The Hemlock Stone was a typical chain pub, with smart upholstery and menus on every table; the kind of place her uncle would have hated. As Sian walked in, she realised it was worse than she’d feared, with vaguely witty quotes stencilled on the cream finish above the bar, and some kind of Halloween-themed quiz going on. Still, there were people here, and the buzz and chatter around her as she headed through the door was comforting.
It was slightly tricky to negotiate her way to the bar past people who’d had a few drinks, or were not looking, and Sian had to stop more than once. When people noticed her on her crutches, though, they moved aside, and one guy even tried to clear a path through the others. She made it to the bar and asked for a gin and tonic.
‘Which one?’ the barman said, ind
