Lamb to the Slaughter Read Online Free PDF Page B

supportive, cheering extravagantly anything that could possibly qualify as a good shot. Worse still, their opponents, the Toreadors from the Black Bull, were ready to make allowances, one of them even beginning an offer not to count a particularly wild shot, an attempt which ended in a sharp ‘Ow! Whad’ya do that for?’ as a Warlock’s foot made contact with his shin.
    Tam was in a black mood as he sat down with his pint afterwards, deliberately pushing his way through the crowded bar to a chair in a corner at the back of the big room. If there was one thing he couldn’t take, it was pity. Even when it came disguised as kindness, he recognised it with a curling lip. Marjory had tried it more than once and he’d had to be – well, what he termed straight, but Bunty, when he’d repeated it to her, had called downright rude. Women! Can’t take a telling, then get all hurt when you repeat it.
    It had been a punishing spell. His work was the focus of his life, and though at first the struggle towards recovery had been a job in itself, now that he was feeling better the lack of occupation had been driving him demented, to say nothing of what that did to Bunty. Only another couple of weeks or so, the doctor had promised, but he’d said that before to buy him off and Tam wasn’t holding his breath.
    Staring morosely into his glass, he didn’t hear the team captain say quietly, ‘If he’s feeling thon way, better just let him be.’ But before long Tam perversely began to resent his isolation, and was on the point of swallowing his beer as well as his pride and using his empty glass as an excuse to rejoin the party, when a little stir of activity indicated the arrival of the folk-singer.
    Tam brightened. He liked Ellie Burnett’s voice. They all did, and as a bonus she was a wee smasher. Every man’s head turned as she made her way to the stool at the back where a microphone had been set up, near to where Tam was sitting. She shook her head at the offers of drinks that pursued her, sat down, tuned her guitar and without introduction began to sing.
    She had a surprising voice for someone with her slight frame, a honeyed contralto with an earthy tone to it. Her repertoire was undemanding jazz, Scots ballads, Bob Dylan classics. She began with Gershwin’s ‘Summer Time’ – a favourite with Tam. The caressing voice wove its magic; he could feel the tension in his neck and shoulders beginning to ease, and the sadistic monster which now inhabited a corner of his brain, and had been stirring, quietened down again.
    Conversation gradually started up once more, though at a lower level so that she could still be heard; there was a smattering of applause when Ellie finished. After a sip of water from the glass on the table at her side she went on into ‘O whistle and I’ll come to ye, my lad’, another of Tam’s favourites. Anything at all written by his idol, Rabbie Burns, was a favourite with Tam.
    Watching idly, he became aware of a young man sitting opposite, beside the table nearest to the singer. He had pulled his chair towards her and away from it, turning his back on its other occupants who were chatting and laughing, though quietly enough. It was the extraordinary intensity of his unwavering gaze that attracted Tam’s attention.
    He was a striking-looking lad, pale-skinned with a mop of light brown hair flopping forward over his brow. His eyes were a vivid light blue, and the way they were locked on Ellie’s face must, Tam thought with slight professional unease, be making the woman uncomfortable, however used she might be to punters who thought stripping her with their eyes wasn’t assault. Bastards!
    Tam had a well-hidden romantic streak, and she had an air of vulnerability that made you want to protect her, to go out and duff up a dragon or two if necessary, or maybe just tell that wee nyaff to move along now and not embarrass the lady.
    She finished that song, and another, then set down the guitar to