‘Weren’t you worried that there was already a Dracula-themed bar in Whitby?’
A muscle tenses in his jaw. ‘No,’ he says after a beat. ‘Because I knew mine would be better.’
I can’t decide whether or not I’ve hit a nerve. To be fair to Dean, I’ve never been into his bar. It genuinely could be better. It doesn’t matter how I feel about Dean personally– Iowe it to my article to be more objective here. Of course I get the feeling that there’s more to this story, but I definitely need to hear both sides of it to really understand what’s going on.
So, with a new swell of determination, I smile and grab my pen. ‘I’d love to hear more about it.’
That’s all it takes. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about him in the short time that we’ve known each other, it’s that Dean Ratcliffe’s favourite subject is Dean Ratcliffe. When he’s talking about himself, he’s warm and witty and charismatic– charming in a way that makes me think of when neighbours sayhe always seemed like such a nice guyabout someone who’s just gone on a murder spree.
It’s not normally in my nature to judge people so harshly, particularly people I’ve only just met, and I do feel bad about it. But I’m also quite sure that I’m right, and that Dean’s veneer of niceness is as artificial as his smile.
He doesn’t talk about his bar the same way Bram does. When we got back to the cottage last night, Bram gushed about it over our cups of hot chocolate. He told me about the way Emmy has revolutionised their cocktail list, giving old classics a dark new twist and coming up with a whole range of themed drinks. How Quinn turned himself around, going from a troubled kid to the hardest worker on the team, even if he can be, in Bram’s own words, insufferable. How it was Fox who introduced the flair tricks, putting her own spin on what were seen as quite dated moves, and the whole thing going down so well withthe customers that it prompted him to learn a few tricks too. He even told me about Sammi– how he doesn’t know how she balances being a hotshot lawyer with being their business manager. He was brimming with pride the whole time he was talking about them. Ok, he called Quinn an idiot about five times, but there was genuine affection in his eyes as he did. It’s obvious that he sees them as family, and after spending just an hour with them last night, I can see why.
In contrast, Dean’s been talking for almost ten minutes, and I don’t know the name of a single other person who he works with. For all I know, based on this conversation, thereisno one else, just him, wearing every single hat. I do kind of admire his confidence, if I’m honest. I’m willing to bet it’s brought him a long way.
As he speaks, my eyes find his face. He’s handsome in quite an obvious way, with his dark hair and piercing blue eyes. His beard and eyebrows are neatly groomed, and his teeth are so perfect that they’re nowhere near passing as real. If it weren’t for the kink in the bridge of his nose and the small scar cut across one eyebrow, I might think he was some kind of humanoid robot.
He stops talking when he sees me looking, and one hand goes to the scar.
‘Bram’s handiwork,’ he says, and when I frown, his smile twists. ‘Yeah, I bet he hasn’t told youthatpart of the story, has he?’
My frown deepens, my stomach clenching tight. ‘He hurt you?’
Dean nods, suddenly serious. ‘Beat the shit out of me. Ended up with a broken nose and nine stitches in my forehead.’ He breathes out a little laugh, but there’s no humour behind it. ‘They arrested him, but I didn’t want to press charges.’
My heart sinks. It’s a sure bet that there’s more to that story than Dean’s letting on, but I think back to Jon’s warning– to the things I read about Bram last night. The story about thebat, for God’s sake– I’m pretty sure that’s not true, but the very idea that it could be makes me feel a little sick. Especially as I’m sharing a space with him for the next couple of days.
But then I think of everything I’ve learned about him over the last couple of days. Of all the people who love him– who won’t hear a bad word said about him. Mina has known him her whole life, and she told me unequivocally that Bram was a good guy. I never would have asked him to share the annexe with me if she hadn’t. I make a mental note to call her when I’m done here, and just planning it makes me feel better.
‘What was the fight about?’ I ask, holding Dean’s gaze, and then I see it– the tiny flicker of his eyelids. He blinks it away, and his eyes drift off for a split second before he regroups.
‘It was about a girl.’
I let him tell me the story, about how the two of them were competing for the attention of the girl, just like they always competed about everything, only this time it got personal. He exaggerates the fight scene, I’m sure, pauses for emphasis in what he probably thinks are key points. There’s too much detail in some places, nowhere near enough in others, and that’s when I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that not all of Dean’s story is true.
What I’m dying to know is ifanyof it is.
‘She chose me in the end,’ he says, his chin tipping up in triumph. ‘Moved in with me after a couple of weeks.’
I study him. ‘Are you still together?’ I ask, after a moment, and that question makes his eyelids flicker again.
‘We’re not.’ His eyes burn into mine. ‘I’m currently a free agent.’ He says it like it’s for my benefit, and it makes a coldshiver run down my spine. I’m glad I met him here, with all these people around.
His food arrives, and I’m glad of the interruption. I manage to steer him back onto the subject of Ravenskull while he devours his bacon butty, and he finally, grudgingly, gets onto the subject of the people he works with while I furiously scribble down notes.
By the time we finish the interview and Dean hugs me goodbye again, I feel like he’s told me a lot, but I’m not really any closer to the truth. He makes me promise to call him with any questions, but the reality is that I’ve got so many questions I wouldn’t know where to start. And if I’m honest, a lot of my questions are about Bram.
I pull out my phone and dial Mina, but it rings out. She’s still recovering, I remind myself. She must be resting.
I tap out a text instead.
LUCY
Sorry, I don’t want to disturb you.
I’d just like to pick your brain when you’re feeling better x
I press send and check the time. It’s a little over ten minutes until I need to meet Bram.