AI Rory stacked three empty pint glasses on her tray, the sticky lager residue gluing the rim of one to the back of her hand. She pried it loose, wiped the mess on the thigh of her scuffed black jeans, and leaned down to grab a crumpled salt and vinegar crisp packet from under the linoleum-topped table. The Raven’s Nest hummed around her, the low murmur of Saturday drinkers mixing with the crackle of a 90s Britpop track bleeding from the jukebox in the corner. Silas’s usual barman had called in sick with a stomach bug that morning, so Rory had traded her delivery bike for a bar towel for the night, glad for the extra cash to cover her council tax bill. The bar’s walls, lined with frayed old maps and smudged black and white photographs of Soho’s past, cast long shadows over the booths, and the green neon sign above the door bleached the faces of anyone who stepped through the entrance. When the brass bell above the door jingled, Rory glanced up, and the crisp packet slipped from her fingers.
The woman who walked in wore a tailored navy blazer over a cream silk blouse, her dark hair pulled so tight into a bun it pulled the skin at her temples taut. A thin gold wedding band glinted on her left hand as she brushed rain off her sleeve, and her heels clicked sharp against the scuffed wooden floor. For a second Rory thought she was just another city lawyer slumming it in Soho for the night, then the woman’s gaze locked on hers, and she moved across the bar, weaving between groups of drinkers, like she had been tracking Rory for months.
“Rory. I knew it was you. You still rub that crescent scar on your wrist when you’re frozen mid-thought.”
Rory’s thumb had been rubbing the small, pale mark on her left wrist, a leftover from a childhood bike crash in Cardiff, before she even registered the movement. She gripped the edge of her tray to steady it, the metal digging into her palms.
“Mairi. What the fuck are you doing in London?”
Mairi laughed, but the sound was thin, nothing like the loud, snorting laugh that used to echo through their sixth form common room, the one that had gotten them thrown out of more lessons than Rory could count. They had been inseparable, once. At 16, they had skipped their A-level mocks to get drunk on cheap white cider on the banks of Cardiff Bay, Mairi’s beat-up violin case propped against a lamppost, and mapped out their future: they would move to London together, rent a crumbling flat in Shoreditch, open a secondhand bookshop that sold coffee and homemade scones, never get married , never take boring 9-to-5 jobs, never be like their parents. They had written the plan in the back of Mairi’s poetry notebook, sealed it with a bottle of cheap glitter nail polish, and swore they would never let anything come between them. Then Rory had started dating Evan, and Mairi had faded from her life, first missed coffee dates, then unanswered texts, then nothing at all. Rory had spent years thinking Mairi had abandoned her, thought she had decided Rory’s mess wasn’t worth the effort.
Mairi slid into the booth in the far corner of the bar, the one furthest from the door, and Rory followed, setting her tray down behind the bar first. Silas looked up from polishing a tumbler, his silver signet ring catching the low light as he wiped a smudge from the glass. His auburn hair, streaked through with grey, fell over his forehead, and he tilted his head, a silent question. Rory nodded once, a signal that she was fine for now, and he went back to his work, though his hazel eyes stayed fixed on Mairi for a beat longer, the quiet vigilance of the ex-spy who never talked about his past but never hid his instincts either, his hand brushing the spine of the leather-bound atlas that swung open to the bar’s hidden back room if you knew the right trick.
Rory ordered two gins and tonics, set them on the table between them, and sat back. Mairi picked at a loose thread on the booth’s worn vinyl upholstery, her gaze darting to the door every few seconds, like she expected someone to follow her in.
“I got married two years ago. To Rhys. You remember Rhys, from our maths class? We have a little girl, Elin, she’s two. I work as a family solicitor in the city. Took me five years to qualify. I live in Dulwich. It’s nice. Quiet.” The words came out in a rush, like she had rehearsed them on the drive down from Cardiff.
Rory sipped her gin, the bitter tonic stinging the back of her throat. “You always said you’d rather busk on the Oxford Street tube than work a 9-to-5. Said solicitors were just barrister’s errand boys.”
Mairi flinched. “A lot changes in six years, Rory. You can’t stay 17 forever. You can’t plan your whole life when you’re still stupid enough to think the world owes you something.”
“You didn’t just come here to tell me I grew up, did you? You hated London. Said the smog would ruin your violin’s strings. You haven’t so much as sent me a birthday text since I left Cardiff. What’s so important that you drove four hours to track me down in a Soho bar?”
Mairi’s hand closed around her glass so tight her knuckles whitened. She was silent for a long time, the noise of the bar swallowing the space between them. Silas turned the jukebox up, a new track blaring, but Rory didn’t miss the way Mairi’s breath hitched when she spoke.
“I stopped talking to you because I was scared. I saw him hit you, once, outside your flat. I said I’d go to the police, and he told me if I breathed a word, he’d hurt my little brother. I was 19, Rory. I didn’t know what to do. I thought if I stayed away, he’d leave me alone. I’ve carried that every day since. I’m sorry.” The words spilled out, raw, and Mairi swiped at a tear that tracked down her cheek, fast, like she was ashamed of it. “I saw him three weeks ago. In Cardiff city centre, outside the Wetherspoons we used to go to. He saw me, he came over. He was asking about you. Said he’d heard you moved to London, that he needed to track you down to give you your old stuff back, the books you left at his flat, your grandmother’s necklace. Said he wanted to apologize, that he’d changed.” Mairi paused, swallowed hard. “I didn’t believe him. Rory, he was drunk. He kept slurring your name, he said if I didn’t tell him where you were, he’d find out anyway. That he had a mate who works in delivery app security, that he saw your profile for that restaurant, the Golden Empress. He knew you worked in Soho. He knew you lived above a bar.”
Rory’s blood turned to ice in her veins. She had thought she was safe here, that Evan had given up looking for her, that the two years she had spent hiding in London had been enough to make him move on. She had told no one but Eva and Silas where she was, had changed her last name on all her official paperwork, had stayed off social media entirely. For a second she couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, then she registered the sound of the brass bell above the door jingling again.
She looked up. Evan was standing in the entrance, his leather jacket soaked through with rain, his face twisted into a snarl as he scanned the bar. His gaze locked on hers, across the crowded room, and he started to walk towards her. Silas moved first, pushing off from the bar, his old knee injury making him limp as he rounded the end of the bar, but he was still ten feet away, and Evan was already three steps from their booth.