Free The Judas Scar by Amanda Jennings Page A

claret and burgundy. North End Wines was nestled in a tired row of shops between the Co-op and a bookmaker’s. From the outside it didn’t look like much, with its chipped maroon paintwork, dirty white walls and security bars on the windows – a legacy from its days as a sex shop – but the rent was cheap. Inside, however, was an Aladdin’s cave of beautiful wine. Bottles were shelved from floor to ceiling and wall to wall, all of them carefully selected by Will from a variety of vineyards, large and small, and already, even after only a year of trading, they had a small but loyal customer base who travelled from various corners of London, battling gridlock to buy their wine.
    ‘So how are you today?’
    ‘Good thanks, Frank.’
    ‘Kettle’s just boiled, dear.’
    ‘Lovely. Would you like a coffee?’
    ‘Gracious, no. I’ve had three already.’
    ‘Three?’ Will said, raising his eyebrows. ‘It’s not even ten. You’ll be bouncing off the ceiling.’
    Frank smiled and playfully batted the air. ‘I’ve been up since five. I’m surprised I haven’t needed more than the three, to be honest.’
    Will pushed through the plastic strip curtain, reminiscent of a Seventies corner shop, and in the tiny cupboard that passed as a kitchen he made himself an instant and dumped two spoonfuls of sugar in it. ‘How are the boys?’ he called through.
    ‘Fluffy,’ Frank said. ‘And as lazy as ever. Poor Pinwheel was a bit off-colour on Saturday but the vet wasn’t worried; she said it was probably something he ate. A past its sell-by mouse, I suspect. He’s such a greedy toad.’
    Will smiled to himself and took his coffee back into the shop. The shop settled him; he felt comfortable here, knowledgeable and well respected, with no pressure to be anything out of the ordinary. He didn’t have to be talented or skilful, or, if truth be told, to stretch himself. He knew about wine. He’d worked in the business since his early twenties, and being able to work close to home, with no commute and no pressure, suited him. Frank was independently wealthy and worked for Will for the love of it; if the business had to fold, Frank would be unaffected financially. It was easy and pleasant, which is just how Will liked it. He didn’t make much money but it was steady, and though there were undoubtedly days when he wished he was out with his camera searching for beauty in the obscure and mundane, they weren’t frequent.
    ‘Would you like a custard cream?’ Frank asked. ‘I’ve a packet in my satchel.’
    ‘I’m okay, thanks.’ Will opened the large desk dairy by the till. There was a delivery that afternoon and he was meeting a new restaurant owner on Wednesday, but other than that, it was a quiet week. ‘Did you have a good weekend, Frank?’ he asked.
    ‘Oh, well, you know, this and that.’ Frank opened his old, battered bag, so stuffed it bulged in the middle, cracking the dry tan leather. He retrieved the packet of custard creams and carefully unwrapped them, took one, then wrapped the packet up and slid it back into his bag. ‘I do like a custard cream,’ he said to the biscuit. Then he seemed to remember something and waved the biscuit frantically at Will. ‘Ooh, something did happen,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Eric had a death threat through the post. That was rather thrilling.’
    ‘A death threat? A real one?’
    ‘Yes, some poor woman, distraught he’d killed off Princess Aisha in Far Reaches of Sylion .’
    ‘Blimey,’ Will said.
    ‘To be honest, we’re used to it. Some of the diehards were terribly upset. Saw it as a total betrayal that their gorgeous heroine got the chop.’ He shrugged. ‘I think that was it as far as weekend excitement goes.’ Frank put the last of his custard cream into his mouth then brushed the crumbs off his suit. ‘And now to work. I was thinking it was all getting a bit untidy in here. How about I give it a dust and a straighten?’
    Will smiled; the shop was