Our Colin

Phil Carter went through the double doors and into the social club. The room was like any other club in the Northwest, with round tables and stools filling the room, and a bar running along one end. Phil could almost hear a cheesy lounge singer murdering songs from the Nineteen Seventies. The place was empty, so he headed straight for the bar. He might as well have a pint while he waiting for the other mourners to arrive.

As the barman was pulling him a pint of lager, he asked Phil what he did for a living.

‘I’m a local businessman.’ Phil replied.

The barman nodded, knowing exactly what that meant. Gangsters, villains, thugs, and anyone who lived on the wrong side of the law, were described in this way, usually before they were sent to prison for their many crimes.

‘And you knew the deceased?’ asked the barman.

‘Oh yeah,’ said Phil. ‘Colin was a decent bloke. He helped me out of many a tough corner over the years.’

The doors opened and when Phil saw the three people coming in, he almost chocked on his pint. The newcomers were dressed in bright orange robes and had cropped, close-cut hair. They approached the bar and ordered glasses of tap water. Phil went over, a polite smile on his face.

‘Why don’t you treat yourselves to bottled water? Live a little.’ Phil laughed.

‘The single use plastic is an environmental issue.’ one of them replied.

‘Are you lot in the right room?’ asked Phil.

‘We’ve come to pay our respects to Colin.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Indeed. He was very good to our temple.’

Phil was surprised. Colin had hardly seemed the type of person to do voluntary work, or donate his hard-earned cash, regardless of the goodness of the cause. The Colin he knew wasn’t very charitable nor spiritual.

A group of young lads entered and ordered pints of lager. Intrigued as to who the latest arrivals were, Phil took a swig of his pint and went over.

‘Alright, lads. You knew Colin, then?’

‘Aye,’ one lad nodded. ‘Col was the head trainer.’

‘Of what?’

‘Salford Boxing Academy. Several of the fighters he trained have gone on to become champions.’

While Phil was trying to figure out quite how a friend he thought he knew reasonably well could have had so many different sides to him, the door opened and five people in their sixties and seventies entered. Moving with great agility for their years, they marched quickly to the bar, and ordered a round of drinks that varied from pots of tea, to neat whiskey and cask bitter.

Phil ordered another pint of lager and, getting used the questioning the newcomers, he went over. He went up to a guy in his late sixties. The guy had a scraggly beard and a long ponytail. Phil asked his question.

‘Colin was such a wonderful person.’ The guy said. ‘He was our Tai Chi teacher.’

‘No way.’

‘Yep, every Tuesday morning in Eccles. Colin said that my Yang Style Short Form was the best this side of Guangdong Province.’

Phil simply nodded, completely lost for words.

While Phil had been chatting to the Tai Chi student mover people had entered the room. This group was made up of men and woman of varying ages. Determined to leave nobody out of his line of enquiries, and wondering quite what else he would discover about Colin, Phil went to them.

A woman with short hair and long dangly earrings smiled.

‘We knew Colin from the Comedy Club. He was such a great host and his comic timing was just outstanding.’

Yet again, Phil was shocked. He couldn’t recall having ever heard his friend tell a joke. He couldn’t imagine him performing a stand-up routine.

Phil spotted the priest from the church sitting alone at a table. The priest was sipping a half of bitter and was lost in thought.

‘Lovely service today, Father.’ Phil said.

‘I wanted to give Father Colin the very best send-off I could.’

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom