The Haunted Pub

by Melanie Tushmore

  When they reached the landing, Ryan told Sammy he was going to finish the cashing up. "Oh!" Sammy remembered. "Rachel sent me up here to get you, anyway. We need a barrel changing."

  "Which one?" Ryan asked.

  "Can't remember." Sammy waved a hand, typically vague. "Guinness, or something? One of those gross beers the old dinosaurs drink."

  The Guinness had run out? Ryan found that strange. They'd changed most of the barrels last night, as the bar had been busy. That was why he needed to get that order in for next week.

  "Can't you change the barrel?"

  "I don't know how," Sammy said. "And Rachel won't go in the cellar."

  Ryan groaned inwardly. No one wanted to go in the cellar. "Okay," he sighed, checking his watch. "We've still got an hour to open. Finish the prep, and I'll be down in a bit."

  "Okay!" Sammy trilled, skipping away down the stairs.

  * * * *

  No one liked the cellar, least of all Ryan. Yet, somehow, he always found himself down there changing barrels, or fetching things that the others managed to worm their way out of fetching. He wasn't looking forward to going down there this morning.

  After finishing the cashing up, Ryan came down to the bar with the till's float. He caught Sammy and Rachel, their barmaid, standing around gossiping. "Come on, guys," Ryan urged them. "We need to get ready."

  He didn't like being drill sergeant. He wasn't even very good at it, but in lieu of Pete, the manager, and Ginger, who was assistant manager, Ryan was next in line. He only stepped in when he was needed, because he wanted to help Ginger. God knew the poor guy had enough on his plate right now. Last Ryan had seen him, Ginger had been trying to coax Fizz out of his room. The boy barely left his bed, as far as Ryan could make out. Ginger was getting worried, so Ryan had offered to help out when he could. Ginger should have been on shift today, but Ryan had insisted he didn't mind swapping shifts.

  He slammed the cash drawer into the till and exhaled quietly. "So," he said. "Which barrel needs changing?"

  Rachel, a glamorous rockabilly girl, pointed at the Guinness tap. "It's just not coming out."

  "Cleaned the filters?" Ryan asked, stepped over to inspect the pump.

  "Yes, Ryan, I'm not thick." Rachel said. "And by the way, I had to clean all of them. Whoever closed up last night didn't bother."

  "Okay, sorry," Ryan placated her. "I'll find out who it was and have a word." It felt like he spent all his time these days calming the staff down, cooling their embers. "Do you want me to show you how to change the barrel?"

  Rachel shook her head. "I'm not going down there."

  "It's fine," Ryan said. Even he didn't believe that.

  "Sorry." Rachel grabbed a cloth and a bottle of cleaning spray. "I'll do tables. Take the twink. He could do with building up the muscle."

  Ryan smiled, and turned to Sammy. "You heard the lady, Sammy."

  Sammy's jaw dropped in protest. "Excuse me. Why do I have to go, when Rachel—"

  Rachel threw her wet cloth on the bar with a slap, and put a hand on her hip. She gave Sammy a no-nonsense look, which quickly sent him scurrying behind the bar. Ryan smirked at Rachel, then followed him. Sammy opened the door to the cellar, then gestured to Ryan. "After you."

  Suppressing a shudder, Ryan descended the stone steps into the curved stone tunnel that looked like the entrance to a dungeon. No one liked the cellar. It was always cold down here, and there were weird noises. For years, people had said they could hear what sounded like a little girl crying.

  God.

  There was an air vent near the drop hatch, and the noises seemed to come from there. The only person who didn't seem to mind the cellar was Ginger. Though he never really paid attention to little things, as Ryan was well aware. The pigeon loft, for instance, didn't seem to spook Ginger at all, whereas Ryan couldn't stand it.

  In fact, the whole building had a funny feeling about it sometimes. Like that time they'd been sitting in the bar after closing, having a quiet drink to wind down. Everything had been locked up, including the side door for disabled access, and the outside iron grate across it. They'd been laughing and having a joke, until they'd heard the unmistakable sound of a rusty key being turned, and the iron grate opening. They'd muttered amongst each other, waiting to see who it was. There were three key-holders who lived in the pub: Pete, Ginger, and Ryan. But that didn't mean that someone from the company or a past employee didn't still have a key.

  That was their only explanation, anyway, as they'd all heard the iron grate pull shut, and the inside door to the pub open. Heavy, clomping footsteps had walked up the stairs. The inner door to the bar was shut, so they hadn't been able to see through to the stairs. At the time, Ginger and Pete had got up to have a look. They even went upstairs searching for whoever it was, but came back again and said no one was there.

  They'd all laughed it off, saying they must have imagined it, or it was echoes from somewhere else in the building. Ryan didn't like to let on that it freaked him out. He tried to put a brave face on it, and make sure he was never on his own anywhere in the pub. Save for his bedroom.

  Which was why he was pleased Sammy was with him in the cellar now, even if his jitters were making Ryan more nervous. "This place gives me the creeps," Sammy muttered, hopping from foot to foot. "And it's always so bloody cold."

  Ryan was busy checking the beer barrels. He couldn't believe the mess they were in. Someone had connected them all wrong, leaving the caps unscrewed. At least three barrels were ruined, the gas having escaped. The beer was so flat, whoever had done this must have done it last night. Scrubbing a hand over his face, Ryan made mental notes of the amendments to his beer order. No point crying about it; they'd just have to make the most of what they had for a couple of days. Maybe the drayman would do them a favour and fit their order in earlier.

  "Right, Sammy." Ryan tried to get his attention. "I'll show you how to connect the barrels; are you watching?"

  "Okay," Sammy said absently. Ryan went ahead and did the best he could to rectify the mess. He connected new barrels of Guinness and Hobgoblin, then insisted Sammy have a go himself. After a bit of a bodge, Ryan helped him out and they got the third barrel connected. Sammy's teeth were chattering. "Can we g-go now?"

  Ryan felt the chills running over his skin, too. "S-sure," he chattered back. "We're d-done here." They raced each other up the stairs, back into the warmth of the bar.

  Sammy shut and bolted the door. "I hate that place."

  Ryan didn't care to comment. Rachel had sidled up to them and said, "I heard voices last time I was down there. I know everyone says it's only echoes from the street, but that's bullshit. I know what I heard."

  "What was it?" Sammy asked, as Ryan winced.

  "It sounded like someone calling," Rachel said in a low voice. "I stopped and listened, but it wasn't anyone I recognised. I heard another voice, kinda deep and manly. Then a little kid, laughing."

  Sammy snorted. "Laughing's better than crying."

  "I'm sure it's just from the street outside," Ryan said, trying to convince himself as much as his colleagues.

  Rachel obviously disagreed. "I know what I heard. I'm never setting foot down there again." Suddenly, loud, clomping footsteps sounded overheard. Someone was walking down the stairs, towards the bar. Ryan tensed, then jumped in fright as Sammy grabbed onto him and shouted, "Oooga booga!"

  "God, Sammy!" Ryan snapped, swatting him away. "Don't do that."

  Sammy laughed heartily. Their boss, Pete, appeared. "All right, troops?"

  "All right," Ryan replied, heart still hammering. Rachel and Sammy soon forgot the ghost talk and began fussing over Pete. Rachel used any excuse to flirt with Pete, and Sammy used any excuse to talk rather than work. Ryan sighed to himself, and reached for the coffee pot. He'd already cut out as much caffeine as he could, but even that wasn't helping his nerves.

  By midday, the pub was prepped and ready to open. Rachel had already delivered the peanuts to Matt upstairs, and had m
anaged to coax him out of his sulk much better than Ryan ever could. The nut roast was fine, in the end. Rachel bravely took the first taste, and sat at the quiet bar eating her vegetarian roast dinner. Sammy opted to eat a flimsy, cold sandwich from the café up the road, rather than ask Matt for a roast.

  "Just kiss and make up," Rachel cajoled, cutting up her steaming food. She breathed in the smells before taking another bite. "Mmm, yummy."

  Sammy gazed at her dinner forlornly, but he still refused to speak to Matt.

  Ryan prayed the pub would get busy enough for Matt to stay upstairs cooking. If it was quiet, Matt would end up sitting at the bar, and then it wouldn't be long before him and Sammy started sniping at each other again.

  Ryan just didn't think he could cope with any more crap today. He kept out of the way, busying himself at the other end of the pub for a bit of peace and quiet. Sunday Slam was on later, and as entertainments manager, it was Ryan's job to get the venue ready.

  The 'venue' consisted of the back end of the pub where the toilets were, and a rickety stage built out of empty beer crates. Spit and sawdust, in other words, but it was good enough for the local punk bands.

  Ryan sat on the edge of the stage, with a box of tangled-up wires at his feet that he absently began untangling. He found himself dangerously close to thinking about Ginger again. Luckily for him, two of his bandmates showed up. Dee and Glen strolled through the pub. They spotted Ryan and closed in on him.

  "Duuude!" Glen drawled.

  "All right, duuude, how's it goin'?" Dee's attempt at an American accent was almost as bad as Glen's.

  Ryan frowned at them. "Why are you talking like that?"

  "We watched Dazed and Confused last night," Dee explained.

  "Yeah, man!" Glen was still trying for an American accent, then shouted, "Air raid, freshman!"

  Ryan winced. "Please be quiet."

  "Have you seen it?" Dee asked.

  "Yeah, I've seen it," Ryan said. Dazed and Confused was one of Ginger's favourite films.

  "Dude, we totally need to cover ‘Slow Ride’."

  "Nuh-uh," Glen frowned at Dee. "Thought we were gonna cover ‘Cherry Bomb’? But Ash was gonna sing it as ‘Curry Bomb’ instead. Hur, hur."

  "Where is Ash?" Ryan interrupted. It wasn't like their singer to stay home on a Sunday.

  Dee shrugged. "He said to meet him here. We've come to eat off our hangovers."

  "Yeah." Glen chuckled. "Speaking of food, how's old moody chops?"

  "Matt? He's.... well." Ryan shrugged.

  Dee and Glen shared a look. "Uh-oh!" Glen laughed. "Like that, is it?"

  "Don't ask."

  "Shall we complain about his food again?" Dee suggested. "Entice the grumpy bear from his cave?"

  "Please don't." Ryan dropped his wires and stood up. "Go sit, be quiet. I'll bring your usual over."

  "Ooh, what service!" Dee and Glen hurried to a table and sat down.

  Thirty minutes later, Ryan's phone buzzed in his pocket. After looking at the screen, he answered, "Hey, Ash."

  "Are those two dick-knobs in your pub?"

  Ryan blinked, then glanced over at where Dee and Glen were sat their table. "Uh, yeah. They said you were meeting them here." Ryan heard Ash curse and huff. It sounded like he was walking.

  "Where are you?" he asked.

  "Just up the road," Ash said. "I told those idiots to come pick me up first. Should've known they'd get it wrong. I'll see you in a sec." He hung up. Ryan shrugged, then put his phone away and carried on stacking glasses.

  Rachel was engaged in a crossword, and Sammy was currently engaging in his own cross words with one of the customers. Ryan waited nearby in case things got heated. Or rather, when things got heated. The trouble had started when the female customer had approached the bar with a view to complain about what was written on the food menu. Under "tuna melt" was written in marker pen, "All our tuna contains at least ten per cent dolphin!"

  Evidently, the lady didn't appreciate Sammy's ad hoc humour. Sammy, still wearing his offensive T-shirt, had told her, "Build a bridge and get over it, love."

  It was one of those days, Ryan thought.

  Pete had gone out, and Ginger was still upstairs. Rachel clearly didn't want to get involved. Just as Ryan was debating how to intervene, the door opened and Ash strode in. Ryan waved at him as Ash approached the bar. Ash's arrival was also the end of Sammy's interest in arguing with the customer. His eyes lit up, and he positively beamed at Ash, hurrying over to him. Before Ryan could say hello—considering Ash was his friend, after all—Sammy had pushed past Ryan.

  "Hey, Ash!" Sammy greeted. "And what can I get for you?"

  Ryan rolled his eyes, but he quickly made the most of Sammy's distraction and stepped over to the flabbergasted customer. Ryan apologised to her, and told a little white lie about Sammy being on work experience, which managed to smooth over the situation. Appeased, the woman went back to her table. Ryan was well aware of her beady eye still watching him, so he nipped around the bar and gathered up the other menus. There was a marker pen behind the bar. He'd have to insist Sammy blot out the slightly-offensive joke, and hopefully that would be that.

  Ryan glanced up, seeing Sammy dote on Ash while he fixed his drink. Ryan knew it would take ages for Sammy to serve him. He'd drag out each moment as long as he possibly could to spend more time with Ash.

  Ash took it well, but he was probably used to it. Ryan couldn't blame people for liking Ash; there was a lot to like. As well as being tall and slim, he was half Indian and achingly handsome. Natural, glossy black hair, smooth, tanned skin, and shining dark eyes. Ashcharya Singh. Which was apt, as he did like to sing.

  Maybe if Ryan hadn't spent the last three years so completely hung up on someone else, he might have pursued something with Ash. He knew Ash was bi, like him. But as it was, they were just friends. Probably for the best, Ryan thought. They didn't need any romantic soap operas disrupting the band. No matter how crap their band was, it was what they did.

  By the time Ryan made it back to the bar, Sammy was still mixing a simple lime and soda, and Ash was still waiting patiently, responding to Sammy's flirtatious advances with polite-yet-distant interest. Ryan snatched Ash's soda away and stuffed the menus into Sammy's arms.

  "What's this?" Sammy questioned.

  Ryan produced the marker pen, and thrust that at Sammy, too. "You can spend the next ten minutes scribbling out whatever you've written on those menus. Do it before Pete gets back or I'll tell him you've been upsetting customers."

  "Oh, come on," Sammy started to whine.

  "No," Ryan said firmly. "Get on with it, please, Sammy. I'm going out back. Don't upset anyone else while I'm gone."

  Sammy huffed and rolled his eyes. Ryan bit his lip and counted to ten, moving out from the bar as he did so. "Come on, Ash," he said, handing Ash his drink.

  "Bye, Sammy." Ash took the drink and waved to Sammy, who instantly brightened.

  "You know where to come when you need a refill, Ash!" Sammy trilled.

  As they walked away, towards the back of the pub, Ryan gave Ash a look. "What?" Ash questioned.

  "It must be hard being you."

  "Hah! Yeah, well..." Ash smiled back. "I'm kinda running out of excuses to say no to him."

  Ryan almost guffawed. "So, why not say yes?"

  "He's not really my type."

  "You have a type?"

  Ash shrugged. "Maybe. You know when you meet 'em, right?"

  A vision of long red hair and a face with kohl-lined eyes flashed through Ryan's mind. He had to fight really hard against sighing. "Yeah," he agreed. "You're right."

  They approached Dee and Glen, who were on their second pints already. "You morons," Ash said, sitting down next to Dee. "You were supposed to come pick me up."

  "What?" Dee frowned at him. "You said meet here."

  "I said come pick me up! And why aren't either of you answering your phones?"

  "Needs charging," Dee said.

  "Dr
opped mine last night," Glen added. "It's in bits right now."

  Ash snorted. "Good job."

  "So, then..." Ryan hastily changed the subject. "I take it you lot being here means you want roasts?"

  "Yeah!" they chorused.

  "Don't any of you upset Matt," Ryan warned. "He's in a mega mood today."

  "Mega mood?" Ash snickered. "Is that more than the regular mood?"

  Dee piped up, "Ryan, after the roast, we wanted to have a nose upstairs at this rehearsal space."

  Ryan's blood ran cold. "W-what rehearsal space?"

  "Those empty rooms," Dee said.

  "Yeah," Ash agreed. "It'd be great to practise here; save us a fortune."

  "Um, they're not ready," Ryan fibbed. There was absolutely no way he wanted to set foot in the pigeon loft.

  "Ginger said they were ready," Ash told him.

  "Eh?" Ryan squeaked. "What? When'd he say that?"

  "Last night," Dee explained. "We asked him about it, and he said we could use them any time."

  "Oh." Ryan could feel the chill creeping up his spine. "Er, yeah. Great."

  Chapter 4

  "You need to eat something," Ginger said.

  Fizz had been picking at his food for what felt like forever. He'd tried, he really had. A few mouthfuls were all he could manage. The desire to eat just wasn't there. His mother used to reprimand him all the time. "There are people starving out there! Be grateful for what you've got!" But that just made him feel worse. Fizz would much rather give his food to someone who needed it.

  Why should he be allowed to eat and enjoy things, when others couldn't? He didn't deserve it. An enormous blanket of guilt had weighed over him his entire life, and he couldn't seem to shift it. Fizz wondered how people managed to get through life without seeming to care. All it took was one picture in a newspaper, or a flash of a documentary on TV, and he felt absolutely wretched and miserable at the thought of others suffering.