Death's Grip by Jack Probyn

Author:Jack Probyn [Probyn, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781805200352
Published: 2023-09-11T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

THIRTY-ONE

The Windjammer was situated on the south of the island, hidden behind the sea wall that stretched along the coast and did its best to protect its inhabitants from the battering winds and rising sea levels. Sean swerved the car into the unmade car park and manoeuvred it into a makeshift parking spot, sitting beside an Audi Q7. For 11 a.m., the pub was surprisingly busy, with half a dozen cars parked as close to the entrance as possible. It was the first time Tomek had been to the Windjammer, and he was less than impressed. In his time, he’d been to several bars and pubs over the years (and had his favourites), so he liked to think he knew a thing or two. The building was a two-storey brick house that looked more like a function room than a pub. The lower floor was constructed from brick while the top half was made of black panelling that stretched across from one side to the other. A meeting room at the top, pub beneath.

Upstairs for thinking, downstairs for dancing, as his dad used to say. Repeatedly.

Even when Tomek had asked him to stop.

The first thing he noticed when he entered was the smell. That quintessential English pub smell. Of broken dreams, lost hope, and a smattering of ecstasy combined with the heady mix of alcohol and spilt beer. Then he noticed the floor. The garish patterned carpet that hadn’t been replaced since its original instalment in the seventies, and had seen more spills than punters. Then there were the overhead wooden beams across the ceiling that Sean nearly knocked into as he shut the door.

The bar itself was situated in the centre of the building, penned in by four beams that were more for structural integrity than any sort of cool design feature. Tables and chairs were dotted around it like a horseshoe, with some sitting higher on a raised platform. Above the bar was a sign, stencilled in different shades of chalk, that offered customers a range of double shots for as little as £2. Vodka, gin, rum, tequila.

All of which had been Tomek’s go-to when he’d been younger. Even as late as his mid-thirties. Going out, drinking with his old school friends, feeling like death the morning after. Promising he’d never drink again but then finding himself at the bottom of vodka Red Bulls the following day. And then something had switched. He grew up a little, and all of a sudden started to develop a taste for beer. Sophisticated, entering into adulthood. Since then he’d never looked back.

But he saw the appeal: two quid was insanely cheap for a double, and it was a wonder how the pub had managed to stay afloat for so long. But now it was beginning to make sense why Jenny found herself in here frequently.

That, and the clientele. Men who’d been working on site somewhere, builders still dressed in their high-vis vests and boots, giving young women attention they would never have received anywhere else.

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