The Dark Side of the Road

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Call me Ishmael. Ishmael Jones.

I got the phone call in the early hours of the morning. I was in the main bar of some hotel in London. Don’t ask me its name; they all blend into each other after a while. I have no home of my own. Never have. Too risky. I just move from hotel to hotel, using this name or that. Makes it that much harder for people to find me. But the Colonel always knows where I am. That was part of the deal we struck, all those years ago.

It wasn’t much of a bar, but then, it wasn’t much of a hotel. Not a salubrious, or even a cheerful place. The lighting was too bright, the fittings and furnishings more functional than comfortable. And the background music was such an offence to the ear that I ended up having to bribe the barman to shut it down. I sat on a stool at the bar, so I wouldn’t have to keep getting up to order more drinks. It was that bleary-eyed time in the early hours when the night life just gives it all up as a bad idea and admits defeat. I was the only customer left in the bar. Everyone else had gone home, or gone to bed, or both. The bartender was standing around with his arms folded, looking worn out and resentful. Wishing I would leave, so he could shut the bar down and turn in. But I wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t feel tired, or sleepy. I wouldn’t for several days. I keep strange hours because I lead a strange life.

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