Finding Fraser(26)

“An’ the craic is,” Rabbie said, his face pushed right across the table into his friend’s, “her feet are bound so tightly they practically form a perfect hole.”

He had his fingers held up in an ‘OK’ sign, which he quickly dropped when he realized I was standing there.

“Oh, ye know—all girls are lovely,” he said, quickly. “Chinese, American—what’s the difference, right? I love ’em all.” He smiled into my eyes. “Truly, I do.”

“I’ve got to get going,” I said, hastily. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Nae, nae—ye cannae leave yet,” cried Rabbie. He slid over, and I could see my backpack sitting there on the bench seat. One quick grab and I could be off. “Look—here’s another drink jes’ waitin’ for ye. One fer the road, aye?”

I leaned in to put a hand on my backpack and found myself bodily hauled back into my seat. That Wee Rabbie had some decent upper body strength.

I wilted into my seat and had a sip of the new drink, which, strangely enough, tasted even better than the last.

Upper body strength and magic potions—what was up with this guy, anyway?

“So,” he said, placing both his hands cozily over mine. “As a woman, you might know this. Have yeh heard of anything more effective than a vinegar bath for chlamydia? Itches like hell, mind.”

Just then, a dark-haired girl pushed her way passed our table, drink in one hand and backpack slung over her shoulder. Desperate, I hatched an instant, if slightly alcohol-befuddled plan. “Susan!” I called out to the woman. “Oh my god! I can’t believe it’s you!”

She kept walking, clearly having not heard me and focused on finding a spot to set her drink. It didn’t matter.

“Sorry, guys—it’s been … uh—fascinating—talking with you, but I’ve got to go.” I stood up as much as the table would allow and leaned on Rabbie’s chair a little.

His eyes lit up, and he peered at the back of her head as she walked deeper into the pub. “Ye know her, do ye? Well, invite her to sit with us! We can make room.” He pushed his chair over, effectively blocking Craig from having any space to let me out. My heart sank. I started to babble.

“Oh, no—it’s fine, really. She’s—she’s my cousin. I haven’t seen her for years. I didn’t know she was even in the country.”

“No worries—she’s welcome,” he insisted, and then yelled “SUSAN!!!!” across the bar in a voice guaranteed to stop any sexually transmitted disease in its tracks. The entire pub actually fell silent for a moment as everyone turned to look at the source of the bull-sized bellow.

Everyone except the woman with the backpack.

“She’s deaf,” I said, and gave a single desperate hip check to my pack. It ricocheted uselessly off one of Rabbie’s stevedore arms, but his beer slid perilously close to the edge of the table and he leaned forward to steady it.

That was all I needed. I pulled my knees up to my chest, planted my feet on the bench seat and vaulted over his head.

I cleared him by a full foot, I swear.

“Very, very deaf,” I repeated, as if nothing had happened. “I’ll just go catch up with her and bring her back to the table, okay?”

The surrounding pub noise rose up again, once it became clear there was no fight or other interesting occurrence about to break out. Both men beamed amiably and clinked glasses.

“Ach, that’s brilliant, Craigy-boy,” Rabbie said cheerfully. “Now there’ll be one for you to take home tonight wi’ ye, too.”

He stood up in his seat and craned his neck back at her. “Look at that dark hair! She’s not Chinese, is she?” he asked, hopefully.

I turned my back and fled.

Clutching my pack to my chest, I pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar. My knee was killing me, having bashed it on the table as I took the leap, but I considered it a war wound, and well worth the outcome.

The young woman with the backpack had disappeared, but the girl who had served our drinks earlier was standing beside the bar, loading beer onto her enormous tray.

“Is there a back way out of here?” I hissed in her ear.

She grinned. “Had enough of our Mister Rowanby, have ye?”

I shot her a pleading look.

“Righ’. No’ that I blame ye—he’s a bit much to handle, sometimes. But ye likely should know…” she leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Forget the whole ‘gnome’ thing. He’s also known as ‘Rabbie the tripod,’ and for good reason, luv.”

She grinned at my look of horror. “Righ’, righ’—I see he’s no’ for you. No worries. Just past the bogs there’s a door marked ‘private’. Inside’s a flight o’ stairs. Beneath the landing is another door that’ll lead you out to the lane.”