‘So what’s next week got in store for you?’ Andy asked.
‘New kitchen fit-out up in Monmouth.’
Today, Dom had given himself a rare day off from work. He ran his own small electrical firm, just himself and an apprentice who’d been with him for three years. Davey was a good worker and a pleasant lad, and Dom was pretty sure he’d soon be making a break to set up on his own. He didn’t mind that so much. It was bound to happen, and he couldn’t expect the lad to stay working for him forever.
Andy chuckled. ‘Oh, Mr Electrician, have you come to rewire my plugs?’
‘Yeah, like that’s ever happened.’
‘Sure it has.’
‘Not all manual labourers have lives resembling the plots of pornos, you know.’
‘No?’
‘That’s just you.’
‘Sure, the sordid life of a freelance technical writer.’
‘So how is the gorgeous Claudette?’ Dom asked.
Andy had been on–off dating a French doctor spending a year on a work exchange at the hospital in Abergavenny. Early-thirties and beautiful, Dom had only met her once.
Andy leaned over. ‘Porn star,’ he whispered, grinning.
Dom rolled his eyes, and when he looked at his friend again, Andy was staring across the road.
‘Take a look at that,’ he said.
Dom followed his gaze. He was expecting to see the two women jogging away, or another attractive woman perhaps walking her dog. So at first he couldn’t quite make out what Andy had been staring at.
‘What?’
‘Security guy.’
A security van was pulled up across the square, and a man was carrying a heavy black case into the local post office.
Dom had never been in there, but it was obviously a typical village post office, doubling as a newsagent and grocer. It had a selection of wooden garden furniture for sale out front, windows half-filled with flyers for local jumble sales and amateur dramatic presentations, and a homemade display wall of bird tables and feeders.
He’d seen people going in and out, and often they’d stop and chat on the wide pavement in front of the shop. This village was far smaller than Usk where he lived, and everyone seemed to know everyone else. The Blue Door cafe probably only thrived because of the main road that ran through the place. That, and the entertaining sourness of its owner.
‘So?’ Dom asked.
‘Doesn’t have his helmet on.’
‘It’s hot.’
‘And he’s left the van’s driver’s door open.’
‘It’s really hot. So, what, you’re casing the joint?’
Sue arrived then, placing a tray on their table and giving them their drinks and cake. She knew whose was whose.
‘Busy day?’ Dom asked.
‘Rushed off my feet.’ She left them and cleared a couple of tables before going back inside.
‘Wow. Positively chatty today,’ Dom said, but Andy was still staring across the street and didn’t respond. ‘What now?’
Andy stuffed some flapjack into his mouth and took a swig of coffee. Then he nodded across the small square again. ‘Just asking to be ripped off.’
The security man was standing outside the post office talking to a large, middle-aged woman. Dom had seen her before, and he guessed she was the postmistress. They were standing in front of the display window, shielding their eyes against the sun as they chatted. The woman threw her head back and laughed. The man waved his free hand as if to illustrate a point more clearly. He still carried the case.
‘How much do you reckon’s in there?’ Andy asked.
‘No idea.’
‘Just standing there.’
Dom started on his chocolate shortbread, balancing the guilt against the promise of a thirty-mile ride back home.
Andy ate silently, then drank more coffee.
It wasn’t like him to be so quiet, Dom thought. Usually he’d be joshing, making quips about some of the other patrons, talking about the ride they’d had and the route to take back home.
‘Suppose it’s pretty safe around here,’ Dom said, more to break the silence than anything else.
Andy shrugged.
‘Just take one daring person, though.’ He licked his finger and picked up crumbs from his plate, looked into his empty cup, obviously contemplating another coffee.
‘Or two,’ Dom said. He chuckled. ‘“And no one ever suspected the two innocent cyclists”, the papers’ll say.’
Andy glanced up at him, and the moment paused.
Dom still heard chatter from the women and businessmen, and even the distant mumble of voices from across by the post office. But the air between him and his friend seemed to stop for a moment, movement ceased, and Andy’s eyes grew painted and still.
Then he sat back in his chair and stretched, interlocking his fingers and cracking his knuckles above his head.
‘Gonna be a hot ride,’ he said. ‘Get back to Usk two-ish. How about I carry on home and change, then get back down for a couple of early evening ones at the Ship?’
‘Friday cider weather,’ Dom said.
‘Damn right.’
They stood and headed back to their bikes.
On the way through the small garden area they passed the two joggers. ‘Morning, ladies,’ Andy said. He got a smile from one of them, and a lingering stare from the other.
Dom sighed. It was a hilly ride home. He’d be following in Andy’s wake.
Later that evening the Ship was full, customers spilling across the gardens and down onto the riverbank. Dom was enjoying the familiar post-exercise glow, a tiredness that felt earned, knowing that his aching muscles the next day would soon fade away. Three pints in, his potential aching head was another matter.
‘Another?’ Andy asked.
‘You’re driving home. You’re already over the limit.’
‘I’ll drink lemonade. Doesn’t mean you can’t have another pint of dirty.’ The Ship served a local scrumpy that they’d nicknamed dirty, an acquired taste but seemingly brewed especially for scorching summer evenings like this. After a bike ride. With canoes on the river and half the village sprawled around the pub.
Dom held out his glass. ‘Hit me, baby, one more time.’
Andy headed for the pub, leaving Dom sitting on the grassy riverbank staring at the water moving lazily by. He knew plenty of people here to chat to, but he was enjoying this moment of peace and calm reflection.
He’d always considered himself blessed. He and Emma made a good team. Their daughter, Daisy, was almost eleven years old, bright and fun, growing towards her teens with grace and intelligence. Some of their other friends were having trouble with their teenaged kids, ranging from strops and long bouts of sulky we-know-better