As late afternoon gave way to evening, the pub was packed with locals and tourists. Opened in 1875 to serve workers from the now defunct Lion’s Den Tin Mine, the pub had a kind of grubby, disheveled, beer-soaked charm, a place where you could have a pleasant conversation with a stranger from another country, but where you also wouldn’t be surprised to see a girl stand on top of the bar, remove her shirt, and start dancing. At a picnic table in the corner sat six men. Despite their best efforts not to do so, they looked serious, their eyes darting about the room nervously. In the middle of the table was a pitcher of beer. A strange-looking man with spiked blond hair walked into the pub, eyed the table, then pushed his way through the crowd. “Could you have picked a place any more inconvenient?” asked Youssef, staring at Jamil. He sat down and grabbed a glass, filled it with beer, then chugged half of it quickly. “And by the way, where did these fucking Aussies learn to drive? I have never seen so many shitty fucking drivers in my goddamn life.”
