Page 25 of The Lucky Winners
The Watcher
He steps out of his old Nissan, stretching his back as he stands in front of the B-and-B. It’s a squat, stone-built cottage, the kind that looks as if it’s been standing for centuries, its thick walls holding on to secrets.
The small front garden is a charming tangle of untamed lavender and rosemary, their scent stirring in the breeze, and the path they frame is uneven, cracked at the edges. A hanging basket by the door drips with trailing ivy, a bright splash of petunias at odds with the overcast sky.
He presses the bell. A moment later, the door swings open, and a woman fills the frame.
She’s short but solid, a bit like the cottage, and she has cropped grey hair and sharp blue eyes.
‘Hi there! I’m Monica, and I’ll be looking after you for the duration of your stay. ’ She pauses and he remains quiet.
She steps aside to usher him in, and he moves past her into a narrow hallway. The air is thick with the scent of furniture polish and a sweet smell, like stewed fruit.
‘Breakfast is served between seven and eight thirty. No later. If you miss it, you miss it – no exceptions.’ Monica points to a door on the left before starting to climb the stairs.
‘And no eating in your room, please.’ She turns to ensure he’s following.
‘I had a chap in last month who thought he could keep cheese under his bed, and I had to fumigate the place when he left.’
She leads him up the stairs, her voice carrying easily in the confined space.
‘If you want an evening meal, you’ll need to let me know by four. There’s the Pike and Anchor down the road if you’re not fussy. The food’s decent, the beer’s better.’ She stops at the top of the stairs, eyeing him. ‘And keep the TV low. I don’t want car chases rattling my walls at midnight.’
‘I won’t be watching any television,’ he says.
She pushes open a door and steps back. ‘Here we are. This is your room. You’ll find it small, but clean and orderly.’
He steps inside. The room is plain and sparsely furnished with whitewashed walls and a narrow bed with a stiff-looking quilt.
There’s a small writing desk pushed up against the window and a metal rail with a few empty hangers in the corner.
The en-suite is barely bigger than a cupboard, with a toilet, washbasin and shower cubicle, but it’s enough. It’s perfect, in fact.
He crosses to the window, and as he pulls back the lace curtain, his pulse gives a small, satisfying kick at the unexpected bonus.
There it is. Lakeview House, perched on the hill in the near distance.
Its glass walls glint under the grey sky, the structure an angular, futuristic blot against the splendour of the rolling green hills.
From here, he can just about make out the terrace and a stretch of lawn sloping down towards the lake. It’s closer than he expected.
‘Nice view from this room,’ Monica says, glancing past him. ‘If you ignore the eyesore.’
He turns. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The new house. Lakeview, they call it.’ She sniffs. ‘Just doesn’t fit. All fancy glass and cold steel, sticking out like a sore thumb. Some people have no taste.’ She pats the door frame. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Shout if you need anything.’
The door clicks shut behind her, and he lets out a slow breath, turning back to the window and the view of Janey’s house. That’s what he’ll be calling it.
Yes. This will do nicely.
He unzips his overnight bag and lays out his things with quiet precision.
A fresh shirt, a Western paperback with a cracked spine, a flask and a torch.
Two pairs of binoculars, their lenses spotless.
He runs a hand over one, feeling the familiar weight in his palm, then places them both on the desk by the window.
Outside, the wind stirs the trees, shifting the reflection of the house on the lake’s surface. He watches for a while, then straightens, slipping his flask into his coat pocket.
Time for a drink, he thinks.
The Pike and Anchor is exactly what he expects.
A low-beamed ceiling and tired, mismatched furniture.
The smell of old ale seems to be soaked into the very bones of the place, but it’s not unpleasant.
A few locals are scattered around, their conversations low and easy, the hum of them blending into the soft crackle of the fire in the grate.
It’s cool in here with its foot-thick stone walls and tiny windows keeping the sun at bay.
He orders a still mineral water and takes a seat at the bar. The barman – a thick-set man with a ruddy face – barely glances at him but that’s OK. He’s come here to listen, not talk.
Snatches of conversation drift past. Someone grumbling about roadworks on the main stretch. A woman laughing too loudly, slightly slurring her words. A discussion about a missing dog with a sighting up near the woods.
And then …
‘Aye, that’s the one. Up for grabs in a bloody prize draw, can you believe? One of those charity raffle things.’ Snatches of a nearby conversation reach his ears. ‘Young couple from God-knows-where waltz in, win themselves a multi-million-pound house. Never worked a day for it.’
He shifts, just enough to turn towards the speaker – a wiry bloke in a waxed jacket, his hands wrapped around a pint.
The landlord shrugs. ‘They’re probably just waiting to cash out and then they’ll bugger off back to wherever it is they came from.’
‘Or stick it on Airbnb.’
A few disgruntled noises of agreement.
The man takes a long sip of his pint, then sidles up to him. ‘You from round here?’
He smiles. ‘Just visiting.’ He finishes his drink and sets the empty glass on the bar. Sounds to him like the locals are firmly on his side.