All he could think was, why? Why was there so much misery in the world? And why had he been given a relatively rich life, compared to others, but without the capacity to enjoy it? Was it everyone else who was wrong? Were they simply born without guilt, or was it him?
Fizz had come to the conclusion that it was more likely him.
"Come on." Ginger prodded him. "Don't make me force-feed you."
Fizz was a little worried Ginger actually meant that. He reluctantly ate another mouthful, hating every moment. They sat in the staff kitchen. Ginger had finished his own roast long ago. Wolfed it down, in fact. Ginger liked meat, but Fizz had asked for the vegetarian option. Now his father wasn't around to insist he ate "proper food", Fizz supposed he could even be vegan if he wanted. Ginger didn't seem to mind. At least Brighton was more open-minded when it came to choice of diet.
However, the more immediate problems whirled around in Fizz's mind and stifled his already small appetite. What the hell was he going to do? Ginger had already said he'd have to chip in and work if he wanted to stay here, to help pay for his food. There wouldn't be any rent—not while Fizz was in that decrepit part of the building, and the company didn't find out—but he still had to eat.
Fizz wished he didn't have to eat. He just wanted to stay in his room, forever. But he had to eat, and use the bathroom, and the washing machine. Ginger had put a load on for him now; the machine trundled away to itself under the counter, washing his clothes. With each cycle the machine made, he felt more and more awful.
Fizz hated being such a nuisance. He thought maybe he should disappear, and make life easier for all his family. He'd send a postcard, of course, and tell them he was all right. He couldn't bear the thought of people worrying, or looking for him. Then he'd stay gone, and the guilt of their worry would hopefully stop weighing on his mind.
Except he hadn't quite worked up the courage to leave yet. Pathetic, he told himself. His fork pushed a hard piece of nut roast around the plate. Don't cry, don't cry.
"C-can I go to the bathroom, please?"
Ginger looked up from the newspaper he was pretending to read. "Mate, you don't have to ask. You know where it is."
"Thank you." Fizz was relieved to escape. He wanted to get out of there before his eyes started streaming with tears.
As he reached the door, Ginger called out, "If I hear any puking noises, I'll make you finish this entire dinner, and then some."
Fizz paused. The words were on the tip of his tongue, I'm not bulimic! But what did it matter? People assumed all kinds of things about him, and what difference did it make? He nodded silently, then left the room.
Out on the landing, he heard voices below. Curious, Fizz peered over the bannister, down two flights of stairs. The door to the pub had opened, and Ryan came through it, leading a procession of colourful, punky-looking lads up the stairs. Fizz ducked back and ran along to the bathroom. He wasn't up for meeting anyone else right now. Matt, the pub's grumpy chef, had already scared the crap out of him earlier. A towering brick shit-house of a man, with an angry glare to match.
Then there was Sammy, the loud twink who never seemed to stop talking. It took more energy than Fizz had just to keep up with what he was saying. There was also Pete and Rachel, who were polite on the surface, but Fizz recognised that curious, judging look in their eyes.
No, he didn't want to meet anyone else.
Inside the bathroom, he shut the door and locked it. There was another toilet down the hall, literally just a toilet in a room, but Ginger had told him it was blocked. Apparently, there'd been a big drama about that, but Fizz hadn't really paid attention. So this was currently the only bathroom for all the staff.
Fizz sighed in relief. He felt... tired. More tired than usual. Since sleeping in his room here, almost a week now, he'd felt really lethargic. Like the small amounts of energy he did have had just drained away.
It was really weird. Especially considering he wasn't on his pills right now. He should have loads of energy. Or maybe years of taking the meds had wiped that out of him?
Just don't cry. Don't cry.
At the sink, Fizz splashed water over his face, willing himself to keep it together. He avoided his eyes in the mirror, as always. Running wet fingers through his hair, he could feel by the length that it was nearly time to cut it again. That meant he had to decide which was worse: finding someone who was willing to cut it for him, or cutting it himself and look in the mirror for endless minutes. It seemed so pathetic, and yet the thought of either scenario had him breaking out in a cold sweat.
Fizz forced himself to breathe in and out. Steady breaths, just stay calm. He sat on the edge of the bath and gazed out of the window. Someone had left the frosted-glass pane open to air the room after a steaming-hot shower. It had a view of the buildings nearby, and the pub's beer garden below. Fizz's thoughts strayed to wondering what it would feel like to fall from a window so high up. Or more realistically, to jump.
Just leap, then splat. No more worrying.
Except he couldn't help thinking about the people down below, and what they would have to deal with. He imagined how awful it would be for them, if they were enjoying a quiet drink in the garden, and a body fell out of the window. And what if the fall didn't actually kill him, only mangled him? Fizz shuddered. He knew he was too much of a coward, anyway.
His mind wandered, aimless. Strangely, the bathroom felt relaxing. The air here was fresh and light. Nothing at all like his bedroom. The air in his room felt... weird, and stuffy.
Fizz wasn't sure how long he was in the bathroom for. He heard voices, obviously Ryan's friends flitting about down the hall. He heard Ginger too, a quiet, low hum as he spoke to them. Ginger rarely raised his voice.
A blaring car horn from the street jolted Fizz in surprise. He hadn't even realised he'd closed his eyes. How on earth could he be so tired? He hadn't exactly done anything. Fumbling to the sink, he splashed more cold water on his face, this time to wake himself up. A quick pat dry with a towel, and Fizz left the bathroom. He didn't want Ginger battering down the door.
It was strange that the air in the hall felt closer than the bathroom had. It felt hot and stuffy. Fizz ran fingers through his hair, brushing it off his face. He glanced to the side with sleepy eyes, seeing that one of the big windows was open wide, letting in the afternoon breeze. It still felt like there was no air, though.
Fizz was on auto-pilot, slowly descending to the half-landing that led back to the kitchen. Too busy gazing at the window, he only just noticed the other figure waiting patiently to come up the stairs. "Oh," Fizz said in surprise. "Sorry." He stepped back, pressing himself against the bannisters. He wanted to shrink into nothing, embarrassed for causing the other person to wait while he dithered about.
The other boy smiled, and slowly ascended the three steps that separated them. "No worries," he said easily. Dark, almost black eyes flitted up and down, checking him out. A flush heated Fizz's face. He hated being looked at, but it was doubly awful to be scrutinised by someone so good-looking. The boy's unusual appearance was intriguing. Rather than pasty-white and scruffy like everyone else, he could easily be model material. Caramel skin, shiny back hair, and those gorgeous dark eyes. His clothes looked a little too clean and stylish to make him a hardcore punk. Fizz could picture him modelling for some trendy, rock-inspired fashion shoot. From the confident way the boy smiled at him, Fizz knew he would be a natural.
"I'm Ash," he said, holding out his hand. Fizz stared down at the proffered hand, then blinked at the boy. He'd been so caught up in unexpected thoughts—fashion shoots? Really?—that he hadn't prepared for an introduction. The outstretched hand, whether a friendly gesture or something else entirely, was more than Fizz could cope with. He couldn't make his voice work, let alone maintain eye contact. Shying back against the bannister, he hung his head and averted his eyes.
"Hey, you okay?" Ash asked softly, a note of concern in his voice.
Fizz cursed himself for not sta
ying in the bathroom. Then his saviour appeared. Ginger, likely having heard Ash speak, stepped out into the hall. "Fizz," he said firmly. "Come and finish your lunch."
Taking that as his excuse to run away, Fizz kept his eyes low and scooted around Ash. His arm brushed the cool leather of Ash's jacket, sending a tingle over his skin. Hurrying down the steps, he rushed past Ginger and back into the stuffy warmth of the kitchen. Ginger stayed where he was, giving Ash a parting look. "Bathroom's just up there," Ginger pointed out, then re-entered to the kitchen. Fizz couldn't have been more embarrassed. He sat himself down and took to the task of finishing his dinner in silence.
* * * *
Ryan leant against the warm brick of the building, gazing out at the street. The midsummer sun was still high in the sky, and the late afternoon traffic around The Old Steine was starting to ease off at last. He smoked a cigarette, and only half-listened to Dee, rabbiting away next to him.
Across the road, in the middle of Victoria Gardens, two slightly gnarled men in ratty old tracksuits were having a row. Ryan recognised one of them as a regular, and prayed he wasn't on his way into The Queen Anne. The pub's main entrance was about ten yards away, while Ryan and Dee were waiting by the side door, which was situated in the front courtyard. This was the most direct entrance from street level, also used as the disabled access, and a handy shortcut to upstairs.
Ryan tried not to look at the iron grate, innocently folded back against the wall. This was the same door that someone kept coming and going from at night. He could still hear the sound of those rusty keys turning in the lock, the grate being pulled back, and the footsteps clomping up the stairs. Ryan refused to believe he was the only one who could hear those same footsteps at night, walking around the hallways upstairs.
What had been a rare occurrence was now becoming far too frequent for his liking. The others blamed Matt and his heavy feet, or even Sammy dancing about to his pop music in his bedroom. The joking was usually accompanied by uneasy laughter.
No one could deny there was some strange shit going on lately. Noises in the night. Sounds in the cellar. Things going missing. And a strange stuffiness hanging in the air, no matter how many windows they kept open.
Rachel and Sammy, ever ones to speculate, had said that there seemed to be a rise of strange shit happening ever since Fizz had moved in. Ryan didn't think that explained anything. Fizz was hardly the one stomping about the halls, was he? The kid barely left his room, and he wasn't big enough to make that racket.
No, there was definitely something else going on. But in a way, Fizz was responsible for the one thing Ryan was most upset about: Ginger had been rather distant this past week. Of course he was worried about his cousin; Ryan could understand that.
Ryan stubbed out his cigarette, jabbing it into the wall. Okay, he was jealous. He knew it was selfish, but he couldn't help it. As if it wasn't difficult enough to get Ginger's attention, now he had to contend with Fizz. Not even connecting up that old VCR could get Ginger to spend time with him. They'd accumulated a stack of vintage VHS tapes, purchased online or at second-hand shops over the last few months, because Ginger had expressed an interest in watching them. Ryan had managed to track down most of Ginger's favourites: The Decline of Western Civilisation Part Two: The Metal Years, Zodiac Mindwarp: Sleazegrinder, Aerosmith: Big Ones You Can Look At, and even bumper editions of The Fast Show.
Unfortunately, not even good TV could tear Ginger away. So instead, Ryan found himself spending his free time helping in the bar, or propping it up on the public side, drinking his bad mood away. And all that accomplished was to pour his wages back into the pub's till.
Yep, this last week had truly sucked.
Dee still wittered on. Ryan barely heard him, watching the two gnarly men end their row with a parting curse, then shuffle on their separate ways. Ryan was relieved.
"There they are!" Dee pointed across the Steine. Across the grass area, trapped on the one way system, was the familiar white Ford van with Singh & Kour's Whole Foods emblazoned on the side. Ryan braced himself. He wasn't looking forward to lugging the band's heavy gear up all those stairs, but he supposed it gave him something constructive to do on his night off.
A few minutes later, the van had navigated around the Steine, past The Royal Pavilion, and skidded to a halt in the pub's loading bay. Glen opened the passenger door and tumbled out, followed by Ash, who stepped down rather more gracefully. Ryan and Dee waved to Ash's father, who got out the driver's side. "Hello, Mr Singh," they chimed.
"Hello, boys," he greeted, sliding the van doors open. "Do you need a hand getting this upstairs?"
Ryan's heart sank when he saw how much gear was in there, but it was an unspoken rule that any parent nice enough to lend transport—and it was usually Mr Singh—wasn't made to carry heavy loads. "We'll be fine, thanks," Ryan assured him. "Guys, let's unload it all into the courtyard, then take it upstairs from there."
"Sounds good to me." Mr Singh grinned, then held out his hand towards his son. "Ash, give me a cigarette."
"What?" Ash was annoyed. "You never give me one!"
Mr Singh barked an order in Hindi, his tone firm. Ash muttered to himself, digging in his pockets.
"Come on, then." Ryan nudged Dee and Glen into action.
Mr Singh leaned against his van, smoking his pilfered cigarette, while they unloaded their gear as quickly as possible. Ryan was worn out already, and that was the easy part. "That everything?" he asked.
Dee poked his head into the now-empty van. "Yep!"
"Okay, great. Thanks, Mr Singh!"
"Yeah, bye, Dad," Ash said, obviously eager to get rid of his father.
"Bye, boys." Mr Singh smiled at them. "Have fun playing with yourselves."
Ash rolled his eyes. "Dad, go home."
Mr Singh chuckled as he got into his van. They waved him off, Ash breathing a sigh of relief. "At last!"
"It's good of him to drive us all the time," Ryan said.
"Yeah, yeah," Ash muttered. "Next time, you sit in the van with him during rush hour. I swear, he gets instant road rage behind the wheel."
Ryan chuckled. He had seen Mr Singh behind the wheel before. It was an intimidating sight. "Right, let's get moving," he sighed, picking up one of Glen's heavy cymbal bags. "We'll load two at a time. Dee, you and Glen stay here and watch the equipment."
"Why, what's it gonna do?" Dee quipped.
Ryan didn't dignify that with a response. He grabbed another bag, and hefted them into the pub. Ash was behind him, carrying two guitars in their soft cases. As they reached the foot of the stairs, they saw Rachel stick her head around the corner of the bar. "Oh, hey, Ash!" she called.
"All right, Rach." Ash bestowed her a smile, and Rachel blushed prettily in response.
Don't mind me, Ryan thought. Talk about the invisible man. Lugging the bags up the stairs, he concentrated on trying not to pull a muscle. Those damn cymbals were heavier than they looked.
"So... is Fizz upstairs?" Ash asked.
At the question, Ryan paused and shot a look over his shoulder. "Don't go there."
"What?" Ash blinked, trying to act innocent. "I'm just asking."
"Yeah, yeah." Ryan turned away and continued climbing.
"He's Ginger's cousin, right?"
"Yes."
"So like, what's the deal?"
"What do you mean?"
"Is he... I dunno, unwell or something?"
"Don't ask me," Ryan said, trying not to sound bitter. "No one tells me anything."
"Oh."
Ash sounded disappointed. Suddenly, Ryan had an epiphany. What was he doing warning Ash off Fizz, when that could potentially be the very thing to help him out? If Fizz was happily occupied, then Ginger wouldn't be so busy looking after him. It all made perfect sense.
Turning back to Ash, Ryan smiled. "Now you mention it, I think Ginger said he's fine, just a bit... um, down in the dumps, you know?"
Ash raised an eyebrow. "Oh, right? Like how?"
"Hm." Ash smirked back. "Is that so?"
Ryan shrugged, acting indifferent. "Might help."
He secretly hoped that Ash's interest would draw Fizz out of his doom and gloom. After all, who in their right mind could resist Ash?
Hearing thumps and bumps behind them, Ryan and Ash both looked down the flight of stairs. "What are you doing?" Ryan called. "Stay outside with the equipment!"
"Rachel's there," Dee called back. "Havin' a fag."
"Oh, right."
With Rachel keeping guard outside, they were able to get the gear upstairs a lot quicker. Although it did mean less time for breathers in between. They left the amps till last, as they were the heaviest. Ryan made sure he picked up his own cab, and that Ash was the one helping him. They carried it upstairs, while Dee and Glen crashed and bumped behind them with Dee's bass amp. "Not so fast!" Glen complained.
"Careful," Dee grumbled back. "That's my leg, you knob!"
"What?"
Thump.
"ARGH! Fuck's sake!"
Smirking over the top of Ryan's amp, Ash muttered, "It's like the bloody Chuckle Brothers."
"Scarily accurate," Ryan muttered back.
They carried the amps upstairs without too many mishaps, and deposited them in their new designated practise room in the pigeon loft. After minor disagreements over where to place the equipment, Glen started moving his drums into position.
"Don't set them up yet," Ryan told him. "I want to get some carpet down on the floor to muffle the noise a bit."
"Are we sticking carpet on the walls too?" Ash asked.
"Not sure," Ryan said. "Let's see how hot we get on first. There's some old carpet in the cellar we can use. Er, if you guys wanna go get it for me?"
"I've got some egg boxes at home," Dee piped up.
Everyone turned to frown at him.
"What?" Ryan asked.
"Egg boxes. Thought we could fill 'em with sand, and stick 'em on the walls. Be like those sound-proofing tiles."
The Haunted Pub Page 5