Hands Across the Water

They were late finishing, but the barman had already called the lock-in. Everyone stayed. It was just the band in the snooker club, sitting around the tables; a few bare-chested, his dad among them, his sodden T-shirt stuffed into his bag. Stevie sat next to his dad, and he could feel the heat off him, his skin and his jeans, his red ears. There were a lot of red ears round the tables; eyes down and stop–start conversations. Heads trying not to turn to the bar where Shug was talking with the guest. Or anyhow listening while the guest spoke, frowning serious, and then laughing at his jokes.

A bucket went round the room. Stevie had seen a bucket go round after practice before, collecting coins for sick kids or band funds. But there were no coins going in it this time, only notes, and Stevie saw his dad tuck the fiver back into his pocket when the bucket came closer. He threw in a tenner: didn’t want his blue standing out among the brown and purple.

This is an extract from ‘Hands Across the Water’ by Rachel Seiffert in Granta 119: Britain. You can pre-order a copy or subscribe and receive four issues a year of the best new writing.

You can also see Rachel Seiffert at Granta events in Belfast on 10 May, Glasgow on 15 May, Bristol on 17 May, London on 21 and 22 May and Dublin on 7 June.