perking up the instant Robbie walked in.

As the two men chose a table at a discreet distance from hers, Cate took out her phone, still debating whether to pass on the message. Far more tempting to text Robbie and tell him the client had cancelled. Half an hour from now she’d be tucked up in bed with a mug of hot chocolate and a good book. She was three hundred pages into a Stephen King epic,
11.22.63
. Not in the same league as her all-time favourite,
The Stand
, but still an enthralling read.

Tempting ... and yet she knew she wouldn’t. Robbie was like a big soppy dog, a family favourite who could do no wrong, seducing everyone he met even as he slobbered over their clothes and left his mess on their carpets.
And along come Cate and Dan with their buckets and mops and their endless supplies of patience ...

No, not endless. She gazed at her brother’s broad back, at the mop of dark hair that spilled over his collar, and she vowed that this would be the last time. No more bailouts. No more favours.

But then she had made that vow before, and no doubt so had Dan. As he took his seat he offered her a quick, grudging smile:
What the hell are we doing here?

Cate had always liked Dan. Liked him more, in some ways, than she did Robbie. Her brother had so many layers, what seemed like wholly different personalities ghosting behind the dazzling screen of his surface charm. Dan was a lot more straightforward: what you saw was what you got.

He had an open, friendly face, his features not as chiselled as Robbie’s; a smile that was warm and genuine rather than calculated to impress. He was an inch or two shorter than Robbie, though in terms of physique they were fairly evenly matched: both men slim, well toned, still in fine shape on the brink of thirty.

And yet, her theory went that if you presented the two of them to a room full of girls who’d been primed to make an instant choice, around eighty per cent would go for Robbie. In Cate’s view, that probably said less about their respective merits than it did about young women and their tastes in men.

Listen to me
, she thought.
A dry old maid at thirty-three
. Perhaps she was being too harsh on her brother. Besides, who was she to pass judgement when her own life was hardly a resounding success?