No Place Like Home by Jane Renshaw (the best electronic book reader .TXT) 📗

‘It used to be where all the cool kids hung out,’ Kirsty told him, taking his arm as they walked from the car to the ramp at the door. ‘The ones who had their own transport.’

Inside, the place smelt of spilt beer and stale cigarettes – how was that even possible when smoking in pubs had been banned in Scotland in 2006? The walls were covered in a shit-coloured atrocity that looked like laminate flooring gone wrong. There were garish plastic flowers in baskets on the windowsills, and ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ was blasting from speakers mounted on brackets near the ceiling.

Not surprisingly, only one table was occupied, but the far door, which seemed to be the fire exit, was propped open and there was smoke filtering through it from the unseen punters presumably standing just outside in order to have a fag, explaining the ash tray ambience of the place. At the occupied table sat an older woman and four young lads, all staring at the blank TV screen to one side of the bar.

The man behind the bar shook his head at Bram and Kirsty as they approached. ‘TV’s on the blink.’

The two men sitting on stools at the bar didn’t look round.

‘That’s okay,’ said Kirsty. ‘We’re here for the banter.’

The barman raised his eyebrows a millimetre. He was in his sixties, Bram guessed, a wiry little man with a head of thick wavy grey hair.

‘Out on the razz,’ Bram added.

‘My brother’s minding the kids and we’re off the leash and running.’ Kirsty’s voice shook, just a little, with suppressed laughter. ‘I’ll have a white wine, please.’

‘A bitter lemon for me.’

On the rare occasions they’d gone out for the evening in London, usually to friends’ houses or the cinema, Max would babysit Phoebe. But when they’d suggested this arrangement for tonight, Phoebe hadn’t been happy. ‘Max won’t be able to defend us,’ she’d whispered to Bram. And so Fraser had been parachuted in. As far as Phoebe was concerned, Uncle Fraser was the ultimate tough guy, and he’d preened when she’d demanded to see his party trick of bending cutlery with his bare hands – not just teaspoons, but dinner knives and ladles and mashers. Bram had noticed Max surreptitiously trying and failing to bend a fork.

‘I’m Kirsty and this is Bram.’

‘Willie,’ the barman reciprocated. ‘You’re the folk who’ve bought the Taylors’ plot?’

Kirsty grinned. ‘I’d forgotten how effective the bush telegraph is around here.’

‘Oh aye,’ said Willie, grimly pouring bitter lemon into a glass. ‘No chance of keeping your private life private in this place.’

The two men on the barstools were shooting glances at Kirsty. She looked a million dollars in a stone-coloured linen dress, her hair loosely braided from the temples and pinned back behind her ears. With her cheekbones and tan and smoky eye make-up, and those striking green eyes, she was channelling Cleopatra, Hollywood-style. When he went out with Kirsty, he was well aware that people looking at the pair of them must be wondering what the hell she was doing with an ordinary bloke like him.

‘Dog got shot,’ one of the barflies muttered suddenly.

‘Oh, um, yes.’ Bram opened his wallet. ‘Well, we think he was grazed by an airgun pellet. Or possibly he ripped his shoulder on barbed wire. Bit of a trauma, but he’s going to be fine.’

Willie grimaced. ‘Long as the wound doesn’t get infected. Once sepsis sets in…’

‘The vet gave him antibiotics, so he should be fine.’

‘And what about the dead crow, eh, and the weedkiller? Someone’s got it in for you folks and no mistake.’

‘The police think it’s just kids.’

Willie shook his head.

‘Although…’ Bram fished out his phone. Willie probably knew everyone within a ten-mile radius. Maybe he would be able to identify the trolls. ‘We could have it all wrong. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for it all. I’ve had some comments on my blog to that effect.’

‘Trolls,’ said Kirsty. ‘Bram, I don’t think Willie wants to see–’

Too late. ‘Aye, go on, then.’ Willie took the phone and narrowed his eyes at the screen. ‘Jesus. Some right nutters out there, eh?’

‘You don’t recognise these names? ManOnAMission and Red?’

Willie shook his head. ‘I don’t do social media, and this is a good example of why not.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘The small-town mentality around here is shocking, let me tell you. And the xenophobia that comes with it. If I didn’t have to work in this bloody bar I’d be off like a shot to Glasgow, or Edinburgh, or maybe London.’

‘But why do you have to work in the bar?’ Bram was genuinely interested.

Willie was counting out his change. ‘Numpty of a brother owns the place.’ As if this explained everything. ‘What possessed you to leave London… for this?’ He gestured around him.

Bram saw that the group at the table had transferred their stony gazes from the TV to him and Kirsty. He smiled at them. ‘Hi.’

They continued to stare but remained mute, as if Bram were talking another language – or no, it was more as if he and Kirsty were animals in a zoo with which it wasn’t even possible to communicate.

‘Well, my family are here,’ Kirsty told him. ‘And it is home, when all’s said and done.’

‘And it’s an absolutely gorgeous part of the world,’ Bram enthused. ‘You have to admit. London seems like a different planet. If I had to go back and live there now, I think I’d go crazy. I don’t think I could cope with the hustle and bustle. It’s amazing to wake up in the morning and hear birdsong drifting in at the window. And not another single sound.’

‘Aye, granted.’ Willie nodded. ‘I like nature myself.’

Kirsty smiled. ‘You say that as if you’re confessing to some terrible addiction.’

‘My name’s Willie and I’m a forager,’ he said, deadpan.

Bram practically jumped up and down. ‘You forage for wild food? Oh, wow! That’s exactly what I want to do once we’re properly organised with the house. What kind of