One
The lock needed oiling. Abby struggled to pull her key from the door and cursed her boss and the owner of the bar, Scott Maynard. It was meant to be her night off, but his baby daughter was teething, and she’d been able to tell early on in the evening that him serving people wasn’t a great idea since he was crabbier than normal. Plus, it was a Tuesday night and quieter than usual, just the regulars sitting around the bar, discussing the lack of rain and how it would affect harvest.
She’d switched off at that point and thought about the book she was reading, one that Keren – Scott’s wife – had loaned her. Probably so she had some kind of boyfriend in her life, even if it was a book-shaped one.
The key eventually came out. Abby cursed as she caught her finger on something sharp, dropping her keys as she fumbled in her pocket for a tissue, just in case it was bleeding. Fainting at the sight of blood was one of her talents, along with not being able to stand the smell of peanuts or the taste of brandy.
She wrapped the finger up without looking. It probably wasn’t cut, but it wasn’t worth the chance. She could faint when she got home.
Abby squatted down and found her keys, the outside light from the bar just about lighting up the pavement around her enough to be able to see where they’d landed. Next to what looked like someone’s vomited late night kebab, obviously.
This just about summed up her day. Or even week.
Possibly month.
The night was still. Any breeze had died away earlier that day, though the humid and muggy afternoon had promised a storm, the calm air backed up that notion further. Abby liked the warm weather, the hot days and the evenings where the sky seemed as if it was fire as the sun set against the darkness of the mountain peaks as it had been earlier, before the cloak of night had settled on the town.
She clutched her keys in her hand, battered bag on her shoulder and heard her stomach growl. Despite eating a burger from the kitchen, she was hungry and as usual, there would be very little in her fridge, because Abby Walker was not the most domesticated or organised of people.
The streets were familiar now, having lived in Severton for nearly two years. It was a small town, typical of the Peak District with its stone cottages and pretty gardens, quaint little shops and pubs that felt like someone’s sitting room. Severton in summer was a haven for tourists, a key stop or end point to a day walking or climbing up the heights of the mountains, that in any other country would’ve been mere pimples. Abby knew. She’d climbed a few, back when she’d been doing a different job.
Her feet walked without her needing to think about where she was going. It had only been a few months since she’d rented Rayah Maynard’s tiny terraced house from her, but it felt like home, better than the small flat above the bar where she’d slept and showered for a few months before that. A nomad’s life, but then it had been like that for the last decade.
Moonlight was shrouded by a thin wispy cloud, one travelling quickly, although there was still no breeze.
Abby paused. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
Then she heard it.
Footsteps.
She clutched the keys in her hand, the end of one sticking out in case she needed a weapon. Her heart started to beat quicker, her breath felt shorter.
Even through everything that had happened, she’d always managed to not be paranoid. A bump in the dark was probably something falling over because of a draught from the window; a creak from the floorboards would be the house settling.
The sound of shuffling from the nearby alleyway was not a cat hunting a mouse.
Something told her it was human.
Something told her it had been waiting for her.
Abby sped up, keeping her footfall soft, her pace growing. She was about seven minutes from home, three and a half if she ran. Three if she ran fast and didn’t fall.
Or she could aim for Alex’s house. Two minutes away, less if she sprinted. He wasn’t on shift because he’d been in the bar for a drink after he’d finished work, looking thoughtful and barely saying a word other than to be polite.
Her hair was a mess, she smelled of the beer she’d managed to spill over her jeans and she was pretty sure her mascara was not where she’d applied it, but the footsteps she’d heard were still there and they were getting louder.
Quicker.
Running would mean she’d be chased.
Going home would mean she’d be on her own.
She took the left turn and found herself on the tiny road with six double fronted cottages, the roofs thatched and the timber ancient.
There were no more footsteps behind her as she reached the last one, the fields adjacent to it filled with rape that glowed orange when the sun was setting but which cast sinister shadows in the dark while she was scared. When she got to the front door, her chest and lungs were hurting from the pounding of her heart.
Abby wiped at her eyes, realising that she was crying. Her shoulders shook. The noise she registered was her fist pounding the door and then it opened.
Alex Maynard was tall, his dark hair was usually messy, his stubble unkempt and his hands roughened from the climbing he did and the woodwork Abby knew he enjoyed during his spare time.
She’d noticed his hands a lot.
Now she was noticing his feet. Bare, black sweatpants slightly torn at the cuff and at the waist, there was just bare skin. Inches and inches of bare skin that covered muscles she hadn’t realised would be so defined. She should’ve known. She’d grown up with climbers and men who took stupid risks enough to know how you didn’t need a gym to look like a sculpted god.
How Alex Maynard looked wearing possibly two items of clothing registered hard, and even though she knew she was shaking, she wasn’t certain if she was shaking because she thought she’d been followed or because she was staring at Alex’s chest.
“What’s the matter?” He stepped out onto the path and placed a hand on each of her shoulders.
“I think I’ve been followed. I think someone was waiting for me to leave the bar.”
His face darkened, his jaw clenched. “Come inside.”
Abby shook her head, suddenly feeling ridiculous and weak. “It’s fine. It was probably my imagination…”
“Abby come inside.”
There was that something in his tone that made her comply.
She’d never been in his house before. He’d been to her flat above the bar and to her house. In fact, he’d helped her move, just like all the Maynards had. She’d wondered what it would be like inside, imagining it bare and minimal because she’d fantasized that Alex was a pretty basic sort of man, the type who didn’t need things.
She’d fantasized a lot. And not always about his home décor taste.
It wasn’t about his taste in furnishings, which weren’t minimal. There was a sofa that looked comfortably worn and two armchairs that didn’t match. Alex’s dogs, Hansel and Gretel, lounged on a rug in front of an open fire that was roaring.
He’d picked up his phone, partially ignoring her.
“Ste,” she heard him say. “You need to send patrol from the Last Temperance Bar towards my place. Look for signs that someone’s been lurking around. Abby’s been followed.” There was a pause. “She’s at mine now. Sure. Let me know what you find, even if it’s nothing.”