People could be so territorial.I live here so it all belongs to me. He’d wager that every last one of them would sell their granny to win big like he and Merri have done.
Jack, oblivious to the tension still humming under Dev’s skin, sets his pint down with a satisfied sigh. ‘Give it a couple of weeks and they’ll be slapping your back and buying you drinks.’
Dev forces a smile. He’d always prefer to buy his own pint in a place like this.
‘Listen,’ Jack continues, ‘if you ever need help with anything else at the house, I’m your man. As you’ve already discovered, I can turn my hand to most things.’
‘I will. Thanks, Jack.’ Dev finishes the last of his beer in the glare of unfriendly stares still directed his way.
The hops leave a bitter taste on his tongue. He’s not sure he wants to drink in here again.
27
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’sJack. He owns Mower World, just across the way. Grand lad if you need any gardening or odd jobs doing.’
‘Good to know.’
