Lindie Heeralall

Dark wood panelling and frosted windows divide the old London boozer into corners and crevices for loosened tongues to reveal hidden truths. I am with a friend. I get up to powder my nose and follow a small ‘Ladies’ sign at the back left corner of the pub. As I walk past the fireplace, I notice a man sitting on a wooden bench. He is large, angular with choppy grey hair and ashen skin on a square face. His features, his clothing, his bearing, are from another time, 1800s or early 1900s maybe.

The man sits with knees wide apart and a hand resting on his pint glass. He stares into the flames and their orange glow glints in his one good eye. His expression is full of intent. I wonder what he is thinking. Dark deeds, vengeance, hatred or is he brewing upon things lost – love, family, children, money, a home.

I make my way down a badly lit, narrow steep staircase to the basement. The Victorian tiles and the strip lighting create a shadowy light, a peculiar heavy atmosphere thick with something that crowds around me and tells me not to linger. When I resurface and walk past the fire, the bench is empty, and I question whether I had seen him at all.

This was twenty years ago, or more. I think the pub was somewhere in West Central London, Bond Street perhaps. I cannot remember its’ name nor who I was with that day. But I will always remember the man by the fire.