Page 28 of The Lucky Winners

The Watcher

He sits at the bar, his fingers resting lightly around the cool glass of his pint.

The Pike and Anchor is comfortably full, voices rolling together in an easy hum.

The smell of warm ale and fried food lingers in the air, clinging to the wooden beams while, despite the fine weather outside, a small fire crackles in the hearth, its glow fluttering against the brass fixtures behind the bar.

He sits and he listens.

Not openly, not obviously. Just enough to catch snatches of conversation as people shift around him, laughing, grumbling, clinking glasses against the worn wooden tables.

But it’s a bit too noisy to hear much from the tables nearby: too many voices merging together. It’s hard to pick out anything useful.

Alistair – the landlord he knows by name now – moves smoothly between customers, refilling pints, passing the time of day with each person before moving on.

He watches the rhythm of it, the way Alistair knows every face, every story.

A gatekeeper of sorts. People talk to men like him and it’s clear it would be useful to be on the right side of him.

He lifts his pint and takes a measured sip. It’s pleasant enough in here, but it’s not furthering his cause. Just when he’s considering finishing and calling it a day, the atmosphere shifts.

The door has opened.

There’s a slight, but unmistakable dip in noise, a ripple that threads through the bar.

It’s Janey’s husband. Dev. The so-called prize-winner.

The air itself seems to tighten. He can feel it and he’s certain Dev must too. Conversations don’t stop completely, but they alter – become hushed.

‘ DreamKey house. ’

‘ The winner. ’

He hears the words slip from a table behind him, spoken in a resentful, dismissive way.

He watches as Dev falters, just for a second.

He can see his discomfort in the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his gaze hovers over the clusters of locals watching him.

But he carries himself well, adopting a neutral expression as he strides to the far end of the bar, pulling up a stool next to a young man with dark curls.

He tilts his pint and watches as the landlord approaches them.

Dev leans in slightly, speaking to Alistair. The landlord listens, his face impassive, then places Dev’s fresh pint on the bar and walks away with just a cursory few words.

That’s interesting. And satisfying to observe.

The two men are sitting next to him at the bar and he can hear most of what they’re saying. He sips his pint, listening. Very interesting it is, too.

He sees that most of the customers are still tuned into Dev’s presence. They don’t like him, don’t want him in here. And they don’t attempt to hide it.

When the landlord passes by, he beckons him and leans forward to murmur, ‘Who’s the young man with the black hair, talking to the prize-winner?’

Alistair glances at the two men, then back again. ‘That’s Jack. He owns Mower World, just across the way. Grand lad if you need any gardening or odd jobs doing.’

‘Good to know.’

He finishes his pint, sets down the empty glass and leaves the bar.

Back at the B-and-B, Monica is in the hallway, wielding a soft mop with practised efficiency. He can smell something sweet and pleasant from the kitchen.

She looks up when he opens the front door. ‘You’re back, then. I thought you’d done a runner, leaving so early.’

He smiles, polite. ‘No … not yet.’

She nods at his shoes. ‘Wipe your feet properly. I’ve just done that bit.’

He slips off his boots and places them outside in the small porch, watching her wring out the mop.

‘You’re just in time,’ she says, one hand easing her back as she straightens. ‘I’ve made a date and walnut loaf, still warm from the oven. You want a piece?’

‘Thanks. That would be nice. I’ll just get changed and be down in ten.’

She’s already heading towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

When he unlocks the door and steps inside his room, he stills.

Something feels wrong in here. Different.

The bed.

He made it this morning – a habit from home – but now it looks much neater. The blankets tucked in tighter. The pillows plumped in a way he never bothers with.

His gaze moves to the desk in front of the window.

Nothing missing. Nothing obviously moved.

He dampens down a burst of unease. There is nothing to find. He’s left nothing out. Not the night-vision goggles or the notebook.

Even so, the idea of someone – Monica – poking around in his private space grates against him.

He shrugs off his coat, loosens his jaw, and heads downstairs.

The living room, which he hasn’t ventured into yet, is dated but spotlessly clean.

A lace doily sits beneath an old lamp, its tasselled shade slightly crooked.

The fireplace is dark and unlit for now, but the faint scent of burned wood lingers.

Above the mantelpiece, a row of porcelain figurines stands in perfect formation.

He feels a pang. Something about the detail and domesticity reminds him of a time that’s gone. Reminds him of what used to be, before it all turned to shit.

Monica is already seated, her cup steaming beside her. She nods at the chair opposite.

‘Sit yourself down. There’s your tea.’

‘Thank you, Monica,’ he says, accepting the cake she passes him on a dainty china plate. It is warm and crumbly between his fingers. It tastes delicious.

He takes a sip of tea and clears his throat. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I’d prefer it if my room was left as it is. Not cleaned.’

Monica raises a brow. ‘Thought I’d be doing you a favour, tidying round. Sorry if I misjudged.’

He smiles. ‘Not at all. I just like things left in a certain way, if you know what I mean. Saves you the bother, too.’

She eyes him, then shrugs. ‘Suit yourself. But if I smell anything funny coming from under that door, I’ll be straight in with my cleaning basket.’

He lets out a little chuckle, though she isn’t smiling.

‘So. What have you been up to today?’ she says.

‘I had a walk. Stopped by the Pike and Anchor for a pint.’

She smirks. ‘Got a taste for the local beer, have you?’

‘Something like that. The locals are interesting people. There was a young man in there. Curly black hair.’ He pauses, watching her reaction. ‘The landlord said he runs Mower World. He was in there with the fella who’s just won Lakeview House.’

Monica frowns, setting down her cup and saucer. ‘Jack was with him ?’

‘Yes. You seem surprised.’

‘Well, Jack’s got more reason than most to disapprove of the big glass house.’

He tilts his head. ‘How so?’

She settles back in her chair. ‘His grandfather built that house. The old one, I mean, that was demolished. Had it in the family for nearly forty years. Jack grew up running around the place, spent every summer up there with his grandparents. Then DreamKey came in, tore it down, put up the modern monstrosity you can see from your window.’ She pulls a face.

‘All that prize-draw nonsense. Jack was more vocal than most about it in the village planning consultation as I recall.’

Now that is interesting.

He takes another bite, chewing slowly. ‘You know, Monica, this just might be the best date and walnut loaf I’ve ever tasted in my life.’

‘Oh, go on with you,’ she says, flapping a hand.

He smiles. Everything here is going better than he could ever have imagined.

It seems like he can’t put a foot wrong.