Rachel's father had come by to pick her up, and she went home with him sleepily. Ash's father, too, had arrived, and caused an almighty fuss at the ward. He was probably the reason the police re-emerged, Ryan thought. Mr Singh demanded action, and yet there was nothing to be done, as the police tried explaining to him.
It was nearly midnight, and Ryan started to lag. Sheila offered him and Matt a place to crash for the night. They wouldn't be able to return to the pub anyway, as it was effectively being treated as a crime scene. "We can come back here first thing tomorrow," Sheila promised, leading them out of the ward. She said goodbye and waved to some of the staff, and Ryan had to trust her judgement.
As long as he knew Ginger and their friends were being cared for, there was little else he could do except sob at their bedsides.
Exiting the hospital, they walked the short distance in the dark to the taxi rank, and Sheila put them in the backseat. She got in the passenger seat up front, and directed the driver where to go. Ryan knew she didn't live far from the hospital. He hoped that by morning, the police would have left, and he could visit the ward in peace.
Matt was jittery at his side, biting his thumbnail. It made a grinding sound in Ryan's ears, and not even the taxi's radio playing a weekend party anthem could drown it out.
Ryan still clutched Beth's wooden pendant when Sheila let them into her bungalow. "Come in, come in," she said, flicking on lights. "Steve's still out. Beth texted to say she found them at The Druids, so they'll probably be there for a while."
"Sorry for ruining your night, Sheila," Ryan said quietly. "But thanks for... everything."
She wrapped an arm around him, guiding him into the living room. "Don't talk like that, Ry. I'm glad I was there to help." She gestured to her couch, and Ryan gratefully sat down. Sheila grabbed Matt's arm next, patting his large back as she guided him to sit. "Make yourselves at home," she said. "I'm going to put the kettle on."
After the trailed away to the kitchen, Matt said sidelong, "I feel like a need a bottle of whiskey and a tonne of sleeping pills."
"I got those, too!" Sheila called, not missing a beat.
Matt blushed. Ryan nudged him. "Don't worry about it."
Sheila carried in a tray of mugs with steaming tea, setting them down on the coffee table. Then she produced a small bottle of whiskey, waving it over the mugs. "Who wants it Irish?"
Ryan's lips turned up in the ghost of a smile. He knew Sheila's family was Irish, and she often used that expression.
"Me, please," Matt said. Ryan nodded his agreement. Sheila gave them generous top-ups of whiskey, then handed them their mugs. They sipped in silence for a few moments, before Sheila moved toward her TV. She paused, then went to her stereo instead. "I'll just put something chilled on." She rifled amongst her CDs.
"Can we talk about the elephant in the room?" Matt said, a hint of irritation in his voice.
"You can ask me things, love," Sheila said, putting on a CD. "I'll answer what I can. Beth is the expert, really." The stereo buzzed to life, and a gentle piano solo filled the air. Sheila turned the volume down to a comfortable level.
"Right," Matt said. "Well... look, I don't know. I saw some..." He stared into his mug, frowning. "I saw some fucked-up shit; that's all I can describe it. First, people start collapsing, and Fizz is acting all weird, and the next thing I know, I'm locked in that pigeon loft. The floor was... moving. Like the whole place wanted to tip me over, like the fun house ride on the Pier. Then Ryan gets me out—"
Actually, Ryan thought, I didn't throw that axe; the man in uniform did.
"—and things get weird again," Matt continued. "I saw Fizz leaning over you, Ryan, and you were covered in blood and bruises... then Sammy went in and tried to get Fizz off you, but Fizz just threw him off like, like he was nothing! And now there's no blood on Ryan, thank fuck, but what does it mean?"
"It's okay," Sheila said quietly. "I believe you. What you saw... some of it was there, some of it wasn't. It's a good thing that what you saw on Ryan didn't stay on him."
Ryan's hand came up to touch his face, where the scratches on his cheek had been. In the rush of everything else, he'd forgotten about them, but like before, they'd closed up. He could feel very faint lines there, but nothing more.
"What does that mean?" Matt demanded. "Are you saying I saw things that weren't real?"
"They are, and they aren't." Sheila sighed, putting down her mug. "It's hard to explain things that aren't part of our world. The spirit in that room was very powerful, and powerful spirits can make you see things, hear things, and even experience things. It doesn't mean to say it wasn't real, but mostly, they're just visions."
"Visions." Matt shook his head. "And yet, Sammy has a broken arm. Possible concussion. How can a fucking vision do that?"
"Ever heard of a poltergeist?" Sheila asked.
"Poltergeist?"
"It's German for noisy spirit. Beth told me that, years ago, your pub – which used to be a hotel – apparently had a poltergeist. There was an account of it in a book she had. I'll ask her to dig it out."
Ryan wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. Images of classic horror films came to mind: things he'd only dismissed as daft before, the stuff of over-active imaginations.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
"Spirits use energy," Sheila explained. "It makes sense, if Fizz was living in that room, that the spirit somehow connected with him. They always pick on the vulnerable, the weak. They're easier to manipulate that way. It's not a nice thing at all. I caught a flash of the spirit when I first checked Fizz over, and that's why I had to leave to get Beth. I can't cast out spirits, but she can. She's got a stronger gift than me."
Matt grunted. "This is nuts! Shit, if I hadn't seen those two guys fighting, and then Fizz stepping out of his own body, I wouldn't believe this crap for a second. Tell me you saw those two other guys?"
Sheila nodded, looking down at the mug in her hands. "The spirit who'd jumped into Fizz's body was a young man, wearing a suit. He'd obviously suffered some trauma when he died, as his skin was bloody and bruised."
Ryan flinched at the images that invaded his memory.
"And the second guy?" Matt asked.
"The older man," Sheila said. "In uniform."
"He was the one who threw the axe," Ryan said quietly. Matt and Sheila looked at him. "When you were trapped in the pigeon loft, Matt. I tried to hit the door, but the axe bounced clean off. That man caught it, and he threw the axe at the door, and it opened. I think he was trying to help us."
"I think so, too," Sheila said. "See? There are some nice people after all." She sipped her tea and muttered, "There's hope for spirits yet."
"Sheila? Can I have a shot of whiskey?" Matt pushed his mug of tea away. "I need something stronger than this."
"Of course." Sheila stood up. "I'll just grab a glass."
Ryan put his mug down, too. He leaned over on the arm of the couch, pillowing his head in his arms. He'd had enough talking. He didn't want to talk or think any more, but he couldn't close his eyes, either. Whenever he did, those awful images came back to him. He tried to focus on something else, something good. He remembered what Ginger had said, the moment before he passed out: It's you.
What did that mean? Could it possibly mean what Ryan thought—hoped—it meant? What would Ginger say when he woke up? Something like, hey, you punched my cousin, then you tried to kiss me while I was on the verge of passing out...
Ryan winced at the thought. Maybe if he was lucky, Ginger wouldn't remember that bit.
* * * *
The figures crept in, dark and menacing. The knowledge of what was about to happen forced Ryan to wake up, away from the clawing hands and leering faces. He stared, gasping for breath, at an unfamiliar ceiling. He was safe here, there were no men trying to attack him. He was safe. Awareness washed over him. This was Sheila's house. Matt's not-so-gentle snore rumbled from nearby, where he'd fallen asleep in a chair. Ryan lay still for several moments, tr
ying to get his breathing under control. He stared at Sheila's bookshelf, at her DVD collection, eyes darting over the various titles in a bid to ignore the images still lingering in his waking mind.
He needed to talk to Beth.
Ryan pulled himself up to sitting. His body was achy, but only from sleeping in an awkward position on the couch. He caught sight of Beth's wooden pendant on the coffee table, and his fingers reached out to grasp it. Curiously, the wood heated in his hand. Ryan held onto it, willing the memory of the dream to wash away. The images were still in his mind, but the panic ebbed a little.
Ryan lied down and tried to go back to sleep. Thirty seconds later, he'd made up his mind that he couldn't sleep, didn't want to, and he had to get up. He put the pendant around his neck, tucking it inside his T-shirt. The lump of wood protruded from the material on his chest, but Ryan didn't care. He didn't understand what it was, but there was something about the pendant that reassured him, calmed him.
After using Sheila's bathroom, he stood at the sink washing his hands. Ryan caught his reflection in the mirror. Avoiding his own eyes, he inspected the scratches on his face. They were three faint, pink lines. He had no comprehension how such small marks could have opened up and bled, but that's what they'd done. He knew Ginger and Ash had seen it, too.
Ginger.
Ryan had to get to the hospital. He quietly let himself out of Sheila's house. The clock on the wall had said 6:13 A.M. Probably no buses around this end of the suburbs, but it wasn't that far to the hospital. Pretty much everywhere in Brighton was within walking distance.
As he got to Sheila's front gate, Ryan realised he didn't have a jacket. Well, it was too late to go and borrow one; he'd shut himself out. He didn't want to wake her or Matt; he couldn't face talking to anyone right now. The chill morning air whipped through his thin clothes, making the hairs on his bare arms stand up straight. Ryan walked briskly, hugging his arms to him. He'd soon warm up with the walk.
He reached Brighton General hospital via the back entrance, where the ambulances parked. Having known a shortcut through a park, Ryan had made it there in fifteen minutes. The big, white clock on the wall inside said 06.28 A.M. He glanced at the lady behind a wooden-panel reception desk, and tried to slip past her. She called to him, and Ryan had to go up to the desk. He attempted to explain himself, hoping she wasn't going to turn him out until visiting hours. He didn't even know what visiting hours were on a Sunday.
The lady, a middle-aged black woman, tilted her face down to look over pebbly, thick glasses. "You were one of the boys they brought in last night?"
"Um..." Ryan wasn't sure whether to admit it or not, but she nodded her head at him.
"Yes, I remember your hair. Did they send you home?"
"Er, yes, but I... I'm sorry, I really want to see my friends. I don't have my jacket, and—"
She waved her hand to shush him. "Go on." She nodded her head to the side, indicating the left hall. "Down that way: they're on Blue ward. Tell Amy on front desk that Joanna sent you."
"Oh. Um, thank you. I will. Thank you." Ryan hurried away before she could change her mind. He trod down the hospital's eerily-quiet hallway, following the signs above in various colours, pointing to different wards. Ryan had been to this hospital a couple of times: once to see his grandfather before he died, and once to see Dee after a skateboarding accident. They had both been in different wards, not blue.
The hallways were deserted, and Ryan was deep in worried thoughts when an old man wheeling a drip rounded a corner, startling Ryan and himself. Ryan apologised, and the old man muttered before moving off, wheeling his drip alongside him. Ryan's heart pounded. He'd never felt so jumpy.
Soon, he found himself at the last sign for blue ward, and an un-manned front desk. He looked around, wondering whether it would be better to wait, or sneak in. After what felt like ages of time passed by with no one appearing, Ryan couldn't wait any longer. He stepped through the open door onto the ward. He'd been expecting it to be dark, but the blinds were tilted open. Grey morning light shone through the windows, on the rows of beds and sleeping bodies inside them.
All just the same as when he'd left them.
Ryan saw nurses crowded at the opposite end of the ward: three of them. Two were holding sponges and paper towels, one was writing on a clipboard. They stood near Fizz's bed. Ryan waited, unsure what to do. When the nurses noticed him, the ones holding the sponges told the third one. She put down the clipboard at the end of Fizz's bed, and strode over to him. Ryan supposed this would be Amy. She had a very stern look about her, but then, she had been working a night shift.
Before she could reprimand him, Ryan said, "Joanna sent me along. I just wanted to see my friends."
Amy agreed. She looked like she had other matters to attend to. "Did you use the hand sanitizer?" she asked.
"Oh. Sorry." Ryan hurried over to where she pointed, and squirted some of the liquid into his palms. It was sticky, and smelt like vodka, but he wiped it all over his hands. When he returned to the beds, he saw what it was the nurses were cleaning up. Under each bed, on the plain, hard flooring, were strange markings: pictures drawn in bright green.
There was one under each bed. Ryan tilted his head, looking at the nearest one. It was some sort of symbol. A triangle? No, an eye, within a circle, and different markings, letters, and numbers leading off it. Ryan walked down the row of beds, eyes darting to his friends lying there, and the markings under their beds. Each marking was the same. When he got to the end of the row, the two nurses with the sponges and paper towels were busy scrubbing the floor, removing the marking from under Pete's bed.
"Who did these?" Ryan asked.
Amy's look of displeasure rested on the still form of Fizz.
"He drew these?"
"Mm-hm." Amy turned her look onto Ryan. "Do you know if he sleep-walks at home?"
"Sleep-walks?" Ryan was confused. "I don't know; I'm sorry."
"We caught him sleep-walking a couple of times. The last time, he'd drawn all this rubbish on the floor. He got agitated when we tried to remove them, so we had to sedate him again. If he carries on like this, I may have to refer him to the psychiatric ward."
Psychiatric. Ryan felt panic trickle through him. He couldn't let Fizz be put in a psychiatric ward; Ginger would go nuts.
"I'm sure he'll be okay," Ryan tried to reassure. "He's probably in shock or something. He's been through a lot, and... and..."
What else could he say that she would believe?
Amy was clearly tired, and in no mood to banter further. "Sounds like you've all been through a lot," she said. "Tea and coffee machine's down the hall, on your right. Water fountain by my desk. Don't touch anything, don't make too much noise, but if you want to chat, go ahead. A friendly voice might do some good. And if he wakes up again—" she glanced at Fizz, "—tell him to behave."
Ryan nodded vigorously. "I will. Thank you."
Amy left the ward, returning to the front desk. Only the two nurses remained, scrubbing the floor, one symbol at a time. Ryan was beyond confused. Again, flashes of movies filtered through his mind. Where had he seen symbols like that before? Usually when something like witchcraft was involved. God. This didn't bode well.
He picked up a plastic-moulded chair and carried it over to Ginger. Setting the chair down at the bedside, Ryan sat down, facing Ginger's form on the bed. He ignored the discomfort of the plastic chair, and tried to ignore all the machines around him, and the other still bodies. He also had to ignore the strange symbol under Ginger's bed. Ryan removed the pendant from his neck, and slipped it under the edge of Ginger's pillow. The man didn't stir.
"You need to wake up now," Ryan said. His eyes darted around, just to make sure no one had sneaked up on him. He could hear the distant scratch and scrub of the nurses cleaning, a few beds away. Satisfied he was alone, Ryan gazed down at Ginger. His red hair fanned out on the pillow, and he looked as though he were asleep. Ryan's fingers reached out, gently touching a long s
trand of red that had caught in a curl. He unwound it, smoothing it to lay with the rest of his hair.
"Daniel, I've got something to tell you," Ryan said quietly. "Something that I should have said a long time ago."
Silence. Only the machines beeped in the background. Ryan kept expecting Ginger to open his eyes any second. That was the way things should be. In his mind's eye, Ryan saw Ginger blinking up at him, like he had in that moment Ryan had stolen a kiss, before the blood had rained.
Don't think about that.
Ryan stroked through Ginger's hair. To stop himself thinking about that kiss, about that horrible room, he looked at the colours of Ginger's hair. Poppy red, vermillion, rubine... His eyes stung. Ryan felt the tears brimming. It was all just too crazy to think about. He wanted to go back in time, to do everything again differently.
"Daniel, I love you. I've loved you since forever, and I was too afraid to tell you." He breathed in a long, shuddery breath. "Okay, you can wake up and laugh at me now."
Silence. Ryan traced the neck of the hospital gown, his fingers brushing over Ginger's collarbone. He was careful not to disturb the air tube that rested over his neck, leading up to his nose. Ryan stared at the sleeping man, his eyes mapping every detail. He'd never had such freedom to stare at Ginger before. He was used to stolen glances, covert looks, hoping he wouldn't get caught. Ryan would trade anything to have that again, to have Ginger open his eyes now.
"Daniel, please wake up," he said, voice wavering. "I just... I don't know what I'd do without you."
When nothing happened, Ryan shifted his chair carefully, so he was able to lean his arms forward on the bed. "I'll just shut my eyes, okay? I'll be right here when you wake up."
A blend of quiet noises from the machines, and the nurse's cleaning, lulled him to sleep. Twice, Ryan woke with a jerk, and he wondered if it was because something had happened, but nothing had changed.
The nurses had scrubbed the floor under Ginger's bed, and the symbol had vanished. Ryan leaned forward again, resting his head on his forearms. The silence lulled him to sleep again. This time, he dreamed. The figures were after him, and no matter how much he tried to move and kick, his body wouldn't obey.
The Haunted Pub Page 24