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whirled around. No one there, but he could smell that faint, familiar aroma. Familiar
because it had come to him before, sometimes in dreams, sometimes when he was awake. An odour that was elusive, yet sometimes strong. He had been a child when the strange smell had first come to
him and then it had merely been unpleasant; now he had learned to fear it. It was the smell of vomit. Vomit and blood. And corruption.
    He felt himself tremble and his eyes tried to drink in the darkness, to absorb it and see what lay beyond. Was there a shadow darker than the rest? Something moved and his eyes locked on to it.
But he was mistaken; he edged closer and there was nothing hiding there, no person, no creature. The smell had gone.
    Kelso backed away, the coldness tightening his spine. He turned, but did not run. His footsteps were swift, though.
    He left the car park, grateful for the modest glow from the streetlights and glanced back over his shoulder. The car park was empty. But the darkness could have hidden a hundred demons.

4
    It was like walking onto the set for a Western. The bar was long, almost stretching the whole length of the one-room public house; black pull-pumps – genuine pull-pumps – projected from the bar’s rough wood surface, each one denoting a different strength of local brew. The walls were covered in planking which had originally matched the
uncarpeted flooring; rough boots had removed any sheen that the floor may have had at one time. The coal-burning stove in the middle of the floor, its pipe ascending to the ceiling, then turning
right to run the length of the room and disappear through an outer wall, emphasized the unique cowboy flavour of the small, English pub, although two elements managed to spoil the image to some
extent: dozens of chamber-pots hung from the ceiling, an unusual addition to the decor, to say the least, and a fruit machine stood near the double-door entrance. Even most of the clientele, given
the right garb, had the rugged appearance of ranch-hands. And that included the women.
    The smoke haze made Kelso blink his eyes for a second or two; he hid the reaction by turning and carefully closing the double-doors behind him. Heads looked in his direction and one or two
nodded an acknowledgement. He had tried all four public houses in the town, but had soon realized that this was the one which might provide some useful information, for many of the drinkers here
were boat people; local fishermen, or those working in nearby boatyards. Several of the younger members of the community also gathered here, youngsters who might be vulnerable to the temptation of
speed or grass; there was little else to provide kicks in the town.
    Kelso made his way to the bar and eased his body between the backs of two solid-looking individuals, careful not to jog their drinking arms. The barman was already waiting for his order, having
seen him enter. It made a refreshing change from London pubs.
    ‘How’d you get on today, then?’ The barman’s voice had a pleasing local drawl to it, not unlike the Cornish accent, but softer, less broad.
    ‘Not bad. I kept hearing distant bangs all day, though. It frightens the birds.’
    ‘That’d be the bomb disposal. Your usual, is it?’
    Kelso nodded. His ‘usual’ was the strongest of the local brew; somehow he felt intimidated by the pub’s atmosphere and clientele into drinking the ale.
    The barman filled the straight pint glass and placed it before Kelso. As he counted out Kelso’s change, he said, ‘Be years before they’re finished there.’
    ‘Can’t be many left, can there, after all these years?’ He took a deep, grateful swallow of the beer.
    ‘You wouldn’t have thought so. But they say there’s hundreds of those mines left over after the war. Got covered by silt, you see. It’s worse where they’ve drifted
up the estuary. Always finding something there. There’s little danger now, though, so you don’t have to worry.’ He smiled