Chapter 15
Thankfully the pub was too loud and crowded for anyone to notice me jumping at shadows.
I rubbed where my heart felt like it was pounding out of my chest. I forcefully slowed my breathing. It had to be the stress of the move, the lack of proper sleep, the lack of proper food. I patted my sweating forehead with the backs of my hands.
Calm down, Tamsin. I scowled at myself. You’ll cause a scene.
I managed a few seconds pretending to look around with curiosity at the bar, before getting out my phone and pretending I’d got a notification.
I looked up again to check for my neighbour.
No sign. I scrolled through my socials. Nothing new.
I looked up again. Still no sign of my neighbour.
Where had she gone? Maybe she was meeting friends.
Maybe she worked here. Maybe she was just giving me a friendly smile, a hello, a welcome to the community and I’d just read it unkindly.
A group of older men laughed by the bar.
My dad said I had a habit of thinking the worst of people. He said it was hard to talk to me sometimes. I always looked like I was cringing before a slap. It made people feel bad.
I switched between different apps on my phone, not really looking at any of them.
I couldn’t help it though. Some people just felt… dangerous somehow. Like Marsha in accounts who everyone liked except me. Until it was found out she’d been spiking people’s drinks at work events.
I didn’t always get it right, like the time I’d slapped the hand of a man on the bus. He’d just been reaching for the stop bell, not my chest.
I wanted to be better, to relax, to be easy-going. But it was hard to relax when sometimes your worst suspicious are correct.
I spotted Rowan and Fergus, talking close together at the bar, lips to ears back and forth. Rowan was rubbing Fergus’s shoulder. The touch was tender and encouraging. Fergus was shrugging and avoiding eye contact. Were they talking about what happened with me and the rug?
Fergus shot a look my way.
I quickly looked back at my phone. Yep, totally talking about me.
Shit. Shit fucking shit.
I looked at the bare table in front of me.
That was the problem. I hadn’t had a drink yet.
That would loosen me up. Oh, but Fergus and Rowan had already got up to get drinks.
They didn’t say they were getting me one, though.
I chewed my lip. It was probably presumptuous to assume they’d were getting a drink for me, too.
And they hadn’t asked me what I wanted. And if I went to the bar then I wouldn’t be a sitting duck for my weird neighbour.
That settled it. I got up, briefly worried about losing the table, then took off my jumper and lay it across the tabletop.
I hoped that would do—and that my Aran jumper wouldn’t get nicked—and headed for the other end of the bar to Rowan and Fergus.
Happy, warm bodies crowded around me. Hands patted backs.
Red cheeks creased with laughter. Fingers pinched the fabric of a new coat or jumper or scarf, prompting communal nodding about how nice it was.
I shrank myself around them, squeezing past the shoulders of the regulars, to get to the bar and see what beers were on offer.
Each brass tap wore a colourful shield illustrating the ale they promised.
The barmaid turned to me next.
“What’ll it be, hen?” she asked.
She was sporting a jumper featuring a fuzzy, sparkly zebra wearing a colourful garland of flowers. The stripy audience up in the balcony section suddenly made a lot more sense.
I pointed to a cardboard shield with a thick-lined illustration of two figures embracing. One figure was a cool and serene blue, with a calm and steadfast expression. The other was bright red and seemed to be screaming in rage or pain.
A nod. A clean glass procured. Interaction successful.
See, I thought to myself, just don’t overthink things.
“Fantastic illustration, eh?” The barmaid smiled. “It’s a guest ale from the borders.”
I looked again at that screaming enraged face.
“What’s it referencing?”
“Tam Lin.” The barmaid noticed my nonplussed expression. “You’ve not heard the story of Tam Lin?”
I shook my head.
The barmaid pushed a wave of greying blonde hair behind her ear.
“It’s this folktale about two lovers. The man gets stolen away by the faerie queen, and the woman who loved him goes looking for him.
She wins him back by holding onto him while the faerie queen changes him into wild animals and heavy stones and flaming fireballs. ”
“How did she manage that?”
“Love, of course,” said the barmaid, like I was stupid.
My face flushed and the barmaid turned away to pump the pint.
To be loved that much. It seemed unreasonable. Something you only hear of in fairy tales.
“Careful with that shadow, young lady.”
I looked over my shoulder. The old man who’d farted at me on the bridge yesterday morning was waiting in the queue behind me.
“I’m sorry?” I said.
His hunched back meant he had to peer up at me at an angle, eyes glinting over the top of his thick glasses. Those two wisps of white hair escaped the sides of his flat cap and arched up toward the ceiling.
“You’ll have to have Wendy look at it. It’s running ragged at the seams.” He wagged a finger at the air around me. “If it splits then, oh ho, there’ll be tears at bedtime!”
What the hell was he on about? I carefully controlled my expression.
“Thanks for the heads up,” I said, turning to check on the progress of my drink, telepathically urging the barmaid to hurry it up.
“You’re at Sgàthan Sìth, aren’t you?”
Now he had my attention. His eyes twinkled at the mention of my cottage.
“Uh, one of them,” I said. “How did you know?”
He laughed. “There’s not much that escapes my attention, m’dear.”
I had a thought.
“Do you happen to know my neighbour?”
He raised his wild, white eyebrows. I elaborated.
“The woman in 1a? Fine, longish hair. Seems quiet. I saw her here earlier, but—” I looked around again just in case. “I think she left.”
At that the old man’s shoulders sank dramatically, as if clowning disappointment for a hidden audience.
“Oh dear. Hanging by a thread then, I see.” Then he suddenly brightened and jovially slapped my shoulder. “Good luck!”
There was a hard clunk on the bar.
“Here you go, hen.”
The barmaid delivered my pint, the overflow gently running down the side of the glass.
The colour of it really was something, a deep russet against the dark lacquered wood of the bar and the brass drip trays.
I turned back to the old man, only to find he’d already returned to the fireplace.
I blinked in surprise. I’d never thought a man like him could be so… sprightly.
You in the habit of patronising older folks, are you?
I quickly gathered my drink and retreated to the booth where Rowan and Fergus were waiting. With three pints.
“Oh,” said Rowan, noting my drink.
Oh shit. So, they were getting drinks for all of us.
Stupid stupid stupid.
“Sorry, I didn’t realise.”
“Told you we shouldn’t have just assumed,” said Fergus.
“It’s okay. Our fault.” Rowan waved a hand. “We didn’t ask what you wanted—”
Fergus rolled his eyes and reached over. “It’s fine. I’ll have it.”
I quickly pulled the second pint to me and took a sip of it. Caramel and citrus, pretty standard. Then I took a sip of the Tam Lin beer. It was sweeter and maltier than I was expecting. Something about the rusty red colour had made me expect an iron tang to it.
Fergus stared at me. Rowan leaned back in the booth.
Oh God, why did I do that? It was the rug all over again. What had got me feeling so territorial lately?
“Just saved me from having to get up for a while,” I said.
Fergus shook his head. I straightened up.
“Besides, I think I need it after my run-in with that old guy by the fire.”
Both Rowan and Fergus’s eyebrows raised.
“He spoke to you?” they said in unison.
I looked between the two of them. “Yes?”
“He’s, ah…” Rowan looked at Fergus, wordlessly checking something with him.
Fergus leaned forward.
“He’s mad. Him and his wife. Can’t make hide nor hair of anything that comes out of their mouths.
He was convinced one year I was hiding some sort of pirate treasure or something.
He’d chase me round the village, badgering me to share.
Nutter.” Fergus nodded his head toward the snoring woman.
“She’s not too bad, but only because she’s asleep most of the time. ”
“They only come here during the summer when I’m busy with the forestry,” said Rowan. “Apparently, the lady wilts a bit during the warmer months.”
I turned to look at the two of them sitting by the fire. The old man was tenderly adjusting the hood over the woman’s snoring face.
Fergus continued. “You know, he worked on Dolly. Some sort of consultant.”
It took me a moment to realise what he was referring to.
“The sheep? The cloned sheep?” I asked.
“If you can call that monstrosity a sheep.”
Rowan rolled his eyes.
“It’s just a sheep, pal. No different from a twin.”
“It is different,” he stabbed the table with his finger. “It doesn’t have a soul.”
Rowan tucked his chin down and looked up at Fergus through his eyebrows, as if trying to peer under the blanket of madness he was hiding under.
“You saying sheep have souls now?”
Fergus hissed through his teeth. “You know what I mean. It’s not right. And think what they’ve opened up now. A whole Pandora’s box. They could clone anything. Anyone. All they’d need is a drop of your blood.”
A shiver raced up my spine.
“He’s still at it! They say he goes around in tunnels under Carlinsrest, pricking people with pins and collecting their blood, to make his own version of the village, a little toy town under the ground.”
I became very aware of the pinprick in my heel.
Rowan shook his head. “He’s pulling your leg again.”
Fergus broke out into a wide grin. He nodded at me.
“Got ya, again!”
I made the face of a laugh, but no sound came out of it. I sipped one of my pints to hide it.
“He did work on the whole Dolly thing though. That bit’s true. Point is, he’s mad. As for the lady.” Fergus sniffed. “She’s a witch.”