The Landlady

A car spluttered to a stop outside a pub that jutted up from butterfly bushes, birch and rubble. She lifted the bonnet, pulled at a cable. The landlord came out and their eyes met. They kept looking at each other as he showed her round the pub. At one end of the bar was a tile shaped like an ear to remind punters to keep their mouths shut. At the other was a red brick shaped like a heart.

Within weeks she was passing dope back over the bar with people’s change. One afternoon he caught her selling speed in the toilet. When he calmed down he told her about the red brick heart, said it marked the place where the townsfolk had burned a woman who refused to confess. Seconds later he apologised for the story.

A few nights later she drove into the country and broke into an empty manor house. As she skidded home on flooded roads the stuff on the back seat tumbled together but nothing was broken. Back at the pub she unloaded statues, paintings and pots—the pick of the best from the derelict house. She made the pub an amazing place. A place where they often said they were happy.

The Prawn Season
Oil
Kingfishers
Dehydration
The Leather Chair
Bleach
The Landlady
Long Beach