Meeting Mr Joyland in the pub seemed most irregular to me, but he insisted, and I didn't see the point in arguing. What did it matter where we met? The sole purpose of our meeting was to conduct some simple business and depart.
So, I made my way there and stepped inside, instantly looking around for my mystery informant. For we had yet to meet, and it was only now that it occurred to me that he hadn't given me any indication of what he looked like. How exactly had he supposed I would find him, with just a phone call to go on?
A hand tapped my shoulder and I spun around.
The man before me held out his hand and nodded, "Francis Joyland. I believe you're here to see me."
I wordlessly shook his hand, though I felt a little confused and almost embarrassed by my own confusion. This was because I had formed some kind of idea in my mind, while I had searched for him. I had recalled our phone call and tried to picture him. And now, realising how wrong I had been, I felt growing guilt.
From his deep, booming voice and his self-assured manner, I had expected someone with more presence. A big, muscular and youthful man with strong features who dominated the room around him.
This man – The real Francis Joyland – Couldn't have been less like that. He was a wiry man of about sixty, quite small in stature and more so because he stooped so. He had a thin, sharp face with a crooked nose and tiny, beady grey eyes.
Whereas I had pictured him as his attitude, showy and intimidating. Not that he wasn't intimidating now, in his own way, especially not when he was staring at me. But I had imagined that all-knowing, calm stare that looks through you and chills you to the bone. His kind of intimidation came in the form of a gaze filled with pure hatred.
I had only just begun to work with him and I already wanted this to be over.
