Free The Man Who Built the World by Chris Ward Page B

hungover as he walked in through the door, he couldn’t have a soft drink, he just couldn’t. Soft drinks did nothing; they couldn’t help him.
    The latest in a succession of double whiskeys watched him from the table. Matt eyed it suspiciously, sure it was sliding from side to side to confuse him. The pint of Stella that loomed over it like a big brother seemed much more stable. He reached out a hand and swung it from the table, spilling a few drops as he jerked it towards his mouth.
    It tasted better than the whiskey but so weak in comparison, like driving a Fiesta when you had the money for a Porsche. He had never been a great fan of beer. He rarely drank to be social anymore, only to reach a state where the world seemed to make sense. To reach the heady drunken equilibrium he craved, beer took so much effort. A few glasses of a decent whiskey, or any spirit for that matter, and he was good to go.
    He didn’t remember a great deal about the pub – the Tamerton Arms – having been too young to frequent it before he left. Even so, it looked like it had changed hands or at least had a refit, for the dingy, smoke-stained interior he remembered had been replaced with shiny surfaces and new carpets, deep blue, almost black walls, pine tables, new chairs and benches. A large television hung from one corner, a hand–written poster beside it advertising upcoming Premiership games. The gambling machines were modern, rather than the old space invaders and pinball machines Matt would have expected. The windows looked newly double–glazed. The usual memorabilia that adorned country pubs remained: framed photographs of darts and pool teams from twenty years ago, a small trophy cabinet set into the wall behind the bar, the odd landscape painting, a few framed newspaper articles and numerous old beer mats pinned to the walls, but otherwise the pub possessed a sheen of modernity which, although Matt was sure it wouldn’t please the locals, made it feel at least remotely welcoming to strangers.
    Such as he felt he was.
    A group of people stood by the bar, four or five men, a couple of women. Most of them were older than him, in their late thirties and early forties. He thought he recognised one or two, but his vision wouldn’t focus long enough to allow his mind to remember their names. They had recognised him though; even through cloudy eyes he caught the occasional sideways glance, and the odd snippet of derogatory conversation not intended for his ears.
    Bethany. They were here for Bethany’s funeral.
    He not ed the suits and smart dresses, a couple of veils presently pulled up, and wondered why he had not thought to bring one himself. In jeans and a black pullover he was hardly showing respect, but frankly he didn’t care. His father, and indeed Bethany, were lucky he had come at all. If he hadn’t been so keen to get away from Rachel and the kids for a while he might not have come, but it was an excuse to distance himself from the family he was gradually screwing up, just as drinking was an excuse to distance himself from work and reality.
    A large, broad-shouldered man, seated on a stool at the bar slightly apart from the others, watched him impassively, not even bothering to hide his interest. Matt felt sure he should recognize the man but his memory failed him and he turned away in disinterest, back to the whiskey which he finished in a single swallow. He gagged as it burned his throat, and supped on the pint to wash it down. A couple of people had turned round to stare at him.
    ‘What?’ he said, spreading his arms, palms out. ‘What’s so interesting?’
    There were a couple of muted responses, but most of the people turned away. Only the man sitting alone continued to watch him with those same steady eyes.
    Matt scoffed at him and sipped a little more of his pint. He turned away and looked out of the window for a while, pinpointing objects in the distance and trying to focus on them. He laughed as first a tree