Read Written in the Scars (The Estate Series Book 4) for Free Online Page B

quickly, yet his infidelity had rocked her to the core. And despite the years since, she’d never quite been able to trust anyone else enough for them not to feel stifled, often becoming jealous and keeping her men on a tight leash. She didn’t have physical scars but she did deal with the mental ones on a regular basis. Joe Harvey might have swept a young Donna Adams off her feet but he had definitely been the wrong person for her.
    So could Owen be her Mr Right, after all these years? She hoped she’d have the time to find out soon.
     
    Lewis peered at his watch, trying to focus on its face. He pulled it in closer, but could only see one hand: it looked like it was nearing midnight.
    The Butcher’s Arms was the only pub on the estate that was still open. There had been the White Lion until a few years ago but it had been boarded up for a couple of years and then burned to the ground when someone set it alight. If Lewis remembered rightly, the youth responsible hadn’t survived the fire he’d started.
    The pub had been made over since he’d come out of the army but it still couldn’t hide its grubbiness. Deep red carpet already had signs of wear and tear, stains and cigarette burns. The curtains were red too, thick velvet that reminded him of a pub from Life on Mars that he’d been recently watching on catch-up TV. Why hadn’t they thought to make it over into something modern rather than keep it in the tired and traditional state that it was in now? If the brewery had thought about it, they would perhaps have had more of a steadier clientele. But then again, maybe that was indicative of the estate – nothing would ever make it a nice place to live, so what was the point in trying?
    He left the pub, groaning as he pushed on the door. Mum would be on the warpath if he didn’t get home soon. The fresh air hit him and he swayed slightly, struggling to stand up. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been in the bar, or how much he’d had to drink, but it hadn’t worked to dampen his anger. Even before he’d walked a few minutes, he struggled to recall the name of the bloke he’d been talking to that evening. Had it been Peter, Patrick, Paddy? He didn’t really care though.            
    ‘Stupid nosy bastards,’ he muttered under his breath, crossing over Davy Road. What was it with people on the estate? Twice he’d had a go at someone for saying too much, pushing things that little bit too far. Everyone wanted to talk to the returning soldier, hear his tales of blood and death. Had he killed anyone? What was it like? Didn’t they realise he didn’t want to talk about it? Lewis wanted to forget it.
    But, even so, he didn’t know what else to talk about. What could he contribute? How much his wife hated him and how much his son didn’t want to be with him anymore? No one wanted to hear that. It was too much like normal life.
    Normal life , he sniggered, tripping over a raised flagstone on the pavement. He didn’t know what that was anymore. Was it waking up every night, covered in sweat, praying that the nightmare wasn’t real? Was it waking up in a single bed back at his mum’s house, his wife and child asleep somewhere else? Was it being unable to hold down a job for longer than a few months at a time? Well, yeah, he supposed that last one could be classed as normal for some.
    He staggered down the pavement, from left to right, right to left. The night was quiet, and most of the houses either side of the road were in darkness, except for the odd light on here and there. He almost lost his footing again, causing him to stagger to the left and bump into the side of a parked car. Cursing loudly as the wing mirror dug into his hip, he pulled up his foot and kicked at it. When it hung by a wire, he pulled it until it came away. His breath coming in fits and starts, he slammed it to the floor, stamping his heel on it, relishing the crunching sound it made underneath the soles of his