The Haunted Pub

by Melanie Tushmore

  "Because we know what will happen."

  "Not for certain. I think you should give them a chance."

  "I am," Ginger replied. "What do you think I'm doing down here, while they're upstairs doing God knows what?"

  "I'm just saying there's no point in worrying for the sake of worrying."

  Ginger shook his head. "I can't bear the waiting. It'll all go wrong soon."

  Ryan jabbed him in the ribs, making the other man jump. "Stop jinxing it," he said shortly. "I'm telling you, it'll be fine."

  "Well, I wish I shared your optimism."

  "Even if it doesn't work out in the long run, they're having a good time, right? They're up there, right now, enjoying their time together." Ryan heard the tremor in his own voice, heard the plea there. "Isn't that what people do? What we're supposed to do?"

  Ginger almost looked at him, then seemed to change his mind. He bolted from the spot.

  "Daniel?" Ryan followed him out to the stairwell. "Daniel! Where are you going?"

  Ginger paused on the first step.

  "You're not going up there to check on them?" Ryan asked.

  He didn't answer.

  "Daniel, no. Leave them alone," Ryan insisted. He wanted to yank Ginger back, but he wasn't quite brave enough. "Let them enjoy their time."

  Ginger didn't move. Ryan could hear how hard he was breathing, even over the distant strains of music from the bar. His eye caught the mermaid tattoo peeping out under Ginger's T-shirt, and Ryan couldn't bear it any longer.

  "Daniel..." He wasn't sure what he wanted to say. He reached for Ginger's hand. The contact of skin was electric, and he threaded Ginger's fingers with his own.

  Cold air swept into the stairwell. Ryan glanced up, wondering if a window had blown open, but they were all shut. A noise sounded above them; distant laughter.

  Ginger pulled his hand away, shrugging him off. "Just leave it, Ryan." He turned on the stairs, grabbed his jacket from the bannister, then stormed out through the side door to the street.

  The door slammed closed, banging on its hinges. Ryan was still staring at it when Rachel came to check on him.

  "Ry?" she said quietly. "You okay?"

  He nodded at her, ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach.

  "Yeah, Rach... I'm fine."

  * * * *

  It was only late afternoon. Matt was clearing up in the kitchen before he re-opened again for the evening run at six. Although, with the rain coming down in sheets, it wasn't likely to be busy. He should have been cleaning the ovens, getting them prepped along with the washing-up, yet, somehow, he'd felt this odd compulsion to reorganise the pantry. He'd already hefted out two sacks of potatoes, now he stared at them on the floor, not sure what he was doing.

  Matt blamed it on the music, or rather, lack of it. His stereo had decided to stop working earlier today. Matt was sorely tempted to nip out into town, and buy a new one. He couldn't work without his music. This day just got worse and worse.

  Then he heard someone calling his name. Matt looked up, waiting for whoever it was to come in.

  "Matt?" they called again.

  "What?" he called back.

  "Matt!"

  "What!"

  This time, there was only laughter. Matt frowned. Was that Sammy? What the hell did he want? Matt had already seen more Sammy than he could handle. The fateful scene of that morning played out in his mind's eye. Him banging on the bathroom door, desperate for the only working loo, and Sammy singing away to himself, no doubt taking his time in order to be annoying. Then the door opened. Sammy sat naked in the tub, those wide eyes turned on him—shocked, accusing, then full of mirth.

  Matt hadn't understood what happened. How had the door opened? Then Sammy had thrown his head back into the bath's glittery soap suds, crowing with laughter. Matt had stomped away to escape, down to the bar. He'd use the damn gent's. He didn't need silly little brats making fun of him first thing in the morning.

  "Matthew!" the voice called him now.

  "Never a minute's peace," Matt grumbled. He strode across his kitchen and made for the door. "What is it?" he called, as he pushed the swing door open. It thudded into someone with a dull crack, and they staggered back. Matt started in surprise, reaching out to steady the person. It was Sammy. What the hell was he doing here? The voice had sounded far away—

  Matt focussed on the matter in hand. "Sammy? Are you okay?"

  "Shit," Sammy mumbled. He swayed in Matt's arms and his hand raised up, touching his forehead.

  Matt's stomach lurched. God, he'd injured Sammy again. Why did these things keep happening to him?

  "Sammy, sit down," he ordered, guiding Sammy into the kitchen. Sammy didn't resist, and let Matt sit him on a stool. He leaned back against the window. "Does it hurt?" Matt asked.

  Sammy scowled at him. "Yes, of course it hurts, you moron. You just slammed the door into my head!"

  Matt swallowed his anger. He had a growing panic that Sammy would call for Ginger, or the police. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. What the fuck were you doing calling me, then standing behind the swing door?"

  "I didn't call you," Sammy said. "And I wasn't just standing there. I was about to come in when you barged through like a great, big... thing."

  Matt rolled his eyes. "Look, stay there."

  Sammy grumbled a protest, but Matt ignored it. He picked up a clean tea towel from the shelf, folded it neatly into halves, then quarters, and ran it under the cold tap. "Here," he said, returning to Sammy. He placed the wet towel on Sammy's forehead, holding it there. "I am sorry, you know."

  "Yeah, yeah," Sammy muttered. His eyes were closed. "What is it with you and doors today? First you burst in while I'm having a bath—"

  "I didn't!" Matt insisted. "You bloody opened the door."

  "How could I open the door when I was in the bath?"

  "Well, maybe you didn't lock it."

  Sammy snorted lightly. "Yes, Matthew. I spend all my time sitting around in the bath, waiting for big, hairy chefs to leap in and perv on me."

  "Ugh." Matt dropped the towel over Sammy's face. "I did not open that door. For all I know, you wanted me to see you in the bath."

  "What?" Sammy pulled the towel off his face, eyes fixed on Matt. "Why would I want you to see me?"

  "I don't know." Matt bristled, staring down at Sammy.

  Those eyes, he thought. They were so big, staring up at him. Sammy blinked in confusion. A soft pink tinge started to colour his cheeks. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

  "Huh?" Matt felt heat rising in his own cheeks. "I… I'm not."

  "Weirdo." Sammy threw the towel aside. He stood up, wobbling a little. "I don't know what your problem is."

  Matt reached out to steady Sammy's shoulder, worried he was going to fall. Sammy grabbed Matt's wrist in an attempt to push it off. Matt held fast as Sammy glared at him, his green-blue eyes bright. "I'm fine, Matthew."

  "Good."

  Sammy was still staring at him, still holding his wrist. Matt's pulse beat loud in his ears, drowning out his own thoughts. All he saw was Sammy, and something tugged inside him. Matt felt himself move—almost like he was pushed—but before he could think about it, he leaned in, and grabbed Sammy.

  "What are you—"

  Matt covered Sammy's mouth with his, and kissed him. He gave into the urge to feel that slim body against his, and warm, pliant lips under his own. Sammy gasped once, then he was kissing back as if his life depended on it. His arms wound around Matt's neck as they pressed their bodies together. The stereo clicked on, and music filled the air. It had tuned itself into a radio station. There was a song playing, some kind of ballad, not something Matt would normally listen to. He barely even noticed.

  Chapter 12

  Fizz hated pills. He'd been taking them on and off from the age of fourteen, for all the good it had done. When he'd told his doctor that the pills made him feel sick, and often more miserable, he was simply given a different prescription. Even the counsel
ling was pretty useless. All they'd ever told him was talk about how he felt. Yet, on three pills a day, Fizz couldn't feel much at all. Apart from the random bouts of nausea.

  It had taken him years, but when Fizz finally decided, once and for all, that he'd rather feel crap without pills than be a zombie on pills, he'd weaned himself off them without telling anyone. Down from three pills a day to one, over several weeks, and his parents hadn't even noticed.

  As long as he stayed in his room and kept out of their way, they never asked him about it.

  When Fizz had stopped taking his pills altogether, and wanted to come out of his room once in a while, that was when his parents had noticed. His mother would rant at him, then cry, and ask him why he wasn't taking his pills. Then his father would shout at them both.

  Three weeks of that, then they'd kicked him out. Maybe it wasn't so bad that they had. Now he was settled in, Fizz rather liked the pub. Even Rachel and Pete had warmed to him, especially when they'd seen him help out in the bar. Fizz hadn't taken any pills for the five weeks he'd been there, which made it almost two months in total.

  There were lots of unopened packets in his bag. His mother must have put them in his bag for him. Fizz hadn't thought about his pills until a few days ago. It was kind of pathetic, he thought. Barely a few weeks off pills, and he worried he wasn't coping. He'd had to deal with a different kind of panic, and it was all centred around one person.

  Last time Fizz had seen him, Ash mentioned off-hand about going for dinner at his house. As in, meeting his family. Fizz had almost had a panic attack on the spot. Never mind the thought of an entire evening with people he didn't know—Ash's family!—but did that mean they were more than friends now? And if that was the case, what would come next?

  Would Ash want to kiss him, touch him? Fizz thought a lot about what Ash might want. Yes, he was scared; scared of how much he wanted this. He was even more freaked out by the sudden reappearance of his libido, like a phoenix burning inside him. He wanted this, he knew it. But he worried he might snap, or make an idiot of himself.

  What if he had a panic attack in front of Ash's family? He'd embarrass himself and Ash. It would be horrible. No, Fizz needed help. How did normal people deal with this stuff anyway? He hated himself for being such a coward, but he couldn't do this alone. The first signs of something resembling a life, and he ran back to the meds.

  Pathetic.

  There were plenty of pills left. It was too much of a temptation. A familiar, bland cushion to replace his fret and worry. Three days ago, Fizz had popped a pill. His first in two whole months. He hadn't told anyone, and hopefully he wouldn't have to.

  If he needed more, he'd go to the doctor's and get more when he needed to. He knew how to take the pills; he wasn't an idiot like the doctors thought he was. Fizz just didn't like taking them. He didn't like the nausea, the spaciness, or the nightmares that came with them.

  His body had never taken to pills particularly well. Maybe he could stick to one a day, just to take the edge off his anxiety. So far, he'd felt okay. Today, however, Fizz felt the first onset of spaciness creep in around his senses. His dreams last night were lucid, and weird. He even dreamt a dark figure was leaning over his bed, whispering in his ear. Several times he'd woken up, or thought he had, and worried someone was in the room with him.

  But it was just a dream.

  Later, after getting up, he wasn't even sure if he was awake properly. That meant the pills were working.

  Great.

  Fizz felt tired, sluggish, and he sat in his room, staring at nothing. He didn't even have his music player on. He blinked his eyes sleepily. What time was it? Ash would be here soon; he'd said he would come by after his lectures. Fizz dragged himself up, and walked slowly to the door. He thought he heard someone click their tongue in disapproval, much the same way his mother always did.

  Of course, there was no one else in the room with him, so he must have imagined it.

  Fizz forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, and walked down the hall. Noises streamed from the kitchen, possibly the TV. It didn't mean anyone was in there, as the TV was often left on. When Fizz rounded the corner, he saw Sammy at the kitchen counter. He started in surprise when he saw Fizz, and Fizz noticed the bottle of vodka Sammy quickly shoved away into a cupboard, and the glass he tried to hide in the sink.

  "You okay?" Fizz asked, concerned.

  "Huh?" Sammy glanced at him, then away. "Yeah, fine."

  Fizz looked at Sammy closely, noting his anxious, darting eyes, and the faint flush stealing over his cheeks. There was a small pinkish mark on his neck. It took Fizz a few moments to realise what it was. A love-bite.

  "Are you... sure?" Fizz asked.

  "Yes." Sammy pushed past him, and had retreated from the kitchen by the time Fizz smiled. Well, at least he wasn't the only one who got flustered. He wondered who it was Sammy had been with. Fizz stepped to the sink, and picked up Sammy's used glass, turning on the hot tap. He held his fingers under the water as he waited for the heat to come, and gazed out of the window, trying to see into the beer garden below.

  It had stopped raining, quite suddenly, and the sun had come out from behind the clouds. Fizz liked to look out of the window. Lately, he'd taken to doing the washing up here. He'd noticed Ryan usually ended up doing it, and Fizz wanted to help. As lame as it sounded, he liked standing at the window, doing a relatively simple task.

  Since collecting the glasses and plates downstairs, Fizz had become strangely attached to stacking dishes neatly, and doing little jobs. He wanted to help out if he could, and none of the others seems to like washing up. He washed Sammy's glass now, and the few other bits which had accumulated on the sideboard.

  Heavy footsteps trod down the hallway. Fizz turned his head, expecting someone to walk in the kitchen as the footsteps grew nearer. Maybe it was Ash.

  But no one came in.

  Frowning, Fizz went back to his washing up. Then a gruff voice said, "Finlay, what are you doing?"

  Fizz couldn't be sure he'd heard right. He hurried to shut off the tap, hoping to hear better. He could have sworn he heard someone say, "Shh!"

  "Hello?" Fizz called softly.

  No answer.

  Okay, so he'd definitely misheard. The voices must have filtered in from the garden, or maybe it was the TV.

  "Hey," said a new voice.

  Fizz whirled around. "Oh," he said, relieved. "It's you."

  Ash laughed. "Who were you expecting?"

  "Um, no one." Fizz dried his hands on a tea towel. He noticed Ash's jacket was a little shiny, and his hair glistened. "Did you get caught in the rain?"

  "Only a bit. Sun's out now." Ash held a plastic bag in his hand, also covered in water droplets. "I bring exciting things!"

  "What have you brought?"

  "Aha!" Ash smiled. "All shall be revealed." He walked over to the table and laid the bag down. Fizz saw the shapes of Tupperware boxes inside, which hopefully meant more sweets. Ash glanced at the TV, like he was vetting what programme was currently on. Fizz noticed he did that a lot, whereas most people didn't even consider that something on TV might upset him. It was currently tuned into an antiques show.

  "My dad loves this," Ash said, gesturing at the TV. "He tries to guess the price of something before the dealer says it. He's always wrong."

  Fizz smiled. It sounded a lot better than his own father shouting abuse at the news all the time.

  "Right," Ash said, shrugging off his jacket. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt, a deep maroon colour that complimented his skin tone. Fizz couldn't help notice—like he usually did when Ash took his jacket off—how nicely toned his arms looked.

  Belatedly, Fizz became aware that Ash had asked him a question. "Huh? Sorry, what did you say?"

  Ash smiled. "I said, did you still want to try that spiced coffee I told you about?"

  Fizz thought he could certainly do with a good coffee. "Yeah, sure. Have you brought it?"

  "Yep. Well, I broug
ht the stuff. I thought I'd make it fresh." Ash rummaged through his bag. "Can I borrow a pan?"

  Fizz picked out a clean pan from the draining board. "Like this?"

  "Yeah, perfect. Can you do me a favour, and half fill it with water?"

  "Um, yeah. Cold water?"

  "Yep, perfect."

  Fizz filled up the pan from the sink with cold water and handed it over. Ash smiled at him as he took it. Fizz felt his cheeks burn, and he watched Ash set to work, laying his ingredients out on the counter. Little bags of sugar, ground coffee, and something that looked like very fine, light brown powder. It certainly smelt good. Exotic and spicy.

  "What's that?" Fizz asked, peering over Ash's shoulder.

  "Cardamom. It's what flavours the coffee. Trust me, you'll love it." Ash dumped sugar in the pan, then set it to heat. "Is there a spoon around here?"

  Fizz was pleased he was able to offer a clean spoon to Ash. He'd scrubbed for ages to get all the cutlery clean. "Here."

  "Thanks." Ash stirred the water. "Now, as my gran says, a watched pot never boils." He laid the spoon on the counter, and made for the table, pulling out a Tupperware box. "Got some mithai in here. Janesh was trying out different recipes."

  "Janesh?"

  "My sister-in-law."

  "Oh." Fizz followed Ash's lead, and they both sat at the table. Ash moved the box between them, so they could pick out the pastries. Fizz would have got plates, but the deserts were too tempting. His nausea had drifted away, thankfully, and he ate two sweets. The pastry dissolved almost instantly on his tongue. "Mm. They're good."

  "Yeah, Janesh is a wicked cook. I like this one." Ash pointed at one variety, then another as he said, "I don't like this one."

  "Aren't they the same?" Fizz picked up the one Ash didn't like. They all tasted good to him.

  "Hah! They are so not the same. Okay, I don't hate it. I mean, I'd still eat it if that was the only one going."

  Fizz smiled. "So you'd rather eat something you don't like much, just for the sake of it?"

  "Oh, I'm addicted to sugar," Ash said, grinning down at the sweets. "My dad's even worse. He'd hoover up this whole tray in two seconds flat, given half a chance. This is his favourite..." Ash talked as they ate, pointing at the various sweets, telling Fizz what was in them. When he jumped up to take the pan off the boil, Fizz watched him add coffee and the cardamom, stirring the mixture. He studied the lines and curves of Ash's body, in his T-shirt and the figure-hugging jeans that looked so good. He didn't want to be caught staring, but it was almost impossible not to sneak looks at Ash.