They knew each other better than they liked to admit, would occasionally look up from their amber lifelines and say a few words, like: ‘Seen John?’ ‘Huh?’ ‘John. Yer seen him. Around.’ ‘Not for a while.’ ‘Keepin’ a low profile, I reckon.’ ‘Yeah. Keepin’ his head down.’ Conversation picked up when the staff refilled glasses or reached for another stubby from the fridge. ‘What’s been happening today, Phil? You’re normally here before three.’ Rebecca grinned cheekily as she straightened the glass into the last few mils of the pour. ‘Aarrgh.’ He lit up another Craven A, adjusted his elbows on the bar. He threw her a look. There wasn’t much you could say to that. Rosie liked the guy on the left, behind the Matilda Bay tap. Tony, with greying blond hair, and not so long in the tooth as Phil, an ex pro-surfer, divorced, Rebecca had told her. He’d have a laugh listening to Phil and the others, to the gossip shared behind the bar, might swap a few jokes every now and then, but generally kept to himself.
