The Third Shadow

Twenty-five

The first were Sarah's words; the second, Marston's. But what did they mean exactly, those words? Not just the two abandoned sons, but the father too. The father's new partner. All four of them, missing.

It was a coincidence striking enough to have attracted the attention of Interpol, without a doubt. It would be highly unlikely that they hadn't sent an agent out into the field. Perhaps their timing hadn't been quite as opportune as mine however...

As I opened the door of the Red Lion pub, what I assumed to be a large proportion of the city's ex-pat community were gathered right there before me under the same roof. Most were white or red shirted, their replica shirts bearing the names of Lampard or Rooney or Gerrard across shoulder blades. A patriotic throng which, as I took my second or third step inside, bounced a deafening roar against the low, sweat-dripping ceiling. The game could have only just kicked off but already England had scored! Groans then followed, a few self-ironic laughs. I followed the replay on the big screen at the other end of the room: a long shot which had shivered the side netting, for half a second seemed like a contender for goal of the tournament. England World Cup campaigns are never quite so dreamlike.

The place was what might be expected of a English pub abroad. There was a dartsboard, a pool table, a cricket bat on the wall. This latter was centred amongst photographs of the Queen, John and Paul, Mick and Keith, Botham bashing the Aussies, Bobby Moore holding the Jules Rimet aloft. An England theme park but without any rollercoasters. Three deep at the bar.

Disappointingly, the clientele seemed mostly to be in their twenties or thirties. As I got in line at the bar I had a good look around, see if I could spot someone my own age or perhaps just a little younger. Over in the corner furthest away from the screen, there was a guy who looked to be in his mid-fifties sitting on a stool by himself. Upon finally getting served, I sauntered over, placed my pint on the window ledge next to his. There was a silent nod of acknowledgement at my presence.

"Suspect it'll be the same old rubbish as always," I commented during a quiet spell in the game a minute or two later. I turned my neck, glanced into his watery grey eyes. "Let's face it, we haven't been much good since the days of Charlton and Moore."

There was a grunted kind of agreement. "Never normally drink here," he replied. Then, shrugging: "World Cup time, need to be with your own though I suppose."

"First time for me. This particular bar I mean. Just passing through town."

Nodding, he returned his attention to the big screen. England had a young team out and, by the general murmurs of approval, they seemed to be having a decent go at the Italians. I wondered if Nuzzo had stayed up to watch; if at some point during the game he'd briefly wonder the same thing of me.

"That a Newcastle accent?" the man asked during the next lull in play.

I had grown wearyingly used to such comments. "No, Middlesbrough actually."

He smiled at me. "Near enough isn't it?"

Forty or so miles and a footballing rivalry dating back a hundred and twenty years. I let it go however: his own accent was West Country, and I very much doubted I'd be able to tell the difference between a Cornishman and  someone from Devon.

"I've spent most of my adult life in Nottingham though," I added. "Raleigh bicycles, design team. On my way back from a trade fair in Dusseldorf as it happens."

The deceit was necessary; it is a general truth that people tend to be much less forthcoming with anyone they even vaguely connect with authority than with those they don't.

I'd hoped that one summarised life story, albeit invented, would lead to another. The guy merely nodded again however, kept his attention focused on the big screen. I waited for the next break in play - an Italian rolling pathetically on the ground in feigned agony after a nothing  challenge - and offered my hand  across.