Page 50 of Secret Paths

“Exactly. We know all our drunken idiots by name, which makes them no less annoying.”

I make a show of looking at my unfinished pint. “I was in the middle of processing a major life change.”

“You can process while walking,” Alexandra says.

“That sounds medically questionable.”

Mandy pulls her scarf into place. “I do not need an escort.”

“No,” I say, sliding off my stool with all the reluctance of a condemned man, “but apparently you are getting one. Come on, then. Let us get you safely through the lawless streets before someone from the cricket club offers you unsolicited opinions about Arsenal.”

Her mouth twitches. “I am touched by your sacrifice.”

“You should be. I had plans.”

“What plans?”

I glance at my pint. “Finishing that.”

Hunter lifts it out of my reach. “A noble dream, cruelly cut short.”

Mandy opens the door, and cold air slips into the pub. “Are you coming, or shall I risk the mob alone?”

I sigh heavily and reach for my jacket. “Fine. But if I am attacked by a retired geography teacher with strong opinions about VAR, I expect you to tell everyone I died bravely.”

“I will say you complained until the end.”

“Accurate,” I say, following her outside, “but harsh.”

Outside, the cold hits harder than I expect.

The pub door closes behind us, cutting off the warmth, the light and Alexandra’s voice saying something to Hunter that I do not catch. The village is quieter out here. Thursday night quiet, with most curtains drawn and only the weak glow of streetlamps stretching across the wet pavement.

Mandy falls into step beside me.

For once, neither of us says anything.

I should fill the silence. It is what I do. A joke about drunken football fans. A comment about Alexandra appointing herself head of village security. Something about the cricket club having stronger opinions than batting averages.

But the words do not come.

My head is still at the bar.

The bank is closing.

Morton Hall on Monday.

Less money. Less responsibility. Enough to keep the cottage, maybe.

I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and walk beside Mandy past the dark bakery, past the old noticeboard and down the narrow lane towards her cottage. Her boots make a steady sound on the pavement. Mine are heavier, less certain.

At her gate, she stops and turns to face me. The entrance light catches the pale strands of her hair and the edge of her scarf.

“Well,” she says.

“Well.”

“You have delivered me safely through St Claire’s criminal underworld.”