Both he and Emily stopped in their tracks.

Heads were turned towards them. Staring eyes from every direction.

The hubbub of conversation stopped. There was total silence, punctuated only by the ping-beep-bloop-ping of a flashing gaming machine on the far side of the room, like a forlorn extraterrestrial left behind on a mission and trying to attract attention.

Jason felt like they were the couple in the film he had seen years ago, Straw Dogs, entering a pub full of folk in rural Cornwall. Was he just imagining the atmosphere? He put an arm around Emily and squeezed her, reassuringly.

Almost as quickly as it had happened, the moment passed. The video began playing again. Conversations seemed to resume throughout the room. All except for one old man in a checked lumberjack shirt and grey trousers, seated on a bar stool, who continued to stare at them with open hostility. Jason had a good memory for faces, and he looked like the tractor driver who had thundered recklessly down the lane towards them, passing them without slowing down.

Emily was looking at him strangely again, the same look she’d given him in the kitchen earlier. She waved a hand in front of his face. ‘Hello? Darling? Are you OK?’

He nodded.

‘I thought you were about to pass out,’ she said.

‘No – I – I just – had an image – for a painting – flash into my mind. I was trying to capture it.’ He smiled. ‘I think it’s time for that drink.’

Was the shrink right, he wondered, about the trauma of moving? Was his mind in shreds from the pressure of the move plus anxiety over his forthcoming exhibition? Hallucinating?

They waited at the back of the crowd at the bar, until he caught the big guy’s eye.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘We’re booked in the restaurant for lunch – name of Jason Danes at one thirty – we’re a bit early.’

The barman beamed. ‘No problem at all, sir, madam – and welcome to Cold Hill village. If I understand it, you’ve just moved in?’

‘That’s right,’ Jason said, proudly, happy to be recognized as part of the community.

‘Well, we all look forward to seeing more of you both.’ He stretched out a hand past the grizzled old man and another old man seated beside him. ‘Lester Beeson, I’m the landlord, in charge of this rabble.’ He looked pointedly at the man who was still glaring daggers at Jason and Emily.

‘Jason Danes,’ he replied. ‘This is my wife, Emily.’

‘All of us in the village are happy to have you both with us; we need a little rejuvenation. Too many grumpy old gits like Albert, here.’ He nodded at the grizzled man. ‘And old Wilfred over there!’ He pointed at an elderly, morose couple seated in a window booth, whom Jason had noticed when they’d entered. They were sharing a pack of crisps, eating without saying a word to each other.

‘Wilf!’ the landlord boomed across the crowded room. ‘Meet some new arrivals in the village! Give them a real Wilf welcome, eh?’