The Lamb was a crumbling building of ancient heritage, with a leaking thatched roof, and windows so small they barely let any light in. It was surrounded by an untended garden, and its one redeeming feature was the clambering rose that smothered the walls in glorious blood-red blooms as if in defiance of the neglect. There was always a wood fire smouldering in the inglenook which filled the small room with smoke if the wind was blowing down the chimney. However, as Martin discovered, that didn’t seem to bother the old boys who took up residence beside it to linger over their beer and smoke their pipes.

He ducked his head to avoid the heavy beam above the low doorway and stepped down into the single room which reeked of spilled beer, dirty clothing, sheep shit, wood smoke and pipe tobacco. Coming from the bright sunlight, it took a moment to get his bearings, and as he stood there on the hard-packed earth floor, he heard the familiar pause in the low rumble of chatter before it started up again.

He was no longer a stranger or a curiosity, he realised, and barely earned a glance as he headed for the bar. They would ignore him from now on, and that was the main reason he liked it here. Digging out his wallet, he ordered his usual pint of bitter with a whisky chaser from the enormously fat landlord whose heavy jowls and bloodshot eyes reminded him of a disgruntled bloodhound.

Carrying his drinks to his preferred seat beneath one of the tiny windows, Martin lit a cigarette and then sipped the beer. For all his looks and surly manner, the landlord kept an excellent cellar, and clearly had contacts on the black market, for there was always a bottle of whisky under the counter. Good whisky, too, he thought appreciatively, and not watered down like in some pubs.

He tuned into the conversations going on around him, but found it hard to understand the thick local accent, so tuned out again and let his thoughts drift back to Anne.

He knew she was struggling to cope with him along with her duties at the school and at home and, instead of confiding in her mother, had pretended everything was fine and thrown herself into the preparations for the forthcoming election. Martin acknowledged that it was probably her way of escaping the bleak reality of their failing marriage, just as his was to find his way here each day. At least he agreed with her choice of candidate, for she was supporting Victor Collins, the Conservative candidate for Taunton.