7 – FLIRTING WITH DANGER

'Hold out your arm, please,' says the girl in a bored voice from Crazy 8s ticket booth. The entrance lobby to the snooker hall is dark and cramped, and her pixie-styled peroxided hair glows. Already I can feel myself wanting to leave the claustrophobic stuffiness of the place.

I hold out my arm, wrist turned up, and she stamps it with little sensitivity or regard for the stamp's placement. It is a smudged green-ink image of two cue sticks crossed over a solid ball with the number 8 carved into it. Already the ink is bleeding into the 8 design.

Inside, the snooker hall hums with the sound of a hundred conversations, pop music plays weakly in the background, and shadowy figures hang out by the two dozen or so snooker and pool tables that fill the L-shaped room. Makes sense. It is Friday night after all. Lamps are hung low, making the green baize on the tables glow like oases in a darkened desert, but the people around them take on an eerie quality as their faces remain in shadow.

To the left is a bar propped up by middle-aged men watching the football on a widescreen television and flirtatious girls dressed scantily to get their drinks paid for them.

Beside me, Max crosses his arms and wrinkles his nose in disgust. 'And people pay to come in here? I've seen opium bars with more class.'

'Stop it, Max. You're sounding more and more like a parent every day,' I say out of the corner of my mouth.

I think of Dad, sitting at home, probably also watching the footie, already on his fourth or fifth drink. How he hadn't shown much interest in where I was going on a Friday night. Granted, he had asked, and I had lied, but it had been a very poor lie and for a private investigator the least he could have done was look a bit further into it.

I spot my target and, feeling conspicuous, move down the aisle alongside the rows of pool tables and find a stool in a shadowy corner where I won't draw attention to myself. For once, I don't have Spock with me so hopefully my cover won't get blown.

From my stool, I can watch Jonathan and a few friends – two girls and a guy – at a nearby table. They're not loud and don't appear to laugh much. Their conversation is casual and understated, their attention focussed on the game.

'He was quick in finding a new girlfriend,' says Max in my ear.

I strain to hear their conversation but the ambient murmur of pool and snooker enthusiasts enjoying their Friday night make it impossible. 'I can't hear what they're saying.'

Max steps back to avoid someone walking into him and instead reverses into someone else who shivers and looks around, rubbing his bare tattooed arms. Max gives me an uneasy look. 'Noa, I really don't think this is our crowd, do you?'

I grin at him. 'Not exactly a ball at the Darcys', you mean?'

'If you are referring to Jane Austen's novel, then I'll have you know that was almost a century before my era. It's like me saying you socialise like Jay Gatsby.'

I snort, trying not to laugh too loud. People would think I'm weird. Or weirder.

We watch the game. Jonathan is a mean pool player and pots ball after ball with unflinching accuracy. As he leans over the table, his spikes glow in the lamp light and his piercings glitter.

He pots the black ball with a sharp crack of the pool cue and stands up straight and triumphant, his attention now relaxed. His eyes stray around the room, and I hold my breath. Our eyes meet, and a frown drifts across his face before it floods with recognition.

'Crap,' I mutter through clenched teeth. 'I seriously have to work on my tailing skills.'

With nothing left to lose, I hop off my stool. My legs have taken on a jellified consistency making the crossing to Jonathan feel like a tight rope walk.

'Wait!' exclaims Max. 'Where are you going?'

It's too late for me to respond. Jonathan is watching me. I smile at him as I get closer, try to appear shy and timid. I don't have to try too hard on this occasion.

Jonathan balances his folded arms on his pool cue and grins. 'Look who it is. Our local Trekker.'

'I thought it was you,' I reply.

Jonathan scans the ground around my feet and raises a metal eyebrow. 'No dog today?'

I shake my head. 'He's more into bowling than pool.'

Jonathan laughs, attracting the attention of the rest of his group.

The other boy gestures to me with the triangle as he resets the table. 'Who's this?'

He wears a dark t-shirt with its sleeves ripped off to best display his muscular arms and tattoos that reach from his forearms down to his hands. All I can make out are the screaming skulls and bloodshot eyeballs inked into his skin. The shadows cast by the low-hung lamp make him appear even more intimidating.

Jonathan looks at me, his expression questioning.

'N-Noa,' I stumble out. 'My name's Noa.' On second thoughts, should I have given a fake name?

Too late, Jonathan passes his pool cue into his other hand and holds out his right to shake mine. His gaze is curious, almost flirtatious. 'Hello, Noa. I'm Jonathan. That's Taff, Hails and Angie.'

'Hi,' I squeak. I raise a hand in greeting but drop it quickly when it shakes uncontrollably.

'So, what brings you here? You meeting someone?' asks Jonathan.

I grab hold of the excuse he's offered me, and nod. 'Yes! That's it. Um, my friend – er – Max –'

'What?' says Max, alert as a meerkat.

'He was – I mean, we were meant to, you know, meet up, shoot some pool.' I make a poor imitation of hitting a ball with an air cue stick and feel even more stupid than before. 'Kind of like that, yeah…' I drift off.

Max looks haughtily on, arms crossed over his baggy gypsy shirt. 'I wouldn't have the first idea how to play. This wasn't around in my time.'

I try to ignore him, this is difficult enough, too difficult in fact. I look at my watch. 'I guess he's not coming.'

'Are you local?' asks Jonathan, delaying my escape.

My mind switches from awkward teenager to PI in a nanosecond as I'm presented with yet another opportunity to fish for details about my prime suspect. 'I am now.' Thankfully, my voice has returned to its normal pitch. 'I only moved here recently,' I lie. 'Everything's still a bit new to me.'

'Where are you from?'

'London. Are you local?'

Jonathan exchanges amused smiles with his friends. 'More or less.'

'Gosh, you're lucky. Cambridge is so easy to get lost in.' This time I'm not lying. I've also been living here all my life and I still get lost.

Jonathan shrugs. 'Do you want a game while you wait for your friend? Max, was it?'

'I'm right here, thank you very much,' said Max, glaring at the competition. 'And it's no wonder you don't see me here. I wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this.'

'You are dead,' I say, through the pretence of a cough.

'What?' says Jonathan, giving me a strange look.

'Um, you're dead meat, I meant. I'm a bad ass pool player. You sure you want to take me on?'

Jonathan grins. 'I like your confidence.'

My cheeks burn with embarrassment. What am I getting myself into? 'Well, if you're sure. Thanks.' I wring my hands awkwardly and look at the other members of the group. 'If you're sure I'm not jumping the queue?'

The girls, Hails and Angie, have lost interest and are chatting between themselves and Taff just shrugs and hands me his pool cue.

'I'm off to get us some more drinks,' he says.

'You want to break?' offers Jonathan.

I shake my head. I don't know that I'll even hit the white ball successfully, never mind break up the rest of the balls. 'You go ahead.'

Jonathan moves to the top of the table and forms a bridge with his fingers like a tarantula sitting on the green baize. For the first time, I notice pink marks on his hands, consistent with burn injuries, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his jacket. He strikes the white ball and scatters the rest. A striped ball bumps down a side pocket.

'You're solid,' he says.

'Thanks, nice of you to say so,' I reply, deliberately misunderstanding him.

Jonathan laughs. He takes his second shot and the ball bounces off the cushion. He then steps back and gestures for me to take my first shot.

I take a deep breath and step forward. With difficulty I line up a shot. My hands are still trembling. Okay, accepting a game probably wasn't such a good plan, telling him I was a bad ass pool player an even worse idea, but I was nervous and how else was I going to talk to him?

I shoot. And miss. Badly.

'Oh God,' says Max, burying his face in his hands. 'Have you ever played before?'

'I'm a little out of practice.'

Jonathan just smiles, takes another shot, sinks the next two balls. 'So, what brings you to Cambridge, Noa?'

He lines up his third shot, pauses, alters the trajectory. The ball bounces off the cushion, missing the pocket, but still leaves me with a tricky shot ahead.

'My dad's work. He's a pri–' I'm focussing on the game so much that I almost blow my cover. 'A private equity investor.'

Jonathan looks impressed. 'Really? Sounds a very high end job. The sort that you don't even know what they mean, let alone how to do them. What exactly is a private equity investor?'

I inwardly cringe. 'Um… invests people's money?' I take a wild guess, then spot another opportunity for Jonathan to warm to me (if my theory of Holly's personality is correct, of course). 'I don't know,' I say with an insolent shrug. 'It all kinda bores me anyway.'

Jonathan laughs.

Confidence reasserted, I line up my next shot to close that particular subject. Max moves to the other side of the table, leaning down to examine shot options. He puts his finger on the cushion. 'I've been watching the others. It's really not as complicated as it seems. Just aim for my finger.'

I do as I'm told. The cue ball bounces off the cushion right where Max has his forefinger pressed, knocks into a solid ball which tumbles into the top right pocket. Max beams at me and gives a mini fist pump.

'I did it!' I can't help but cry.

Jonathan smiles. 'Good shot. Your go again.'

My world glows. 'Thank you.'

I line up another shot with Max's help. Playing pool really isn't helping me think up questions that might help deduce Jonathan's guilt. Contrary to Max's earlier claim, we still end up missing the next pot. He waggles his finger at me.

'My finger, Noa. Aim for my finger, not his beer.'

'So, what brings the daughter of a private equity investor to a pool hall?'

By the way Jonathan says it, I get the impression he's teasing me, having fun. It must mean he's relaxed. His guard is down. I just have to keep it that way.

I shrug, trying to channel how I imagine Holly might have acted. 'He's not the boss of me.'

Jonathan grins. 'I like that.'

Is he seriously flirting with me? Not even two weeks after he's potentially murdered his girlfriend? 'Um, what else is there to do in Cambridge?'

'Plenty. You just got to know where to look.'

He pots another ball and is well on his way to winning the game. I bite my lip. The game is going to be over soon and I've made absolutely no progress with him.

'What do you do, Jonathan? Do you work? Go to college?'

Jonathan snorts and shakes his head. 'I work at a stone mason's; as an apprentice. When did you move to Cambridge?'

My brain clicks into overdrive as I search for an answer that will progress this 'interview'. 'Nearly three weeks ago. That Monday we had the massive thunderstorm? Not the best day to be moving furniture.' It was also the day Holly went missing.

'Ah, yes,' says Jonathan with a nod. 'I remember that. I was helping a friend to move that day too, strangely enough.'

My ears prick up. Was 'moving a friend' a euphemism for killing them perhaps?

'Where were they going?'

'Not far.' He gives me a smile that sends chills down my spine. The twinkle in his eyes, the thin curve of his mouth, I can see he's playing with me. 'Your shot.'

I snap back to the game. My hands are trembling again, so much so I completely miss-hit the cue ball.

'What was that?' demands Max from the sidelines. 'Come now, Noa, don't let me down here. Concentrate. Remember my finger.'

'I'll show you the finger in a minute,' I mutter as I step back to make way for Jonathan.

'What?' he says, looking at me in surprise.

I bat my hand at him. 'Sorry, just talking to myself. I'm playing like such a girl.'

Jonathan looks mildly unimpressed with my excuse. 'No such thing. Girls can be just as good.'

'I suppose your girlfriend is really good, isn't she?' I look in the direction of Hails and Angie, who are only keeping one eye on the game.

Jonathan smiles and shakes his head. 'Neither of them are my girlfriend. Hails is with Taff. Angie's boyfriend is working late tonight.'

I attempt a coquettish look, batting my eyelashes like they do in movies. 'Do you have a girlfriend?'

Jonathan looks at me, unblinking, unsmiling. I search his face for a clue to his thoughts, but he's totally unreadable. Finally, he blinks.

'Yeah,' he says. That's all. I wonder if he's referring to Holly, acting the grieving and innocent 'widowed' boyfriend, or to someone new, found at the earliest opportunity having no remorse for murdering his last one.

'Oh, that's too bad,' I say, feigning disappointment. 'Where is she tonight?'

Jonathan stills, his eyes narrow. My heart beats faster in my chest and I hold my breath.

'She's away at the minute,' he replies.

'On holiday?'

'Careful, Noa,' Max murmurs. 'He's getting suspicious.'

I know, but I can't help myself. I just desperately need to find out more about his and Holly's relationship.

'Something like that,' says Jonathan and his voice is steely. 'What about this Max guy? Isn't he your boyfriend?' He raises a challenging eyebrow, deflecting the questions away from himself.

Max looks uncomfortable and I fob Jonathan off with a wave of my hand.

'Oh, crumbs, no. Not Max.'

Max looks at me, affronted. 'What? Why not Max? What's wrong with Max?'

Jonathan nods, dropping the subject, and resumes the game. In a matter of seconds he has potted the last two striped balls and finally the black ball. He holds up his hands in an apologetic gesture. 'Sorry.'

'Don't be,' I say. 'I enjoyed it.'

Taff returns with six bottles of beer linked between his fingers and deposits them on the table next to the girls. 'Who won?'

'Who do you think?' I joke.

Jonathan smiles, his expression less guarded again. 'Maybe we'll see you around again.' He holds out his hand and I shake it. His grip is firm, his palm rough with callouses. His message is unmistakable.

'Well, thanks for the game,' I say, feeling awkward that my presence is no longer required. I bid farewell to the others and make my exit.

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2016