Brothers in Blood Read Online Free PDF Page B

were blood brothers now. Neither of us knew what we wanted to do after that. We just planned for that flash of lightning to inform us.
    Taking the next step on our special ladder came about one Saturday night a few weeks before Christmas Day when Alex came into our lives. We’d been to see some crap film at the ABC and after leaving the cinema had decided to go for a drink to compensate for the two hours of boredom.
    We favoured rough old pubs like Alf’s establishment rather than the tarted up bars, designed to attract the untamed youth of Huddersfield on a Saturday night, where they would cram themselves in, sardine style, drink themselves more stupid than they already were and then try to cop off with some sweaty inebriate of the opposite sex. ‘The vomit and ripped knicker places’ we called them, because that was all that was left when the dump closed down in the early hours.
    Laurence said that he’d heard of a pub called the Dog and Gun down by the canal, about half a mile from the town centre, which was almost like a museum. ‘Lots of doddery fellers in flat caps and real old fashioned prostitutes – you know, rouged faces, fish net tights and a pension book.’
    ‘Worth a look,’ I agreed. And so we strolled down there in the frosty night air, our breath escaping in pearly wisps as we chatted.
    The Dog and Gun didn’t quite live up to Laurence’s description. There certainly were no obvious prostitutes in there and no flat caps either. However, it was quiet with just a few gloomy middle aged couples sitting around like waxworks: women with peroxide perms and men with hangdog expressions, married so long they had run out of anything to say to each other so they stared into space while slowly revolving their drinks. There was a group of young rugby types having a go on the one armed bandit, cave men in jeans and jumpers, and a lad about our age sitting on his own reading Private Eye . Most of them were regulars, no doubt, for when we entered, all eyes focused on us with suspicion. It was as though we had just landed in our alien space ship outside and invaded their private domain. You could cut the atmosphere with a rusty bread knife and Laurence always overreacted to such mean-spirited parochial attitudes.
    ‘I say, landlord,’ he announced in a posh effeminate voice that could be heard above the din of the one-armed bandit, ‘two pints of your very best foaming ale.’
    The cavemen turned to look at us with scowls of disdain and muttered to each other.
    ‘Steady boy,’ I whispered to Laurence.
    ‘Steady yourself,’ he snapped back.
    The wizened barman plonked two pints on the counter without a word.
    ‘How much do I owe you, landlord?’ Laurence continued his mincing charade.
    ‘Four and six,’ came the gruff reply.
    Laurence shelled out a series of coins and dropped them casually on the counter in a pool of spilled beer.
    ‘Keep the change, my good man,’ he said grandly, and gave a wave of his hand to emphasise his benevolent gesture.
    The barman glared at him, picked up the coins, counted them and replaced a sixpence on the counter in the same pool of beer.
    I dragged Laurence over to a corner table. All eyes still remained on us as though we were the unexpected cabaret. The cave men were obviously discussing us in less than positive terms.
    ‘You’ll have us lynched before we can get out of here,’ I whispered to Laurence.
    ‘Well, that might be more interesting than that film we saw tonight. Whose idea was it to see that?’
    At least he had resorted to his normal voice.
    ‘Just drink your beer,’ I said, trying to hide my smile.
    After a few moments one of the cave men came over. He was big, beefy and blonde with eyes like two small currants in a large white loaf.
    ‘One of you gentlemen got a light?’ he asked with sarcastic politeness.
    ‘No, I’m sorry,’ I chimed in quickly, before Laurence had chance to start his performance again. ‘We don’t smoke.’
    Our caveman