Page 40 of The Lucky Winners

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.’