Solitary

It is only if you looked into the depths of the poorly lit pub that you would see him.

In the corner at the back of this near-empty establishment is a small alcove, or snug if you will, lined with weighty tomes, heavily-varnished oak panelling and thick, dusty green curtains.

He sits prone, legs outstretched on the old leather sofa with a well-thumbed book on his knee and a bookmark in his hand that he absentmindedly taps a rhythm with on the back of the sofa.

His head is turned tow...