Error Of Judgement

-‘We’re knackered, now!’ I said, out of breath. Doc rolled his eyes, unable to reply, busy heaving in a huge gulp of air, purple with exertion. And why not? It’s hard to run after fifteen hours on the toot, as he so quaintly called it. He was dressed as usual according to the Border Farmer’s Template #2 : dances, informal dinners and meetings at the bank. That is, stout brogues, twill and Harris Tweed jacket. Not a common look in the fleshpots of Berlin, I admit.
And we were knackered: stuffed, stymied, stiffed or just plain fucked, if you prefer.
The concrete wall at the end of our blind alley truly marked it as a dead end. Our pursuers hadn’t yet followed us in, but they would.
- ‘What the hell did you say,eh?’ Not that it mattered, the tall figure had taken the worst kind of offence.
- ‘Nothin' bad, no really’
And it might have been OK,on neutral ground; the Hofbrauhaus opposite the Zoo, say, or the Irish Bar in the Europa Centre. But we hadn’t been on neutral ground.
Two bare hours earlier, Ranke Drei, the Warsteiner Pub, had kicked out at two a.m. We hadn’t had too much to drink then, since we’d left under our own steam with only a few expletives to help us on our way. Friendly ones that is; Adriana, behind the bar, had once gone out with a Royal Welch Fusilier from Mountain Ash and the only English she could remember was ‘Fuck off, you English bastards’. Useful in the valleys I suppose. So, at 2.15 we’d had a choice; a taxi ride to Charlottenburg and ten marks a beer, or nip further off the beaten track into the bars on the sidestreets near the Ku’damm and Uhlandstrasse. We’d been in a few of these before, and, well, if we didn’t find precisely the one we wanted, we’d stumble on another.

- ‘Shall we no get a taxi, then?’ Doc whined, we hadn’t seen a light in an hour of walking.
-‘ Look, we’re bound to find one in a minute… turn left here.’
I looked up at the street sign; ‘Katzenjammerstrasse’ it looked like. We took the turn. About fifty yards down was a violent splash of pink neon: ‘Fingerhutte’ it read.
- ‘What’s it called?’ asked Doc.
- ‘It means ‘Thimbles’.’ I replied.
- ‘What sort of name for a pub is that?’
- ‘It’s a good name for one that’s still open.’ I said.
It had about three metres of frontage, so I reckoned they were saving a lot on rates. The sign was as wide as the pub. The window looked very dark. There was a Judas hole arrangement in the door. We knocked.
- ‘Are you open?’ I asked, in pigeon German.
- ‘Of course.’ A shaved, moustachioed head looked us both up and down. ‘Are you sure you want to come in?’
- ‘Of course we are. I’m gagging for a drink.’ Doc told him.
The lights inside reflected off the gatekeeper’s pate as he bent to draw back the bolts. Doc gave me a relieved grin and a thumbs up as he barged past on his way to the bar.
- ‘Have you ordered yet?’ I asked,after a hard fight to get alongside him.
- ‘’course I have. Two beers.’ He smiled proudly at me.
- ‘You weren’t asked if you’d prefer a snowball?’
- ‘What are you on about?’
- ‘Just look around the bar, Doc. Don’t kick off, just take a look.’
He looked. Then he looked like he’d stepped into a bar on another planet.
- ‘Its… we’re… ‘ he couldn’t even say it.
I put my hand on his arm.
- ‘Yeah, that’s right. Listen, what we’re going to do is: drink our beer, speak when we’re spoken to, pay the bill, leave a good tip and go, alright?’
He nodded slowly, like a serious child.
It was a small operation. The shaven headed biker-type was doing duty as the only barman. He nodded at me, maybe he was saying I’d handled the situation ok. The clientele was quite subdued; maybe that was our fault. The music was playing at a civilised level for conversation; Erasure, Andy and Vince churning out electro-pop. I felt sorry for Doc.

- 'No, Gala Rugby Club, is it?' he recovered enough to say.

Inevitably, someone came up to try their luck. Jacket and tie, fashionably cut: he looked like a lawyer or a banker. He spoke immaculate English:
- ‘Your first time here?’ he raised an eyebrow at me.
- ‘Yep, a mutual friend has played a joke on us…’ I gestured at Doc and shrugged.
- ‘Ah… you won’t be staying, then?’
- ‘We’ll finish our beer if that’s ok?’
- ‘Of course, my name is Kurt. I am the owner, please have another drink and then by all means take your leave.’
He smiled, I supposed this wasn’t the first time someone had blundered in by mistake. Kurt held two fingers up to the biker and made his retreat. I was starting to think we would depart with our dignity - and the other customers’ – intact. Doc drained the last of his second beer. I winked at Kurt and headed for the exit. I stepped round a tall woman. And Doc didn’t. I was half way out the door. Turning, I saw an amicable conversation… until a large meaty hand slapped Doc’s face. I went back, grabbed his arm and frog-marched him out. The door slammed behind us. We stood under the street light, I was too angry to speak. The door opened, Kurt and the tall woman came out shouting
- ‘Hey, wait…!
But we were already running.
- ‘This way, it’s this way. Two left turns and we’ll be on the Kantstrasse, in the light and in the traffic, come on.’
We ran. I was wrong. So we were waiting by overflowing skips, in front of a concrete wall, in a dead-end street.
- 'Come on, what did you say then?'
- 'I only asked if the bristles didna ruin his tights.' He gave a lop-sided grin and looked down the alley.
- ‘Ready for a kickin’ then?’ asked Doc.
- ‘Have to be, won’t we?’
Kurt and the woman had appeared at the alley mouth. I could see Doc tense up.
- ‘You really must be more careful, gentlemen!’ said Kurt, as he handed Doc his wallet.