9. The Postie Code

A different pub, same day

Friday, 1pm

“What’s the matter?” Moses says to Vardaman, that hastily taken pint in the Pips swooshing around in his stomach.

“I just have a bad feeling,” Vardaman says.

“It’s just the Fear, Vardaman.”

“No harm in heeding it though, Mo.”

They’re off walking fast, shoulders hunched as if it’ll make them small enough to avoid the sunrays.

“We’ll go up The Railway,” Vardaman says. “Aaron never goes up there.”

True. Aaron didn’t like heights and the bridge going over the tracks has holes in the walkway and at certain points you can look right down onto the roof of the trains.

Two steps inside the door of The Railway Inn and Mike the Elder behind the bar calls out, “What do we owe the pleasure of you two at this ungodly hour? Aaron’s been in looking for you.” And before anyone else can say anything or even come to any thought on any of it Vardaman says back, “Aaron? Never heard of him. Two ciders.” And he strides up and slaps a fiver on the bar. Of course, everyone knows who Aaron is and everyone knows Vardaman is playing silly buggers, but it does manage to put a cork in it, nevertheless.

Mike the Elder puts his palms up and says, “I’m just relaying a message, boys.”

“Consider it relayed,” Moses says, and nods are exchanged.

Mark the Postie is at the bar, the bags under his eyes a shining blue at this time of day, his first lager on his way to a daily half dozen after work and monologues on New Order to anyone who’ll listen. Vardaman says hi and Moses pats him on the shoulder and drops a wink as he kisses the lip of his cider. They’ll cross paths at various pubs today as the weekend ecosystem comes, the wildlife emerges from the scrub to make for the watering holes.

“God, I live for these lunch times,” Moses says, slapping his back onto the pew.

“You’ve woken up,” Vardaman says.

“That heat. Cider was the right move.”

“Can’t drink lager out of Mike the Elder’s lines,” Vardaman says. “He doesn’t swill them through properly. I swear the other week I went for a piss in here and a soap bubble came out of the end of my dick.”

“It’s good for you,” Moses says.

“I’m not a car engine, Mo. It’s poison.”

They both light cigarettes.

“Not worried about Aaron, are you?” Vardaman says.

“Always,” says Moses. “But let’s not pretend last night was a normal Thursday.”

“Not for him either, mind. It was his last night.”

“Yeah, and he was spending it with us.”

“What can I say?” says Vardaman. “He doesn’t have any friends.”

“He’s a drug dealer,” says Moses. “He can have as many friends as he likes.”

Vardaman starts blinking, ruffles his hands through his hair.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe he just wanted to thank us for a great send off. You tell me; you were the one having a heart-to-heart with him last night.”

“We both did that, didn’t we? Acted like we were his brothers or something and it was a shitty episode of Eastenders.”

“I didn’t do it like you did. You were touching foreheads at one point. We dueted on Crass.”

“That’s a heart-to-heart where Aaron comes from.”

“You were jealous,” says Vardaman.

“I didn’t know the words,” says Moses. “I’ve come to realise my politics are superficial and meaningless.”

“Poor little fucker, poor little kid, never asked for life, no you never did.”

“It’s true.”

Music comes on. Mark the Postie is at the jukebox. “Weirdo”, fittingly, by the only band that exists in his mind.

Bit early for that, both Vardaman and Moses think, but it’s hard to begrudge Mark anything with that hangdog face of his.

“Oh fuck, isn’t it Mark’s ex’s wedding today?” Vardaman says.

“Shit, I think you’re right. Poor bastard.”

They both look over to him at the jukebox and realise for the first time that the blazer they’d mistaken for his postie uniform has a buttonhole.

“Oh shit, he’s an usher, isn’t he?” Vardaman says. “I was talking to him about it. A few weeks ago.”

“You drink with Mark the Postie, now?” Moses says.

“I’m a man of the people, Mo. His ex is marrying some other guy at the Royal Mail. I think she works there too.”

“Not surprised at the incestuous nature of it all with the hours they work.”

“The guy asked him to be an usher.”

“Hard.”

“I asked him why he said yes, and he went on about some code or oath or some shit.”

“The Postie’s Code. It’s an ancient bond.”

“So, looks like he’s whetting the whistle…”

“…getting leathered…”

“…before he has to be over the church.”

“Poor bloke.”

“I guess he would look like shit if he ever looked like anything but shit.”

“Weirdo” ends and more New Order comes up. Vardaman turns back to Moses. “It’ll be a story for him,” he says.

“God bless the material,” Moses says, and they clink glasses. They both swig and drag. “What are we going to do about Aaron?”

“Do?” says Vardaman. “You don’t do anything about a guy like Aaron. Things just roll over, Mo. Mark goes to his ex’s wedding, Aaron does six-to-ten for possession with intent, and we play some shit hot records up at the Loft on a weekend. The world keeps turning.”

“He’s definitely going down though, right?”

“They found a light fitting stuffed with eccies. He’s not getting out of that.”

“So, why is he looking for us?”

“Maybe he got the time wrong,” Vardaman says. “Maybe he wants to thank us for a great send off. Maybe he’s fallen in love with you and wants to make you promise you’ll visit him in Bellmarsh.”

“Not another prison romance. I’m not sure my budget can handle it.”

“I’m just saying don’t worry. There’s some crossed wires somewhere. Maybe Aaron died in the night and his ghost has been going around this morning. We’ve all read those stories.”

“I’m going to put that in the maybe pile.”

“I’m just saying there’s a reasonable explanation for him being around and asking after us. Did you leave your coat at his?”

On this suggestion Vardaman seems quite serious, so Moses just pinches the jacket he has on at the shoulder.

“I need to make something clear to you, Vardaman,” Moses says, leaning forward, holding his fag like a dramatic prop. “Because I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.” Vardaman isn’t sure what’s coming. “But I’m not going to miss Aaron while he’s inside. In fact, I’m not entirely sure how we’ve got to this point in our relationship with him where we’re hanging out together.”

Vardaman thinks this over.

“It’s something worth thinking over,” he says eventually, making circles with the tip of his forefinger at his temple. “But I think it’s almost entirely to do with the fact he is a drug dealer.”

Moses nods earnestly. “And so, the thing that brought us together has come to ironically be the thing that pulls us apart,” he says.

“That’s the harsh reality of life,” Vardaman says, and he stubs his fag out in the ashtray like he’s burying some kind of geological probe.