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Martin Terry took a sip of Heineken, smacked his lips, and cast his gaze around the cramped battered interior of the remote pub.
Half past ten, a Wednesday night and – apart from a handful of people he didn’t know by sight – the rest of the clientele comprised the usual suspects. That was normal for the time of year – summer brought the grockles, the tourists who swarmed through the Kentish villages and clogged the narrow lanes, leaving discordance and litter in their wake.
Here, now, in the cooler aftermath of late September that cloaked the North Downs, a more sedate atmosphere had descended on the hamlet and surrounding houses.
Martin leaned his elbow on the pockmarked wooden bar, then wrinkled his nose and tugged his shirt sleeve away from the sticky patch of spilt drink that pooled across the surface.
The drip trays under the lager taps in front of him stank, a tangy bitter stench of stale beer mixing with the aroma of someone’s cheese and onion crisps from the table behind him turning his stomach.
In the background, a slot machine pinged and brayed while a pair of women in their twenties cackled and poked coins into it, the loose change clattering over the low voices around him.
Conversations were muted, a respectful distance being kept between the different groups gathered within the cramped space.
Talk here could mean anything from asking a favour to covering up for someone, and as Martin casually eyed the group of four elderly pensioners dressed in muted colours at the far end of the bar, he reckoned at least one of them was the poacher rumoured to have wrecked the barbed wire fencing over at the Parrys’ property last week.
It had taken two days to locate their daughter’s Shetland pony, and all because someone decided to drag a deer carcass across a field to avoid getting caught.
Nothing had been said in the pub, though.
The regulars were used to turning a blind eye, and the strangers who did venture inside on occasion rarely returned, such was the closed atmosphere that clung to the place.
The landlord, Len, nodded to him in passing, and Martin raised his half-empty glass in salute before watching the other man wrench open a low door behind the bar and disappear down the cellar steps in a hurry.
The sixty-year-old was adept at keeping his customers happy and the local police at bay, a skillset honed by the army.
So the rumour went, anyway.
Martin knew better than to ask.
A rush of cool air swept across his ankles as the solid oak door swung outwards. As always, the regulars paused their conversations to see who entered, then relaxed as a familiar pair of smokers ambled towards the bar reeking of nicotine, their habit satiated for the moment.
Lydia brushed past him, her dark hair tied into a top knot and her face flushed while she dashed towards a waiting middle-aged couple with two pints of ale.
‘Why does everything run out at the same time?’ she hissed under her breath.
‘Stops you getting bored,’ he replied, grinning when his wife rolled her eyes.
‘That’s what I tell her, but she don’t listen,’ Len grumbled, emerging from the cellar and wiping his hands on the tea-towel slung over his shoulder.
‘About time, Len,’ said one of the pensioners at the far end of the bar, an empty pint glass held out in hope. ‘I’m dying of thirst here.’
‘I should be so lucky, Geoff,’ the landlord shot back, smirking as the old man’s friends berated him. ‘I’m almost done. Just let me check it first.’
Martin watched as the man reached up to the shelving suspended above the fifteenth-century bar and selected a half pint glass, wrapped his hand around the pump and eased it back.
The familiar golden hue of locally brewed ale flowed into the glass, sloshing against the sides and forming a thin foam.
Holding it to the light, he then took a sip, savouring the flavours.
When he turned around, Geoff Abbott and his three friends were staring at him, almost salivating.
‘I’m not sure,’ Len said, lowering the glass and frowning. ‘Barrel might be off.’
‘What?’ Geoff’s mouth dropped open, his bushy eyebrows flying upwards. ‘You’re joking.’
Len grinned. ‘Four pints, is it?’
‘You bastard. Get on and pour them before you ring the bell for last orders.’
Martin smiled at the familiar banter, thankful that for once the place was calm.
Too many times, Lydia had returned home telling him stories of punch-ups in the car park, threats that may or may not have been carried out, and more.
The one thing Len wouldn’t stand for was drugs, so at least there was that.
It was why, for the most part, the police were never called – or better yet, didn’t show up unannounced and uninvited.
There wasn’t much that the landlord couldn’t sort out himself, despite his age.
The scars that criss-crossed his sun-damaged features stood testament to the number of times Len had thrown himself into the middle of a brawl, often welcoming the same people back into the pub after only a week of being banned.
It was the way it was in here.
As far as Len was concerned, said Lydia, if people didn’t like it then they could drink at the posh place down the road and pay more for their drinks.
Which was why this place stayed popular amongst the stalwarts. It was cheap, and the tourists took one look at the ramshackle exterior as they drove by, then kept going.
Martin shook his head and turned in his seat to stretch his legs out, grateful for the chance to relax after a nine-hour shift stacking shelves.
There were about twelve people dotted around the tables spread throughout the pub, plus the four pensioners who sat anchored at the bar.
Two separate tables were taken by couples, heads bowed over their drinks as they spoke in low voices, the occasional giggle from one of the women carrying across to where he stood.
He ran his eyes over two men sitting beside the stone hearth, the grate filled with a dried flower arrangement Lydia had put together as a focal point during the summer months, most of it now scattered around the base of the vase, remnant twigs poking upwards in defiance.
He frowned.
Whatever it was the two men were discussing was proving problematic, the younger jabbing his finger at the other. His face was in shadow, and the other man had his back to Martin so he couldn’t make out whether he knew him.
He looked away, checked the rest of the room for any trouble and then caught Lydia’s eye and waved her over from where she had been standing by the till sipping a lemonade.
‘Do you know the two blokes over by the fireplace?’ he murmured.
She drained her drink, crossed to the dishwasher under the bar to his left and then returned, shaking her head.
‘Never seen either of them before,’ she said. ‘Trouble?’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Heated conversation.’
‘I’ll give Len a heads-up.’ She glanced over her shoulder towards the clock on the wall. ‘Time’s up, anyway. They won’t be our problem for much longer.’
The clang of the large brass bell above the till was followed moments later by Len’s baritone soaring across the heads of those at the bar calling for last orders, and Martin watched as a steady stream of drinkers made their way towards Lydia for a final pint.
It wasn’t quite a Friday night stampede, but it was busy enough and the next ten minutes were filled with the sound of last minute arrangements, muttered agreements that would never be spoken of beyond the four walls of the bar, and underneath it all the sound of the till ringing in the cash that passed across Len’s fingers.
Twenty-first century or not, the landlord still refused to accept plastic and the associated paperwork trail that came with it.
Eventually, chairs scraped back, and the front door swung on its hinges as the pub emptied and people made their way home.
At the other end of the bar, Geoff drained the last of his pint, slapped the empty glass on a sodden cardboard coaster and pulled a navy wool hat over his thinning hair, despite the warm night outside. He grinned at Len, aimed his thumb towards one of his companions, and removed a pipe from his jacket pocket.
‘I’ve got a lift home, so I’ll see you tomorrow night.’
‘Cheers, Geoff.’ Len lowered the front of the dishwasher and wafted the air with a tea-towel as steam rose into the air. ‘Watch how you go.’
He reached in for the first of the glasses, moving to one side as Lydia joined him, and swore loudly as the hot surface scalded his fingers.
While the pair of them worked, Martin scanned the room, noting the two men who had been arguing were now making their way towards the exit.
‘Thanks, gents. Have a safe trip home,’ Len called.
Neither acknowledged his words.
The older of the two gave the front door a shove, not waiting to hold it open for the younger man who hurried after him, his voice raised.
‘I wonder what that was all about?’ Lydia said, reaching up to hang wine glasses by their stems as she dried them.
‘No idea,’ said Len, unruffled. ‘What time did they come in?’
‘Just after you went upstairs to get more change for the till. They ordered a couple of pints of IPA, didn’t say much, and then moved across to that table.’
Len shrugged. ‘Probably wanted somewhere private to talk, rather than their local. You know how it is.’
He draped the tea-towel over his shoulder then turned his attention to the till, programming in the closing sequence for the day and removing the coin tray to take upstairs to the office after he locked up. ‘Do you want to do the Sunday lunchtime shift? Rose has got her daughter and family visiting so she’s asked for the day off.’
‘That all right?’ Lydia turned and cocked an eyebrow at Martin. ‘We could do with the money, after all.’
‘Go on then. Just the lunchtime, mind. We promised your mum we’d––’
When the first shot echoed through the walls, Lydia’s eyes widened like a fox caught in headlights.
‘What the fuck?’ Martin spun to face the door, the bar stool tumbling to the floor.
‘What’s going on?’ said Lydia, edging to his side, shaking.
Len spun away from the bar. ‘Gunfire. Get down.’
Taking one look at the other man’s face, Martin did as he was told, dragging Lydia with him.
‘Martin…’ she whimpered.
‘Stay still.’
A second shot exploded out of the night, the report filling his ears and turning his stomach. He cringed lower to the floor, wondering if he could reach the door to lock it before the gunman turned his attention to those remaining inside, then saw Len shake his head, features pale.
‘Stay where you are,’ he hissed, before holding up a hand.
Martin strained his ears, willing his heartbeat to cease its pounding so he could hear if someone was approaching, but there was nothing.
Nothing but a stunned silence.
