Sleep eluded her, as the memories drifted aimlessly through her mind. The day which started well, and ended with a tragedy; no matter how hard she tries Jannine Marshall won’t get to sleep tonight. Even with the empty bottle of whisky by her bed.
The story began several years ago, when a stranger entered “The Lobster Pot,” a small inn at Bartlebay. He wasn’t tall and handsome, but he carried with him a sense of being, which made you want to know more about his life.
The day had been stormy and even in the late night it wasn’t hard to hear the thunderous sounds of white-capped waves, as they crashed against the sea wall.
The bar of “The Lobster Pot” was filling up, and the smoky atmosphere which the many pipes of the sailors contributed to made a heady feeling as Helmut entered the inn. Most of the men in the inn at this hour were fishermen, the office folk shunned “The Lobster Pot,” it was considered below them to be seen there. Big money passed hands in the villages main pubs and bars, while down here the talk was more mundane and down to earth.
It was a running joke, the number of times that the people who shunned the inn could be observed looking at the inn, and wondering if they dare go in.
As the rain-lashed figure of Helmut Charbrier entered the inn, all eyes turned to the stranger. He was definitely new to the area, but dare the regulars make contact with him? Helmut wasn’t too bothered either way as he walked to the bar, with a smile that shone through to the window of his soul he said, “Can I have a pint of bitter please?”
Strangers were looked up on as intruders in Bartlebay, here was a tightly knit fishing community. Everybody who went to “The Pot,” as it was known, knew everybody else and viewed strangers with a mix of contempt and wonderment.