THIRTEEN
Delores sipped her half of Gravediggers and Barry drained his pint, ‘b****y lovely drop of beer that,’ he said, smacking his lips. She had to agree, and was looking forward with a little less trepidation to the fish stew as a beautiful smell of food pervaded the bar, over and above the scented, radiant, shimmering peat and floral sawdust.
Barry was up and down looking out the window. She allowed him this as at Five foot six, eight if she lied, she couldn’t see out the top sash without tip toeing, and she knew Barry would leer at her legs. It revolted her, he was revolting, and she often thought he only looked at her legs because it was expected of a chauvinistic, arsehole copper; he made her skin crawl. She sat back in her wooden wheel-back chair, smooth from wear and deceptivel
