Summer at Harbour View House by CP Ward

Author:CP Ward
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: AMMFA Publishing

15

New Friends and a Blackmail plan

Natasha sought refuge from both the bare-chested men with their door-fixing skills and the former rock star with the karaoke problem in the only place that felt safe—the pub. Lizzie had just opened up and was happy to see Natasha so soon after their meeting on the beach.

‘Just changed the taps on the Local so you’s can have a half for free if you like, just t’make sure the pipe’s clear,’ Lizzie said, tapping the top of the ale pump that Natasha still had nightmares about.

‘I’m good with coffee for now,’ Natasha said, ‘but keep the offer open just in case circumstances change.’

‘Something come up?’

‘I just had a run in with my friend, her new boyfriend, his friend, and my ex-rock star next door neighbour.’

Lizzie chuckled. ‘Ah, you’s met Edward, have ‘e? The old village secret. Keeps himself to himself up there, although stops in for a pint from time to time, mostly in winter.’

‘Is he really likely to be bothered by anyone? I heard they only had one hit.’

‘Ah, but it was a big one, you know. Got it in the loft somewhere.’ Lizzie lifted her hands, then began to sing in a shaky voice, ‘You’s got me movin’, shakin’, you’s like the lady of the lake n’ I’m makin’ … out wid’ yoooooo—’

Natasha grimaced. ‘Yeah, I don’t remember that one.’

‘As story goes, ‘e refused to play it again after the band broke up. Kind of like some legacy thing. Making a packet on royalties, though, he said. It was in some coffee advert last year on cable, not that you can get cable down ‘ere in the village.’

‘Good for him. Didn’t do much for his personality, though.’

‘Ah, Edward’s all right. Still thinks it’s 1987 and there’s a reunion tour coming. Off top of me head I think the rest of ‘em are dead already.’

‘That’s too bad. I just wish he’d turn down the karaoke.’

‘You’s just got to keep an eye on his regular times and get out of the house for a while.’

The outside door opened with a creak, and a gaggle of voices rose from the corridor. Lizzie smiled. ‘Here they come. Campsite’s open, ain’t it?’

A few seconds later, the bar door opened and a group of randomly dressed people appeared. Lizzie opened her arms and called, ‘Albert! Marigold! Great to see you again! And are these the girls? How they’ve grown!’

Albert was a man in his early fifties who looked to have stepped off the shore of a tropical island via a modern art gallery. A faded Radiohead t-shirt was flecked with paint, as were the greying dreadlocks that hung to his shoulders. Marigold, presumably his wife, wore an oversized woolen poncho and a straw hat that barely covered a mop of light, almost strawberry-blonde hair. The two teenage girls that followed them in were chalk and cheese—one was decked out in Goth-styled black leather, her hair dyed jet black but streaked with lines of blue. The other had glasses, pigtails,

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