The man was very tall and painfully thin. He wore black cyclists’ clothes and a crisp white helmet that is almost as pale as his face. He didn’t smile. He looked like he should be famine but said his name is War.
‘Like the band?’ said Bernie. ‘Lowrider and the like.’
War didn’t smile.
Perhaps inspired by War’s appearance, The Old Iron Horse’s barman put a pint of Guinness in front of him, and his dour face turns into a smile.
‘Oh, bugger,’ said War. ‘It’s been donkeys’ years since I had a decent pint of Guinness.’
War puts his racing bike keys on the bar.
‘Have you ever been to Hell,’ said War.
He sipped his stout.
‘Well, there’s a place in Norway and another in Poland. I’ve never fancied either. Too chilly for the old rheumatism,’ said Bernie.
‘Don’t be flippant. Lucy’s joint. Th
