When the afternoon had arrived Clara and John left the bus close to the bar and walked the rest of the way and she noticed that John's pace got slower the closer they came to their destination.
“Are you alright?” she asked before they walked around a corner.
John sighed. “This is it. Just one more turn and we're there.”
“This street?”
“No,” John replied, “There is a vennel on the other side of the bar. It has a side entrance. I,” he paused, “I didn't want to go straight to the place.”
“It's okay,” Clara reassuring him, reaching for his hand again, “We'll get something to eat, have a beer and then we'll have a look together.”
It seemed to her as if Clara led the rest of the way, dragging him and his memories behind her as they entered the small pub. It looked cosy, though she assumed it had been redecorated in the past 25 years and that assumption was quickly confirmed by John as they took a seat in a corner. She left him there to order their drinks, relying on the barman's recommendations for that, and two portions of fish 'n chips. When Clara came back to the table with two bottles of Red Kite Ale, John laughed.
“The chips will be here in five minutes,” Clara announced as she sat back down, “What are you laughing at? Is this not good?”
John took the bottle from her and made a gesture for her to try it. She did.
“Oh dear, this is horrendous.”
“Well, average, I'd say. We'll survive though,” John laughed and Clara was glad he did.
Their food came and Clara watched as he ate slowly, only speeding up whenever she threatened to steal his chips but when the food was gone and they had finished their drinks Clara knew that it was time.
“Shall we go?” she asked carefully and John nodded.
He allowed her to take his hand again and lead him through the side entrance onto the small street where for the first time since they had gotten out of their seats he seemed to take a breath.
“Do you recognize anything?” Clara asked as they slowly stepped over the cobblestones.
John shrugged. “It's just the street. I've known it since I was a teenager.”
“So. . . no memories?”
“No memories,” he repeated.
Suddenly the door to the bar opened again and out of the corner of her eye Clara saw that a few men stepped outside, though she didn't pay a lot of attention to them.
“I'm telling you, it is him,” one of the men said.
“He wouldn't be so bloody daft,” another replied.
Clara watched as John turned around to look at the group and for the first time she counted them. They were four men, all of them around John's age.
“What is it?” she asked him carefully.
“Trouble,” he growled and tightened the grip around her hand.
“John?” one of the men called out, “John McCailín?”
“What do you want?” Clara heard John bark at him.
“McCailín?” she asked him in a hushed voice.
“My name,” he replied quietly, “Before I changed it.”
Clara didn't really understand what was happening, only that the four men that had followed them outside were slowly stepping closer.
“You're awfully brave to come back here, Johnny. After what you did to my wee brother,” one of the man stopped in front of them, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Now Clara understood what John had meant by 'trouble'. This was the brother of the man he was said to have killed. And he was taller and broader than John. Instinctively her other hand rose to John's arm.
“Don't be foolish, Lachlan. I didn't come here to start a fight.”
“No, you didn't. Wouldn't have brought your daughter along for that.”
Clara was about to launch forward and say something, but John squeezed her hand, holding her back.
The man called Lachlan sneered at both of them. “That means you're unprepared.”
The first blow hit John right in his face and he stumbled backwards, letting go off her hand as he did. Clara gasped in horror and before she could react another punch hit John in the stomach, making him squirm with pain. The third blow sent him to the ground and that was when Clara regained control over herself and stepped between Joh