"Who's that?" a voice asked.
Ginger. Ryan gasped in relief. It's only Ginger.
"It's me, Ryan," he called back. "I'm just—" His words died on his lips, as he saw the bolt on the door begin to move. No, he thought. What the hell? Bolts didn't move of their own accord. And yet, there it was, deftly sliding itself back in the lock.
Ryan was stunned, then flew into a panic as the door swung open. Ginger was on the other side, looking sleepy and confused. Ryan scrabbled to pull his towel around himself, trying to cover up. Ginger's eyes roved over him, growing that little bit wider as he took in Ryan's state of undress. "Oh," he said, blinking several times. "Sorry, Ry. Why... why'd you open the door?"
Ryan was distracted, as Ginger wasn't exactly dressed either. He was bare chested, tattoos on display, and only had on his pyjama bottoms: those thin, cotton ones that sat low on his hips. Ryan tried not to drool openly at the sight of all that exposed skin. Ginger's tattoo of feathered wings peeked out from his pyjama bottoms, the design sweeping over jutting hipbones. A dusting of fine, blond hair marked a faint line from his belly button to lower abdomen. Ryan's cock swelled at the sight. He lowered his eyes and wrapped the towel more securely around himself. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't... I mean, the door just opened. I think it's bust, or something."
Ginger shrugged. "Most things are, in this place. Are you done? I need the loo."
"Oh. Yeah, sorry." He held onto his towel, willing it not to fall down, and made to step out of the bathroom. Ginger tried to make room for him in the hall to walk past, but they both went the same way. They ended up doing a little dance trying to get around each other. Ryan's eyes were fixed on Ginger's chest, on smooth, pale skin, and the pair of silver rings hung through his nipples. The sensation of feeling completely naked whilst being this close to Ginger messed with his mind. It took all of Ryan's willpower not to throw the towel off and launch himself forward.
Did Ginger know how desperate he was? Did he notice him at all?
All Ginger did was smile nervously, and mumble, "Sorry." He stepped around Ryan, hurrying into the bathroom. Ryan had the door closed on him. He stood there in the hall, trying not to imagine Ginger pulling down those pyjama bottoms...
Ryan scrubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head. "Moron," he whispered to himself, and started to trudge away. Halfway back to his room, Ryan heard the toilet flush, and that loud honk shudder along the pipes hidden in the walls.
Christ, it's even louder out here.
Laughter caught his ear, and Ryan instinctively looked to where he thought it was coming from. Except he couldn't quite pinpoint it. That low, dirty chuckle seemed to travel around the walls, along with that strange honk.
Ryan didn't hang around. He ran to his room and slammed the door shut.
* * * *
"—and of course the intercom was broken," Matt went on. "And my phone was missing. Still is missing, actually."
"Hm," Ryan replied. He sat at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea. Matt glanced at him, then turned his attention back to the frying pan as he laid a slice of egg-soaked bread inside.
"Otherwise, I wouldn't have used the stupid thing," Matt explained. "That ancient, crappy dumbwaiter was an accident waiting to happen."
"Mm."
"Ryan?"
"Hm?"
Matt glared at him. "Are you even listening?"
Ryan looked up, a faraway expression on his face. "Huh?" he said.
Matt resisted the urge to throw his spatula across the room. With a frown, he turned back to the pan, and jabbed at the bread instead. "I was saying about the dumbwaiter, how dangerous it was." He swallowed, a lump forming in his throat. "Because it... it's my fault."
Ryan sighed, although quietly. "Matt, don't be daft. It was an accident. Sammy said so. No one's blaming you."
"Yeah, well," Matt mumbled, flipping the slice of bread in the pan. It sizzled in reply. Matt knew what they all wondered. They wondered if he'd done it on purpose, if he'd tried to hurt Sammy. He had to admit, the thought was a little tempting. Sammy didn't half-tread on his nerves, but the reality of Sammy being hurt was nothing at all like a passing whim. Matt surprised himself by feeling guilty. And it was his fault, no matter what anyone else said. If he'd just walked down the damn stairs in the first place to ask about that order, Sammy wouldn't have been put in hospital overnight.
Matt glanced at the clock again. Half past ten. He should be prepping his kitchen by now, but Ginger had gone to collect Sammy in the car, and Matt hovered around, not sure what to do with himself. When he'd seen Ryan fumble through the kitchen, he'd offered to make him breakfast. Ryan definitely wasn't with it today. Maybe he hadn't slept well, Matt thought. He dished up the slice of eggy bread onto a plate and handed it over.
"Thanks," Ryan said.
Matt turned back to the counter and dipped another slice of bread into the egg mix. He had to keep moving, keep doing something. Otherwise, he'd go mad. That dazed look on Sammy's face after the accident haunted him, burned into his mind. He'd dreamed about those placid green-and-blue eyes, and the bright trickle of blood running down Sammy's forehead.
Matt was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps coming upstairs, and a familiar voice. That was Ginger, which meant he'd brought Sammy back. Matt tried to stay calm, but his elbow managed to knock the packet of bread to the floor, and a couple of slices flew out on the sticky linoleum. Matt stooped to pick them up.
Could have been worse, he thought. At least bread didn't break. Not like... Shaking the thought away, he binned the escapees, and swung the bagged loaf back onto the countertop.
Ginger appeared in the doorway, his hand on Sammy's back. "Look who it is," Ginger announced. "Our wounded soldier."
"Hey, Sammy," Ryan said. "It's been far too quiet without you."
Sammy smiled at him nervously, then his eyes darted over to Matt.
Matt shuffled on the spot, feeling all kinds of terrible. "Do you want some breakfast?" he offered.
"You should eat something," Ginger agreed. He nudged Sammy into the kitchen. "Go sit. Matt, if you're cooking, I'll go get Fizz. He should eat, too."
Matt nodded, only too pleased to be of use. Ginger disappeared, his footsteps echoing down the hall. Sammy wandered into the kitchen, eyes drawn to the spitting pan.
"Eggy bread?" Matt asked, not quite brave enough to look Sammy in the eye.
"Sure," Sammy replied quietly. "Thanks."
Matt busied himself with cooking. He drew out the bigger pan from a cupboard. If he was going to be cooking for four, he'd need the room.
Ryan pulled out a chair for Sammy, who plopped down into it. "All better now?" he asked. Sammy made a noise, almost like a hum. Matt glanced over his shoulder, curious. Sammy was staring at the TV, which was currently tuned into a daytime repeat of Murder, She Wrote. It wasn't like Sammy to be so quiet. Normally, he loved being the centre of attention. The Sammy he knew talked at a million miles an hour, usually with bubbly laughs and sweeping hand gestures thrown in.
Now, he barely seemed awake. Matt tried not to panic. All sorts of worried thoughts ran through his head. What if Sammy had amnesia? Or permanent brain damage, or something equally as bad? Ryan must have been concerned, too, as he touched Sammy's arm and asked, "You feeling okay?"
Sammy looked at him, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just a little tired. Some crazy bloke on the ward kept babbling on all night, so I didn't sleep much."
"Oh, I see," Ryan said. "Tell you what, while Matt's cooking, we'll brew fresh coffee."
"Okay," Sammy replied, eyes drifting back to the TV.
Ryan sniffed the air. "Er, Matt? Is something burning?"
Matt turned back to his pan. "Oh, crap," he grumbled, pulling out a blackened slice of bread. He tossed it in the bin, then glanced at Sammy again.
Silence. The old Sammy would never have missed a chance to rib Matt for making a mistake. However, all Sammy did now was look at him calmly. That must have been quite a bum
p on the head, Matt thought to himself. He wasn't sure what to make of this.
Ginger returned, with Fizz in tow. "'Ere we go." He guided a sleepy-looking Fizz into a chair, and sat him down. Fizz hid a yawn behind his hand. He was dressed, but his eyes were barely open, and his hair was all rumpled.
"Coffee?" Ryan offered, jumping to attention.
"I'll make it." Ginger told him. "You finish your... square omelette, or whatever that is."
"Eggy bread." Ryan beamed.
Matt noticed that whenever Ginger spoke to Ryan, it caused Ryan to light up like a love-struck fool.
"Oh, right." Ginger stared down at Ryan's plate. "Is that what eggy bread is, then?"
Ryan looked surprised. "You've never had it?"
"Guess not." Ginger walked over to the counter, picked up the coffee pot, then filled it with water at the sink.
Matt noticed Ryan's lingering look at Ginger's back. He rolled his eyes to himself, and went back to cracking more eggs. "So," he said. "Everyone's having eggy bread, right?"
"Go on, then," Ginger replied. "Fizz will, too."
"Where's Pete?"
"Think he popped out to check on Rachel," Ryan said.
"Just us, then." Ginger put the coffee back on its stand and flipped the switch. "We've got an hour till open, but I doubt it'll get busy until mid-afternoon. The sky looks like it's about to chuck it down any moment."
Matt nodded. He'd still need to prep his kitchen, anyway. Sunday was their busiest day for food.
"Oh, and," Ginger added, turning on the counter to look at them all. "Try to leave the dumbwaiter alone, yeah?"
"I'm not going near that thing," Sammy said.
Matt nodded in agreement, guilt washing over him.
"Good," Ginger said. He glanced at Sammy. "Actually, Sammy, I don't think you should work today. Pete said much the same thing. Just chill out up here, okay?"
Sammy frowned back at him. "But I'm fine."
"Great, and you'll be even more fine with another day's rest. You won't lose any pay; Pete will sort you out."
"But—"
"No buts."
Sammy shrugged. "Okay."
Ryan swivelled in his chair to face Ginger. "Hey, seeing as the dumbwaiter's kaput, how will we get the food orders up and down stairs?"
Ginger's gaze fell on Fizz, who was trying his hardest to stay awake. "Actually, if Fizz doesn't mind, maybe he could run the orders out to people?"
"Huh?" Fizz was suddenly wide awake. "Me?"
"Yeah, just like with the glass collecting," Ginger said. "If there's an order, take the ticket up to Matt, then bring the food downstairs to the table."
"Um, er..." Fizz shot a panicked look at Matt, then back to Ginger.
Matt ignored that look and concentrated on whisking his egg mix. What was the kid afraid of, exactly? Did he think he'd meet with an untimely accident like Sammy? God. Matt whisked harder in frustration.
"It'll be fine," Ginger said. "And it'll really help us out."
"Will you be working, too?" Fizz asked quietly.
"I'll be around. I'm gonna have a bash at fixing the other toilet up here, before the one in the bathroom conks out, too."
"Oh," Fizz said.
"It'll be all right," Ryan pitched in. "I'll be downstairs with you."
"Oh-kay."
"And as it's Sunday, I think my friends might pop in," Ryan added.
Sammy perked up. "Is Ash coming?"
Ryan blinked at him, a somewhat guilty look on his face that he swiftly tried to cover up. "Er... not sure. Maybe just Dee and Glen..."
"Well, if they're coming, Ash is bound to," Sammy said brightly. "They're practically joined at the hip."
"Aren't you setting up for Sunday Slam later?" Ginger asked.
"Um, yeah." Ryan didn't sound terribly sure.
Sammy smiled, his first one since arriving back home. "Well, that means Ash is definitely coming, then."
Ryan took a swig of tea, muttering something into his cup. Matt picked up on the tension in the room, and the curious look Fizz sneaked at Sammy. He could hazard a guess at what that was about. Last night, after getting home from Kung Fu, Matt had stumbled in on Fizz, and Ryan's friend, Ash, having what looked like a cosy dinner for two. He hadn't said anything, but they'd both looked guilty enough. When Sammy found out about whatever was going on, he wouldn't be happy.
Chapter 9
Fizz sipped his drink. Ryan had given it to him; a pint of blackcurrant soda, with a straw. Fizz had tried to pay for it, but Ryan told him mixers on tap were free to staff. Fizz had put his fifty pence into the charity box instead. He sat on a rickety bar stool, hiding away in the back bar. Ryan had brought the stool for him too, when he guessed that Fizz didn't want to hang out in the brighter front bar with them. Fizz liked it back here. It was dark and quiet; no one would notice him. He was next to the dumbwaiter. Its hatch was closed, with a hastily-scribbled "out of order" note stuck over the top.
That hatch gave Fizz a bad feeling, so he didn't look at it. He stared at the floor, vaguely watching Ryan's and Pete's legs in his peripheral. Odd snatches of their conversation with the customers filtered through to him, but he listened to the music playing instead. The jukebox was on, allowing customers to pick and choose their music. Fizz knew that Ginger had loaded the jukebox, and its choices reflected that. It was mostly classic rock, with some old metal and punk thrown in.
Fizz tuned back in when he noticed Ryan approach.
"Time to visit the bear in his cave." Ryan held out an order ticket.
Fizz nodded. He took the ticket, left his drink by the kettle on the side counter, and exited through the staff door. It wasn't far to the kitchen. Past the street door—the same one he'd arrived at not three weeks earlier—and up the steps to the mini-landing, where the pile of staff coats, bags, and general lost property from the bar accumulated. Then up a full flight of stairs, and onto the first floor.
The air was noticeably stuffier up here, but it was still preferable to staying in his room, Fizz thought. It felt even stuffier in there. Maybe that was why he hadn't been sleeping well. He was tired and just couldn't seem to fall into a sleep pattern.
Fizz could hear the angry clash of heavy, doom-filled music as he walked to the kitchen. It was so loud, Matt didn't even hear him come in. Fizz tried to get Matt's attention by holding the ticket out. He didn't want to interrupt: there were pots boiling, ovens' doors slamming, and vegetables being chopped seemingly all at once. Matt was a whirlwind. He worked quickly, and seemed to have everything under control. Fizz was pleased about that, as he worried that Ginger was going to suggest he helped Matt in the kitchen next. The smell of all that cooking meat was a little too much for him to stomach.
Matt spun round and finally noticed him. Fizz limply held out the ticket. He dared a glance up, then looked away. Matt was a little intimidating. Whilst not unpleasant to look at, it seemed his dark brows were permanently drawn together in a frown. Fizz didn't think he'd ever seen him smile. Not that he was one to judge, he thought.
"Oh, thanks." Matt stalked over and took the note. He pinned it onto the metal overhead with a magnet. "There's two dinners here to take down. Order number four."
"Number four, number four," Fizz repeated under his breath, worried that he'd forget. He picked up the plates, both laden with roast dinner.
"Don't forget to come back for the gravy," Matt added.
Fizz looked at him in a panic, then processed what he'd said. Gravy. Come back for the gravy. Okay. He tried to keep the plates level as he nodded. Matt turned away, muttering to himself. Fizz knew that was his cue to leave. He exited the kitchen backwards, his hip slowly nudging the swing door open.
The plates were heavy. Fizz paused along the hallway to balance the plates on the windowsill, to get a better grip. His eyes were drawn to the window, watching the sheets of rain pelt down outside. It was a grey, miserable day. Although he supposed he was lucky it was a quiet Sunday, otherwise, he was bound to make more mist
akes.
Fizz took careful hold of the plates, and tried to ignore that icy tickle on the back of his neck. He walked faster in an attempt to get away from it. When he arrived in the bar, Ryan asked him, "Do you want to take them out? It's just that couple sitting by the fireplace."
Fizz wanted to keep moving, to get away from that tickle on his neck. He nodded and hurried past, edging through the gap in the bar. The couple, a woman with curly red hair, and a man with blond dreadlocks, looked up at him as he approached. Fizz tried to smile, but he didn't quite manage it. He concentrated on placing their dinners on the table instead.
"Oh." The girl frowned down at the food. "Don't we get any gravy?"
Fizz knew what to say, but he couldn't quite get the words out of his mouth. The couple looked up at him, waiting, and he froze. His heart started thumping, and panic swirled in the pit of his belly. Then, the icy touch was on his neck. The voice would be next, Fizz thought. He dreaded to hear that voice, because it made him wonder if he was going mad.
"Hold your horses, Sheila," Ryan said, appearing at the table. "Gravy's coming."
Fizz breathed out slowly. Ryan was here; everything would be okay. Ryan placed cutlery and napkins on the table, placating the couple with one of his smiles. "Unfortunately, the dumbwaiter's broken," he explained. "Hopefully it'll be fixed soon, but in the meantime, there's a lot of stairs between us and the kitchen."
"Oh no!" Sheila exclaimed, completely focussed on Ryan. "That's a pain for you guys."
"Yeah, but it's good exercise, though." Ryan smiled again. He glanced at Fizz, his eyes conveying the message: It's fine, you can get the gravy now. Fizz nodded his head in gratitude, then retreated back the way he'd come.
In the privacy of the stairs, he took a few deep breaths to calm himself. When he opened the door to Matt's kitchen, he saw two small gravy pots waiting for him on the side. Matt had his back to him, furiously working, swearing at the oven. Not seeing any other orders to take, Fizz picked up the gravy pots and rushed off again.
Ryan was still talking to the couple at their table as they waited for their gravy. Fizz put the pots by their plates and backed away. They thanked him and continued talking to Ryan, who was laughing with them over some joke or other. Fizz wondered how he made it look so easy; Ryan had this undeniably warm presence, and people certainly responded to it.
The Haunted Pub Page 10