The Mist

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Lizzie Rush tensed at her table by the fire, watching out of the corner of her eye as a tall, fair-haired man entered the small village pub, shutting the door firmly against the gale-force wind and steady rain that had been lashing the southwest Irish coast for hours. The man wore an expensive trench coat unbuttoned over a dark brown sweater neatly draped across a flat abdomen, dark brown trousers and leather shoes that, although suited to walking the isolated hills of the remote Beara Peninsula, looked to be free of mud and manure.

The half-dozen local fishermen and farmers Lizzie had seen arrive over the past hour had hung up wet, worn jackets and scraped off their shoes and wellies or shed them and set them by the door. The men were gathered now over pints of Guinness and mugs of coffee at rickety tables by the front window. They paid no attention to the newcomer, nor did the brown-and-white springer spaniel flopped on the stone hearth close to the peat fire. The dog belonged to the barman and presumably was accustomed to the comings and goings at the pub.

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