Page 25 of One Summer

With these ominous words ringing in my ears, I lug Nemo’s carrier onto my suitcase, and bump them along the cobblestones to a dark, lopsided building that immediately makes me think of ghosts, and murder.

It is called The Lonely Lad.

Twenty-Four

Lonely

The pub looks like it’s been standing for four hundred years and the floor hasn’t been swept since opening day. It’s all low beams and dust motes floating in shafts of light from the mullioned windows. The ceiling is wonky, one of the lamps is flickering and there’s a distinct smell of very oniony casserole.

All of the tables, unsurprisingly, are empty.

‘Is this place haunted?’ I say, turning to Billy.

‘Only by tourists in the summer,’ he says. ‘This time of year, it’s well and truly dead. All the locals are busy getting ready for the summer season. Once the holidaymakers arrive, it’s hell on earth in here, although the low beams do catch out the taller ones, so you’re guaranteed to hear at least one nasty bang on the head per purchased pint.’

A woman comes out from a backroom and raises a quizzical eyebrow at Billy.

‘Moving here,’ he says, nodding at me. ‘She’s all right.’

I can’t help preening a bit that I’ve been deemed ‘all right’ by Billy, who doesn’t seem like he’d go in for much in the way of praise, especially not for newcomers.

‘Thanks, Billy,’ I say, and he shakes his head at me.

‘Since you’ve got time to kill, make yourself useful,’ he says. ‘I’m sure they can find you something to do. Locals pitch in on Loor. Nobody sits around feeling sorry for themselves.’

My preening is over and I’m back to finding Billy annoying.

‘Happy to do whatever needs doing,’ I say.

My stomach grumbles noisily.

It’s been so long since I’ve eaten anything that my cheeks are hot, and my breath is getting the unpleasant tang that I recognise from when I misguidedly agreed to do a forty-hour ‘health fast’ as moral support for Henny.

‘This way,’ the woman says, motioning her head to a table in an alcove by the window. The window has black wainscotting beneath and glass that’s darkened with age so that all you can see of the outside world is an indistinct blur.

Billy is already leaving, so I do as she asks, and wait for my instructions.

There’s not a sound in here except the susurration of a ripped plastic bag blowing in the current of a blade fan set to max. I watch it skip in increments across the filthy floor before it finally comes to rest and lies limp in the dirt.

I’m feeling a deep affinity with that plastic bag when a scuttling movement catches my eye.

Rodent.

‘Rat!’ I yell to the barmaid, leaping to my feet and knocking my chair sideways. The rat stops, mid-scuttle, and looks at me. Then it takes a few steps in my direction.

The barmaid continues typing on her phone as if I haven’t said anything at all.

There’s something strange about this rat. It seems to be unafraid of people. But, most notably, it appears to be wearing a harness: a harness with a tiny name tag.

Twenty-Five

Rat

Calmly, I get up and walk over to the bar.

‘There’s a rat over here,’ I say, pointing towards the corner of the room, where the rat is sitting tranquilly.

She nods, as if entirely unsurprised and unalarmed, and without looking up at me, she asks, ‘Is it wearing a harness?’

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