Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
‘You have to help, laddie,’ begged Janette, grabbing Kieran’s forearm with the same grip she used on her customers when extracting their deepest gossip. ‘Peggy’s niece has come down with the lurgy, so we’re one down. And I’ve already promised Ed a full team.’
Kieran’s evening plans had been blissfully simple: nachos, beer, telly, solitude. Maybe a bit of coding, if he could summon the energy to stare disappointment in the face again. Now he was being conscripted into a village pub quiz by a woman whose persistence could rival a bulldozer.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Whatever.’
Janette performed a triumphant jig, a cross between a ceilidh and a Morris dance. Kieran smothered a smile. He told himself his willingness had nothing to do with wondering whether Beth would take part. Absolutely nothing.
Inside the bar, Ed greeted him with a hearty grin and a pint. ‘Thanks for stepping in at the last minute, Kieran. Tickets are fifteen quid, which includes one drink and some themed nibbles, courtesy of Beth.’
‘And the winning team gets the inaugural quiz trophy,’ Angela said, pointing to a pint-sized pewter cup that looked as if it had been freshly polished or possibly salvaged from a charity shop.
‘Let the fun begin,’ Kieran said drily, handing over the cash. ‘Bit quiet, though.’
Ed nodded, his smile slipping. ‘After the initial buzz of the new menus, I think we need to keep the momentum going. We’ve got plenty of ideas. Open mic, karaoke, bonfire—’
‘Health and safety nightmare,’ Angela interjected.
‘We’ll iron out the details. Point is, we’re trying.’
Kieran took his place with Janette, Alison, and Peggy. Alison greeted him warmly; Peggy stared at her pencil as if it might explode.
‘I’m not sure I’ll be any good at this,’ Peggy murmured. Her left eye twitched.
Alison patted her arm. ‘Relax: it’s just for fun, not University Challenge. No fingers on the buzzers here.’
Each table held scoresheets, pencils, jugs of water. The room was alive with chatter and anticipation. Kieran glanced around, half-expecting Beth to emerge from somewhere, but she wasn’t in sight.
Before Ed could officially begin, a disgruntled man in a three-piece tweed ensemble interrupted, eyebrows bristling with indignation. ‘Excuse me, is there any actual food tonight? My wife and I drove here on recommendation, only to find pork pies and cheese-and-pineapple … monstrosities.’
Beth materialised as if from nowhere, cheeks flushed, jaw clenched. ‘We have a special event tonight,’ she said, her voice controlled. ‘However, we can offer you venison and wild mushroom stew or fish and chips. Desserts on the house. Apologies for the limited choice.’
The man harrumphed but retreated with his wife to a distant table.
Kieran leaned in. ‘Nice save,’ he murmured. ‘Are you planning to lace his food with laxatives?’
Beth giggled – an actual giggle – and Kieran’s stomach did a ridiculous little flip. ‘Tempting,’ she said, ‘but I’d like to keep my job.’
Ed called the room to order and switched on his microphone. ‘Right, folks. We’re keeping it short and sweet.’
‘A bit like me,’ heckled Janette.
Pens and paper at the ready, the teams huddled together as Ed announced round one, related to pop and rock anthems.
‘Question one. Who had a 1977 hit with the album Rumours?’
‘Easy peasy,’ announced Wilma.
‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed Jinnie. ‘You don’t want to give the answer away.’
Wilma scribbled on the paper, then fixed Jinnie with a stare. ‘I’m old, pet, not stupid.’
Kieran concentrated, forcing himself to focus on the quiz. He caught Alison writing Fleetwood Mac.
‘OK,’ said Ed, ‘is everyone ready? Next question. In what year did ABBA win Eurovision with “Waterloo”?’
At Kieran’s table, Alison frowned, counted with her fingers, then wrote 1974.
As the quiz continued, the contestants got rowdier as they downed beers and wine.
At Jo and Harvey’s table, a debate raged over the identity of a yellow arcade character.
‘I’m sure it’s Mario,’ said Harvey, under his breath.
‘Lucky I didn’t marry you for your brains,’ Jo retorted, writing down Pac-Man.
Ed moved on. ‘TV and Film. Who shot J.R. in the TV show Dallas?’
A low rumble of disquiet echoed around the room.
‘Wasn’t it his brother, Bobby?’
‘No, it was definitely a woman. Sue Ellen. She had plenty of reasons to shoot the slimy bastard.’
‘Wait! I think it was the wee blonde one. Remember, Terry Wogan on the radio called her The Poison Dwarf.’
‘Time’s up,’ called Ed. ‘This one seems to have slipped in under the radar. I think it’s from the nineties but never mind. Brain cells at the ready.’
Kieran turned instinctively and spotted Beth walking in with a tray of pork pies.
‘Who voiced the Genie in Disney’s 1992 animated film Aladdin?’
She froze. The tray tipped. Her entire body listed sideways.
Kieran sprang up and took the tray before it upended. He set it on an empty table and slipped an arm around Beth’s shoulders, surprised by how unsteady she felt. ‘Sit down,’ he urged quietly.
Across the room, faces showed concern. Jo’s hand clutched her throat; Sam’s eyes narrowed, with a gleam of something like recognition. Wilma looked spooked. Jinnie’s fists clenched.
Angela hurried over with a glass of water. ‘Beth, you’re as white as a sheet. Do you need me to call a doctor?’
Beth took a sip, her hand shaking. ‘No need. I’m fine.’
She wasn’t fine: anyone could see that. Kieran raised his hand. ‘Maybe let’s take a break?’
A tipsy chap leapt up. ‘Charades? Have we moved to charades?’
Ed gave Kieran a thumbs up and switched off the mic. Conversations resumed at a muted level, but tension laced through the room.
Kieran guided Beth towards the stairs.
She protested. ‘I’m fine, I said.’ The colour had returned to her cheeks, but something behind her eyes didn’t match her insistence.
He tried humour. ‘Hey, I know Robin Williams’s death hit people hard, but…’
It fell flat. Spectacularly. Beth opened her door, stepped inside. ‘You can go back,’ she said. ‘I’ll come down in a bit. Rose can hold the fort.’
He hesitated. Something was wrong. Really wrong. But Beth’s tone made it clear his presence might push her further into whatever storm she was weathering.
‘All right,’ he murmured. ‘But I’m not leaving until you tell me who shot J.R.’
Beth’s voice was small, tired, but clear. ‘Kristin Shepard. His sister-in-law … and mistress. My mum loved the show.’
Kieran let out a low whistle. ‘Messy families.’
Beth didn’t laugh. Her hand gripped the edge of the door, knuckles white.
He wanted to reach out.
He didn’t.
She closed the door gently, Kieran was left staring at the wood grain, a cold tightness settling in his chest.
Whatever was going on with Beth wasn’t just stress.
But he wasn’t ready to walk away.