Free A Half Forgotten Song by Katherine Webb

holidaymaker, transient, just passing through and not worth the bother.
    People wandered in and out with their dogs, sinking a quick pint as part of their evening walk, and Zach amused himself watching the animals circle and sniff while their owners did the same. He felt heavy with lassitude, the aftereffect of fresh air and exercise. His muscles lengthened and relaxed, his glass of beer made his head light, and he didn’t feel in the least bit conspicuous, or unwelcome. Not until the door rattled open again and a woman strode in, small and wiry, her figure in tight-fitting jeans lost beneath the baggy swaths of a huge tartan shirt. Her legs disappeared into slouchy leather boots, the toes white with dust. Dark curls of hair held back by a peacock-green scarf, its edges frayed and grubby. He recognized her from the jeep at the farm in an instant, and for some reason her sudden appearance gave him a jolt, as if once again he’d been caught out doing something he shouldn’t.
    She moved with the same speed and purpose as he had witnessed in the yard, and slowed only when she reached the bar and was greeted by several people. She smiled and shook hands with a few, which Zach found strange and refreshing—to see a woman shake hands rather than offer kisses, like the women he knew in the art world would have done.
    “The usual?” Pete greeted her, and though the landlord smiled, Zach noticed he looked slightly uncomfortable, almost nervous. The woman smiled back at him and Zach caught her expression in the mirror behind the bar—the raised eyebrows, the slightly mocking tilt of her lips.
    “As usual,” she said. Zach found himself straining his ears to pick up her voice. Pete put a shot of whiskey in front of her, which she knocked back as he pulled her a pint of dark ale. Zach saw her watching the landlord carefully; saw him flick his eyes up at her. As he put the pint down in front of her, he tilted his head to one side and seemed about to speak, but the woman held up her hand. “Don’t bother, Pete. Seriously. I’ve had a crap day and I’ve just come in for this one, okay?”
    “Okay, okay. Don’t bite my head off! I didn’t say a word.”
    “You didn’t have to,” she muttered, picking up her pint and lowering her head to sip without spilling. As she did, she raised her eyes and caught Zach’s gaze in the mirror. He flinched and looked away. When he looked up again, she was still watching him, and again he looked away. He looked down at his hands; he looked at a circular drip of beer on the table; he looked at his phone, which had no signal, not even one bar. Then he looked up, because she was standing right in front of his table.
    “You were up at The Watch today,” she said, without preamble.
    “You recognize me?” he said, trying not to sound pleased.
    “Not difficult. You stand out like a sore thumb in those clothes.” Her voice was textured, slightly hoarse; the words spoken in the same quick, abrupt manner in which she moved. Zach looked down at his dark jeans, his leather shoes, and wondered what it was that made them so conspicuous. “Got lost, had you? Looking for the coast path?”
    “No, I . . .” He hesitated, wondering if he should own up to what he’d been doing. “I was visiting somebody.”
    “What do you want with her?” the woman demanded.
    “Is . . . that any of your business?” Zach said carefully. The woman tipped her chin up a little, as if squaring up to him. Zach almost smiled at her fearless belligerence, and then felt a tug of recognition. He paused, trying to place the feeling. “I’m Zach Gilchrist,” he said, holding out his hand. “Have we met somewhere before?” She eyed his hand suspiciously, and paused before shaking it with a single jerk.
    “Hannah Brock. And no, we haven’t met before. I’m Miss Hatcher’s nearest neighbor and I look out for her. Make sure she’s not . . . bothered by anybody.”
    “Why should people bother her?” Zach asked,