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Few could bear to look at him, a dirty stranger in their midst, interrupting the insect-program they were bound to follow. Those that did, by accident or vaguely navigating around him, looked through him and beyond him. He was invisible here, and he liked that.
Along Market Street, between the centre of town and where the pedestrianised area ran out to meet the busy through-road was the Fighting Cock, an old public house miraculously untouched by the disease of the production line plastic facades. It’s age was etched on its face, apparent in the crumbling overpainted brickwork and half-timbers bowed with the weary years of bearing their load.
The pub still held to the tradition of a bar and a ‘best’ side and Vincent paused on the threshold to take comfort in how little the place had changed since his last visit. He examined the decorative stone moulding above the entranceway and identified a spot that had been renovated. There used to be a symbol there, masquerading as a faint coat-of-arms he remembered. The original marking was gone now, replaced by another, a representation of a lamb that most might mistake for a Christian symbol. He frowned a little and then made his way inside.
*
“Is Bob still the cellarman?” Vincent asked the barmaid as she put his pint down on the cardboard coaster in front of him.
“Yes.” She replied. “He is.” She gave him a quizzical look but didn’t offer any more help on the matter.
“Where is he?”
“He’s out back.” She said cautiously, wary for trouble.
“Can I speak to him?” Said Vincent. “Tell him Vincent’s in town.”
The barmaid nodded and disappeared through the door in the back of the bar.
After a short while, Bob the cellarman opened the inner door to the bar and quickly scanned the room. He was probably somewhere in his middle forties, long black hair tied into a ponytail and a thick moustache to match. He wore dusty, dark red overalls, faded and worn with age.
Bob the cellarman caught Vincent’s eye and nodded a perfunctory greeting. He waved him over.
“Vincent.” He acknowledged.
“Bob.”
“Want to see the gaffer?”
Vincent gave him a short nod.
“We’ve got a new guy running the show now, Vincent. You should know he’s a Progressive. It’s not like the old days.”
Vincent just stared at him.
“Come on then.” Said Bob. “He’s downstairs.”
Bob led Vincent through the smoky pub to a long ornate staircase that led up to the upper floors. The Lamb had been a hotel in a previous time but its accommodation had long been converted to function rooms. In the side of the casement was a misshapen cellar door that Bob unlocked with a key from a large ring containing a formidable collection.