Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kieran needed paracetamol. Urgently.
His head pounded as though a herd of elephants in hobnailed boots had started a ceilidh in his skull. He rummaged through cupboards, drawers, under the sink – even the freezer, in case some crazed version of past-him had hidden a packet among the peas. Nothing.
‘Drugs,’ he croaked. ‘I need drugs.’
Prom yawned from the sofa, stretched luxuriously, and gave him a look of pure feline smugness.
‘Glad you’re happy,’ Kieran muttered. ‘Meanwhile, my head’s hosting the Elephant Olympics.’
There was no avoiding it. He had to venture out.
The bell above the door of Janette’s shop gave a half-hearted jangle as he entered. The shop smelled of old wood, mint humbugs and disinfectant. Shelves bowed under the weight of tinned goods, lurid cleaning products and novelty mugs bearing slogans like Keep Calm, It’s Only Cranley.
Janette sat behind the counter engrossed in a copy of Take a Break, her reading glasses perched halfway down her nose.
‘Morning, laddie,’ she said, giving him a cursory glance. ‘You look like death reheated in a microwave.’
‘Thanks,’ Kieran rasped. ‘Got any paracetamol? I’m dying.’
‘Only the cheap ones,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Sixteen tabs for fifty pence. They taste like chalk scraped off a gravestone. You want them or not?’
‘Yes.’ Kieran reached for his wallet, but Janette slapped his hand away.
‘Don’t be daft. Family discount. You can pay me in tech support.’
‘Tech support?’ He eyed her suspiciously.
Janette smiled sweetly, always a worrying sign. ‘Alison needs some help with the website for her boutique. You’ll help, won’t you?’
Kieran groaned. Not at the task itself – though the thought of teaching Alison how to upload product photos filled him with dread – but because bending his brain around HTML while it pulsed like a bass drum sounded like torture.
‘Can’t she just use Etsy, or Shopify, or… I don’t know, one of those plug-and-play sites?’ he ventured.
Janette snapped her magazine shut. ‘If I had the faintest clue what that meant, I might agree. As it is, Alison wants her boutique to stand out. Says Cranley deserves couture online. Not just another shop front: a boutique experience.’ She air-quoted extravagantly.
‘Brilliant,’ Kieran muttered. ‘That’ll definitely cure my headache.’
Janette slid a packet of bargain-basement tablets across the counter. ‘You’ll be grand. Alison’s excited to work with you. Says you’ve got flair.’
‘Flair,’ he repeated flatly.
‘And nice eyes. Although right now they look like pissholes in the snow.’
Kieran grabbed a bottled water, downed two tablets and insisted on paying anyway.
‘Freshen up,’ Janette said as he turned to go. ‘Drop by the boutique in an hour or so. I’ll tell Alison you’re on your way.’
By the time he got home, the pain had retreated from stampeding elephants to tap-dancing mice, albeit large ones. He collapsed on the sofa with a groan. ‘How do I feel this rough after two pints?’ he muttered.
He stared at his sideboard, where a half-empty bottle of whisky glinted reproachfully. Had he had a few shots when he got home? He didn’t think so.
Images flickered at the edges of his memory. Music. Dancing. Angela’s perfume. Prom spinning on his backside to applause.
Ridiculous. Impossible. Probably a dream.
‘Did you dream it too, Prom?’ Kieran asked.
Prom blinked, stretched, and promptly went back to sleep.
‘Thought so,’ he sighed.
An hour later, Alison greeted Kieran with a warm smile. ‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help,’ she said. ‘Janette mentioned you were under the weather.’
‘I’m sure her phrasing was less polite,’ Kieran said. ‘But I’m recovering. Let’s see what we can do.’
To his surprise, Alison already had a basic website up. Rudimentary, sure, but not bad. They set up at a small table in the back room, surrounded by rails of colour and the faint scent of upmarket perfume.
Alison spread out a folder of photographs: dresses on mannequins, handbags in all shapes, floaty blouses styled in a multitude of ways. ‘It needs to feel personal,’ she said earnestly. ‘A digital boutique, not just … buttons to press.’
‘Got it,’ said Kieran. ‘Simple navigation, clean design, minimal chaos.’
For the next two hours, they resized images, debated colour palettes and argued over fonts. Kieran steered Alison away from Comic Sans and neon pink and gave a mini lecture on user experience.
‘The average punter’s got the attention span of an amoeba,’ he said. ‘Social-media users scroll the equivalent of one and a half Eiffel Towers every day.’
Alison blinked. ‘Good grief. I check Facebook twice a week. Don’t do TikTok. Instagram frightens me.’
‘Keep it that way,’ Kieran said. ‘You’ll live longer.’
By the second cup of tea and the third ginger biscuit, the site was beginning to look … not half bad.
‘It’s perfect!’ Alison declared, clapping her hands. ‘You’re a genius!’
‘Flatterer,’ Kieran said, smiling despite himself. ‘Let’s just say it’s functional.’
Alison flipped the sign to OPEN as Wilma breezed in, clutching her handbag like a weapon.
‘Hi, Wilma!’ Alison called. ‘Give me a few minutes and I’ll be right with you.’
Kieran nodded a polite greeting and started to leave, but Wilma caught his arm. Her grip was surprisingly firm. ‘You remember something,’ she said, her voice low.
Kieran blinked. ‘Sorry?’
‘Last night. At The Jekyll and Hyde.’
He forced a laugh. ‘Can’t say I do. I was probably home watching Gardener’s World.’ Although he knew he hadn’t been.
Wilma shook her head, her eyes narrowing. ‘Your aura’s off again. Muddy grey. Very cloudy.’
‘Are you sure you’re not talking about the weather?’ he said lightly, although a faint prickle crept down his spine.
She wagged a finger in his face. ‘You can’t hide the truth from those who know.’
‘I don’t remember anything,’ Kieran insisted. ‘Seriously. My brain’s more scrambled than a plate of eggs.’
Wilma studied him a moment longer, then sighed. ‘Maybe that’s for the best.’
Kieran frowned. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
She hesitated. ‘Let’s just say Cranley has … traditions. Quirks. You’re not the first outsider to get swept up.’
A chill ran down his spine. Jo had said something similar. ‘Traditions like what?’
Wilma tapped the side of her nose. ‘I’ve said enough. Get yoursel’ home, laddie and have a rest.’
Back home, Kieran sank into the sofa, eyes fixed on a TV show he didn’t remember putting on. His temples pulsed again, faint but insistent.
Prom leapt into his lap, tail curling neatly, purring like a small, self-satisfied engine.
Kieran rubbed his forehead. ‘What is going on in this village?’
Prom’s eyes gleamed. Too bright, too knowing. And for a heartbeat, Kieran could have sworn the cat smiled.