Chapter 1
The pint glass was almost half full when the beer tap spluttered and deposited draft Guinness foam down the front of my T-shirt. I let it go, cussing under my breath, and I glanced along the bar to my bartender, Terry. As usual, he was deep in conversation with the three old timers who propped up my bar most lunchtimes.
Those old guys treated The Lucky Shamrock like their second home, escaping their isolation of living alone. I loved that of all the local bars, they’d chosen to stick with me after I’d taken over as manager almost eighteen months before.
“Terry, I need to go and change the Guinness barrel in the cellar and clean up.”
“Do you want me to change the barrel?” he asked, reluctantly, his eyes pleading with me like he’d have found it traumatic to move.
“No, I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your social time,” I told him, sarcastically. “I need to get a clean top from the dryer in the cellar anyway,” I replied, gesturing to my clothing drenched in ale.
The truth was, I knew Terry was likely the only fresh conversation those senior citizens were likely to have before they went back to their solitude in their homes.
No matter how many times I had opened the door to the cellar and looked down into the darkness, it gave me the willies. I knew it was stupid because there was no creepy window for a mad man to sneak in.
As I fumbled along the wall for the light switch, snapshots of every horror movie I’d ever watched flashed through my mind.
Relief flooded my body when the neon strip light on the ceiling of the cellar blinked in a ‘will-I-won’t-I’ decision before it finally decided to stay on and the basement under the bar was bathed in a harsh bright light.
Out of habit, I’d paused halfway down the wooden steps, my heart freaking out as my eyes desperately scanned around the damp sunken space. I’d obviously read too many paranormal shapeshifter books when my vivid imagination paid consideration to one or two of those perhaps lurking in the corners.
Although the cellar was kept clean and tidy for potential unannounced health and hygiene inspections, it had a smell that reminded me of bygone days. Maria joked it was the smell of death and swears it had been used as a dungeon in the past.
Hastily, I unclipped the keg from the pump line, rolled it away and struggled with the new seventy-kilo-plus keg and moved it into position. When I reconnected the hook-up to the pump line, the pressure valve released marginally before the connection was sealed, spraying me for the second time that morning with Guinness.
“Shite,” I muttered to myself as I quickly peeled off my soaked top, grabbed the first one that came to hand from the dryer and pulled it over my head. Stepping back toward the pump, I rechecked the connection and then headed back up to the bar.
“Ta-da, I’m back, Terry, job done. You’ll be glad to know there was no axe murderer down there, so you won’t need to strain yourself doing any work,” I teased.
Terry turned to look at me, but instead of giving me his usual thumbs up sign whenever I made a sarcastic comment, I saw his eyes widen and he stalked toward me, concern etched on his face. Grabbing me by my forearm, he marched me out of sight of the old timers and shoved me gently toward the stairs at the back of the bar.
“Daisy, what the fuck are you wearing? I don’t think you’ll want to be advertising yourself like that,” he scolded, sounding stern.
“What…” I had begun to ask as I held out the hem of the top and glanced down to see what was wrong. “Are you fecking serious?” I muttered in disbelief when I saw I had pulled on the smutty joke pyjama top my friend, Maria, had bought me for Christmas.
The scooped neck top had a printed image on the front of male and female feet, intertwined, male on top as they poked out from under the bottom of a sheet. The low V neckline displayed my ample cleavage and underneath the printed picture was a slogan adorned with shocking pink sparkles that said, ‘Good girls do missionary work’. I cringed.
“And the crotch of your jeans,” he remarked, pointing down lower. “They look like you’ve wet yourself,” he said, not knowing where to focus his attention between the wet patch and the crude picture emblazoned over my chest.
“Holy Shite, Terry, did those three see me?” I asked of the old regulars sat at the bar.
“No, they are all too busy grumbling there’s nothing good on the telly,” he replied.
“Bejesus, that was close.” I chuckled and ran my fingers through my short blonde haircut. Terry stole a glance at my cleavage and I cuffed his head. “Eyes up, Terry,” I barked, and raised my hand to cover my bust.
“So, Daiz, can I ask about the pyjama top … did Barney buy you that?”
“What the feck, Terry,” I admonished and shoved him back hard. He chuckled, unperturbed by my physical contact. “That’s not remotely funny. Besides, you’re like my dad. I’m not doing personal stuff with you, and anyway, that’s over with, so stop mentioning him.”
Hearing him mention my romance with Jamie, tugged at my chest. My heart ached at the mention of the nickname I’d given to Jamie Fontaine, the hot rock star I’d met by accident some months before, and I’d had an intensive affair with.
“Whoa, still a bit raw to deal with?” he asked, dipping his knees to look into my eyes, and appearing immediately sympathetic. “If you need a shoulder to cry on, just sayin’,” he said, nodding toward my pyjama top again. I knew it was his effort to lighten the mood after he’d seen my reaction to what he had said.
I smirked when he moved his head from side to side playfully, like he was asking me to consider his offer. I glanced up at the ceiling and back to him, telling him how ridiculous his comment was. Terry was forty odd, and although he was an extremely attractive man, he was far too old for me. He shrugged and held his hands out.
“Just so you know, I’m here Thursday to Sunday, noon to midnight, worked like a dog and in need of a raise, any favors welcome,” he added, playfully.
“Aw, man, you’re an eejit,” I said through a laugh. “Get back to work before our customers start serving themselves and doing you out of a job or a window might open for those Thursday to Sunday noon to midnight shifts you just spoke about.”
My barman was fiercely loyal and although I grumbled about him at times, we were friends as well as colleagues. Terry wasn’t quite old enough to be my dad like I’d joked, but at times I felt he was almost as protective as him.
Fortunately, I had a couple of close girlfriends, Frances and her sister Maria, who listened whenever I’d felt the need to pour my heart out after her rock star had abandoned me.
Running upstairs to my bedroom, I swapped out the wet jeans for another pair, grabbed a beer-branded T-shirt to pull on and ran a brush through my messed up hair. I was just running a comb through my hair when Terry called up to me from the bar.
“Daiz, there's a call on the business line down here asking for you … it sounds like it’s someone official.”
Skipping quickly downstairs, I took the call sounding a little out of breath.
“The Lucky Shamrock, manager speaking,” I said, sounding business like. I’d expected it to be one of the breweries.