Andy Hawthorne

Connie Caskett at the pub, part 2 in the series.

The Star of Bethnal Green was proper heaving, Friday night proper, the kind where the air smelled of spilled lager and someone’s nan’s shepherd’s pie from the kitchen. 

Connie Caskett pushed through the door with her leather jacket still on, zips done up like armour, and the lads spotted her straight away.

—There she is! Darren shouted from the corner table, waving like he was directing traffic. —The bookworm herself!

Connie gave him the finger as she walked over, but she was grinning. Her hair was black as tar, chopped sharp at the shoulders, and she’d done her eyes heavy with liner, the way she did when she wanted to look like she could head butt a demon if it looked at her funny. She dropped into the seat they’d saved, the one with the ripped vinyl that always pinched your arse.

—Pint of what? Gaz asked, already half-standing.

—Guinness, she said. —And don’t start with the jokes yet, yeah? Let me get a sip in first.

Too late. The table erupted.

—Librarian! Darren said, like he’d just invented the word.

—Connie Caskett, queen of the Dewey Decimal. Shhh! No talking!

—I’m surprised you know what that is, said Connie. 

Darren put his finger to his lips, all theatrical. The others cracked up. Little Mick leaned in, elbows on the table, his Cannibal Corpse hoodie stretched tight.

—What d’you do all day then? he asked. —Polish the books? Whisper sweet nothings to the encyclopaedias?

—Fuck off, Mick, Connie said, but she was laughing.

—I shelve, I stamp, I tell kids to stop climbing the ladders. It’s dead normal.

—Normal? Darren said. —You? Normal? You were wearing an Ingested shirt to your interview, weren’t ya?

—Was not, Connie said. —It was Cattle Decapitation. Subtle difference.

Gaz came back with the pints, slopping a bit on the table as he put hers down.

—To Connie, he said, raising his glass. —Who somehow convinced a bunch of old dears in cardigans that she won’t blast Cannibal Corpse through the quiet reading area.

They clinked. Connie took a long pull, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

—They asked if I had experience with the public, she said. —I told ‘em yeah, I’ve dealt with pissed-up blokes in pits who think moshing’s a debate technique. Reckon that counts.

—You told them that? Mick said, eyes wide. —Straight up?

—Nah, Connie said. —I said I was good with people. Which is basically the same thing.

Darren leaned back, arms folded.

—So what’s the uniform then? Cardie and sensible shoes? Little name badge says “Connie – Ask Me About Books (But Not Slayer)”?

—Jeans and boots, same as always, Connie said. —They didn’t say nothing about dress code. Reckon they were just happy someone under forty applied.

Gaz nodded, serious for half a second.

—Fair play though, Con. Proper job. Not stacking shelves at Tesco or pulling pints here. Actual career. You’re posh now.

—Piss off, Connie said. —I’m still me. Still got the patch on my jacket that says “Fuck the System”. Just… quieter about it during opening hours.

Mick raised his glass again.

—To the quietest headbanger in Bethnal Green.

They drank. Someone put “South of Heaven” on the jukebox, low enough that the barman didn’t kill it. Connie leaned back, boots up on the spare chair, watching the lads take the piss out of each other now, moving on to Darren’s latest failed date.

She felt the buzz of the Guinness settling in her chest, warm and familiar. Librarian. Her. Who’d have thought.

—You alright? Gaz asked, quiet, just to her.

She nodded.

—Yeah, she said. —Feels weird. Good weird.

He smiled, small.

—Don’t go changing on us, yeah? We need someone to scare the normals.

Connie laughed, short and sharp.

—No chance, she said. —I’m keeping the horns. Just filing ’em under “Quiet” from nine to five.

The lads roared again at something Mick said. Connie sank lower in the seat, pint in hand, letting the noise wash over her like a riff she knew by heart. Bethnal Green, same as ever. And her, somehow, still fitting right in.