They were both looking at me. The attention piercing from the one in charge. She was very collected and focussed. Her companion, although keeping his eye on me, was looking through the folder he had in front of him.
'You wanted to see us, Mr...' She looked at her colleague, who referred hurriedly to his notes before reminding her of my name. 'Marks. Adrian Marks' I said, my voice wavering slightly.
She turned back to me. 'Well, Mr Marks. What was it that you wanted to tell us ?' She waited again. Looking me straight in the eye. Enough that the discomfort it caused broke through my sudden inability to speak.
'I work in a bar on Attlee Street.' My voice hoarse. My throat dry. 'I thought I should tell someone about what I saw.'
They exchanged a look. Not yet sure if I was really going to be any help or just some crazy time wasting lunatic that had just walked in off the street. I wished to all that I held dear that I hadn't seen what I had, that I had made this all up. I wish it hadn't happened. Out of breath, but there was more I had to say. I needed to take my time again. They waited although I could sense their frustration rising.
'I wanted to tell you what I saw, and what I did'.
Now I had gained their attention. Now there was no turning back. The assistant sat with his pen poised over his notepad.
'Okay Mr Marks. We're listening. Take it back to the start and tell us what you saw, and what it was that you did'.
***
Last Night
I'm ten hours into my twelve hour shift at the Politicians' Arms. Thankfully it being the week after New Year, it isn't too busy. As much as I am trying to recover the excesses of the party season myself, so are the wallets of most of our customers. The place was less than half full. There's only myself and Rachel on shift, but it's been quiet enough that we've both coped without incident.
Considering the anxious shopping pre Christmas where our clientele raced to secure adequate gifts to demonstrate their love or fulfil their obligations, some of the same people were now desperately snatching time away from their nearest and dearest. Sharing a pint and time away from the loved and not so loved with friends.
As well as the regulars, there's the odd few obviously out taking advantage of the sales. Weighed down with various bags stuffed with bargains.
As I made my way round the pub, collecting glasses I noticed one couple that fit into neither category, sat in one of the cubicles down the back. Of a normal evening this area would be full of people ordering food, but it's been left empty by the other customers, with there not being any food on because our chef has gone home to Scotland for a couple of weeks and our boss too disorganised or too tight to arrange someone to fill in for him.
I'm working my way towards them. I can't make out what they are saying. I don't need to. The body language says it all. He's leaning across the table, not in a threatening way, in a space invading way. He's all smiles and charm - or so he thinks he is. He's clearly not reading her reaction. She's backed into the chair so much that if she pressed any harder she'd actually break the laws of physics and pass through it. Her arms are rigidly fixed by her side with her hands on her lap. She's fidgeting with her nails, instead of looking up and engaging in whatever bullshit he's talking about.
There's a few of empty glasses to clear from their table, some hi-balls and a couple of shot glasses. He doesn't stop when I start clearing them up. I'm surprised I didn't hear him sooner, he's really loud and obnoxious. You know the type ? The ones that like to hear the sound of their own voice and are utterly convinced they're the funniest thing to grace the earth with their presence. This poor girl is just sitting there, retreating into herself so much that she's really trying to actually disappear.
Still who am I to judge eh ? He seems like a wanker, she seems like she's really not having a good time, but I'm not there to chaperone girls on their disastrous dates now am I ? Sad, I thought. But it takes all sorts. I try to make eye contact with her, but with her attention purely focussed on picking away at her own hands there's no way to gauge if she needs an escape clause or not.
I've seen it before, many times. Guys and girls. Some will be upfront enough to ask me to help provide some plausible (or implausible) escape route should the need arise. Others will come to the bar with a running commentary of just how much of a washout things are. The ones that are going really well never need to tell me. It's always obvious they've hit it off, and it's nice to see when that happens.
Rachel calls me back to the bar to help her with the queue that's built up. I stack the collected glasses so I can load them into the washer later and go help her.
Anyone that's worked with the public will tell you, that at times you just get your head down and get on with it. You don't really recognise or remember the steady stream of people that you're serving. I did however clock that the loud obnoxious guy was someone that I served as the brief rush died back down.
He was talking to someone on the phone, as it became his turn to be served. It's always something that annoys me a little, but you have to come to expect it these days. There are people so absorbed by their lives and convinced of their own importance that they will think nothing of ignoring you, and the other people waiting while they finish their conversation. I'd been standing there waiting for his order for a couple of seconds, and starting to consider if I should move on to the next customer and come back to him. He announced to the person on the other end of the call that he needed to get some drinks in and gave me his order.
He returned to his call as I got the drinks ready. Both having a vodka and coke. I placed the first drink in front of him and set about completing the second. I had just finished adding the vodka to the glass of ice cubes when I looked back in the direction of this guy and I saw him take something from his pocket, pour it into the glass in front of him and stir it with the straw. Without a care at all he went straight back to his call.
***
'So you saw him put something into the drink.' The woman asked.
'Yes'
'I see'. She looked over at her colleague to make sure he was getting these details. 'We'll need to see the CCTV from the bar, assuming you have some.'
I nodded and took a deep breath before plunging back in. 'But that's not all of it.'
'No ?' She looked at me again.
'While he was on the phone. While he was turned round, I came over with the second drink.' I stopped again. Not for anything like dramatic effect, but because my heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest. I was struggling to breathe. 'I swapped the drinks round.'
'Why did you do that Mr Marks ?' She knew the answer, but obviously needed me to say it myself.
'He'd put something in the drink that he was going to give to his date. This arsehole was intent of doing god knows what to the poor unsuspecting girl'.
'So you believe it was some sort of date rape drug ?' The assistant was carefully writing down each word I said.
'Yes'.
'I see.' Now it was her turn to pause as she gathered her thoughts before reaching for one of the folders. 'I'd like to show you something Mr Marks'. She opened the file and took out, five photographs placing them onto the desk.
'What are these ?' I asked. The first photos before me showed a battered and squashed car against a large tree. I recoiled from the graphic nature of the images. Each shot moving closer in, showing the compacted interior of the car, the screen smashed, the roof buckled inward, the dashboard compressed. A bloodied airbag deployed on the steering wheel.
'Joseph London worked at a local bank. He was twenty five years old'. She let the statement hang in the air. It sank in for me that she referred to him in the past tense. Oh My God ! He'd died.
But I'd done the right thing, hadn't I ? I'd made sure that Joseph had not been able to drug his date. Whatever he planned for her that evening, it wouldn't have been good. I'd saved her from some unspeakable fate. Part of me thought that he had it coming, but I had never bargained on such severe consequences for him. I couldn't say I really felt that sorry though. It would be his family that suffered. Despite the horrific end, his date would never know what that night could have been. That was a good thing, wasn't it?
'What about her, the girl. Did she get home safely ?' My voice again soft and wavering.
They both stared at me impassively. I looked from one to the other, desperate for an answer before she finally spoke.
'No, Mr Marks. I'm sorry to say that Jessica was the passenger in the car when Mr London lost control and drove it into a tree at seventy-three miles an hour. They were both pronounced dead at the scene.'
The End
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