Peter’s good eye rolled back in his head and then disappeared behind his drooping eyelid. He was gone again. Maybe forever, Jess contemplated sadly. Before she had time to consider what Peter had been trying to tell her, she was alerted by a crash.
Followed by cries of pain; screams of agony.
What is happening now? I don’t think I can take any more.
Jess felt numb and moved sluggishly. Making her way over to the bar area, she could see that a commotion had already begun to take place. Harry, Damien, and the old man were missing, but Lucas, Steph, and Nigel were milling around the bar looking concerned. She searched for Jerry and found him on his own, sitting at a table in the corner. He was shivering and didn’t seem to be paying much attention to anything that was going on. She made a mental-note to check up on him later. Kath sat nearby too, also seemingly uninterested in anything that was going on. When Jess reached the bar she found herself face to face with Lucas, who was making his way through the bar hatch to the staff side. He stopped when he saw her.
“What’s going on?” she asked him.
“Dunno, lass. The menfolk went downstairs to get us something for a fire. Next thing we know there’s a load of caterwauling.” Lucas moved into the doorway behind the serving area that led into the back of the pub, leaving the candlelight of the bar and fading into the shadows. Before disappearing completely, he turned back to her. “You coming or not, lass?”
Jess stood for a moment then nodded. She followed after Lucas into the unlit corridor, groping against the wall to keep herself steady. Further on down, the sounds of someone in pain became clearer, and so did other sounds…people bickering. It sounded like Harry and Damien. She hoped everyone was alright, but worried that Damien had lashed out and hurt somebody; broken Harry’s nose or worse?
Lucas sparked his lighter and the corridor lit up in a flood around them. He reached out to stop Jess before she bumped into him. “I think they’re down there,” he said.
To their left was an open doorway leading to a narrow staircase. A breeze seemed to wisp up from the cellar and tickle Jess’s cheeks and the inside of her nostrils.
Lucas placed his hands either side of his mouth and shouted down the stairs. “You fellas okay down there? We heard yelling.”
After a few seconds a voice that Jess recognised as Harry’s floated up the stairs. “We need help. Graham is hurt. It was my fau-“
“Just get some light down here and some blankets.” The new voice was Damien’s, cutting off Harry mid-sentence. “We’ve had a slight fuck-up but everything’s going to be sound.”
Jess couldn’t help feeling that things were most definitely not going to be ‘sound’. Peter was on death’s door and now the old man was injured.
Two down… How many more to go?
Jess gut told her they were all in for a long night and that their troubles were not yet over.
Not by a long shot.
###
Kath almost felt bad.
Almost.
It had, after all, been Peter’s decision to run off to look for the stupid girl; no one had made him do it. Ironically, Kath was the one who ended up finding Jess anyway, and that had just proved even more how idiotic the boy was for not listening to her. Still, she couldn’t help but ruminate about what had happened.
Someone messed him up real good. Probably crossed the wrong people; Polish Mafia or something. Kath suddenly had another thought: Or there really is a psychopath stalking us all?
If there was a sadistic madman running amok out there, was she going to be safe here in the pub? It didn’t feel like it. The Trumpet was full of degenerates from what she’d seen so far.
You had Lucas, prancing around like a drunken leprechaun; Nigel, an ugly man that lacked any personality she could discern of; Steph, a low-class tramp; and that insufferable girl, Jess. Of all the people Kath could be trapped with, Jess would have been last on her handwritten list. Her little buddy from the video shop was no less irritating, backing up her absurd stories just so he could get into her filthy knickers – if the slut even wears any. Next was Damien, a walking billboard for dysfunctional youth and petty crime. Finally, you had the pensioner, stinking of piss and beer, and the alcoholic loser, Harry. She could tell Harry was a drunk because he had that same weathered look on his face that her father used to have. A slow, draining sickness that killed a man one drink at a time; made him neglect everything important.
Maybe if Kath’s father hadn’t been such a deadbeat she could have finished her History degree and actually done something with her life. Instead she ended up supporting him until she hit twenty-eight. The day she found her father lying on the floor, fading from a heart attack had been a turning point for her. The thought of him pleading with her to call for help, while she stood there shaking her head and watching him die, was significant to her. It was the day she decided she would no longer let anyone take advantage of her. She would look out only for herself from then on. Selfish, lazy drunks like Harry could go right to Hell.
All around Kath, the degenerates scuttled around like displaced ants, clutching blankets and bottles of water, carrying them in a line. Something was happening in one of the backrooms of the pub, but Kath couldn’t say she really cared. She was only with these people for safety, and the last thing she wanted was to be involved with them beyond that.
Maybe the thug has finally thrown a punch at the drunk, she thought. Punch drunk!
She laughed out loud, but secretly hoped that harmless bickering was all that was happening in the back, but when she thought again about who had thrown Peter through the window, and why, she started to worry that there was far more danger lurking in the air tonight than a simple punch up.
“Well,” she said out loud. “I’d best go see what those idiots have gotten themselves into.”
Kath stood up and headed for the darkness of the corridor.
Chapter Twenty
“I’m so sorry, Graham.” Harry looked down at the old man’s twisted leg and felt the urge to punch himself in the face. How could he be so stupid, getting caught in a testosterone contest with a kid ten years his junior? He was pathetic and for the first time was finally realising it. He put his hand on Old Graham’s shallow chest and could feel the man’s ribs through tissue-paper skin. The scar below Harry’s knuckles reminded him that he had a habit of hurting people.
“Harry,” Old Graham whispered, not to be quiet but because the old man was obviously winded by his sudden ordeal. The pain from his damaged leg was probably sapping the breath from his aged lungs too. “Harry, don’t worry. I’m okay, it’s just me leg. Get it fixed up in the morning, good as new.”
Harry didn’t want to lie to him. “I don’t think tomorrow’s going to be any better. I’m not sure if we can get you help.”
Old Graham snorted. “Then just put me in a bath full of whiskey. By the time I drink meself dry, the snow will have gone and the ambulances will be back on the road.”
Harry smiled. “I’m really so-“
“If you say you’re sorry one more time, son, I’ll break my other leg just to shut you up.”
For reasons he couldn’t quite understand Harry felt like crying, breaking down right there and giving up. All the times that he had labelled Old Graham a nuisance, he’d never taken the time to see what a kind, forgiving man he was. Harry had stopped taking the time to find out anything about anyone after the car crash; now he realised that had been a mistake.
“Can I do anything?” he asked Old Graham.
“No, just get me a beer and a snog off Steph, and we’ll call it quits.
Harry laughed. “Well I’ll do my best, but I’m thinking I’ll only be able to manage one of those.”
Old Graham opened his eyes wide like a startled rabbit. “What? You mean we’re out of beer!”
Harry stood up, wanting to laugh his ass off at the old man’s fighting spirit, but somehow finding it impossible. Laughter was a luxury he’d run out of.
; In the hallway above, a sphere of light began an ethereal descent down the dark-shrouded staircase. By the time it got down to the last few steps, it revealed itself. Steph was carrying a bar tray full of candles and nodded at him as soon as she saw him.
“Hey,” said Harry quietly, taking her to one side. “I think he’s going to be okay for now. He’s tough as old boots.”
“Old Graham? Yeah, I could have told you that. Took a bullet in the Falklands and didn’t even realise till he was back on base a day later.”
Harry frowned. “He tell you that?”
“Yeah,” said Steph, keeping her voice down. “That’s one of his stories I like to believe; makes me think of him as a hero.”
Harry thought for a moment then nodded. “Yeah, I think it’s one I’d like to believe too.”
Steph stroked a hand against Harry’s shoulder and rubbed all the way from his elbow to his neck. The feeling made his stomach flutter and filled him with a mixture of excitement and remorse.
“How you holding up, Harry?” she asked him.
He didn’t know what to say and felt sick as he tried to comprehend an answer to the question. After a while, he said, “I really don’t know. With all that’s happened tonight, I’m starting to wonder if I’m losing my mind.”
“Me too. I feel like we’re the only people left in the world and we can’t go outside because we’ll either freeze to death or have some obsessed Clive Barker fan carve words into our chests.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Clive Barker? You read a lot?”
Another thing you never bothered to find out about her, Harry. Nice going.
Steph nodded, the tray of candles bobbing in time with her head. “Yeah, I love to read. Everything from Stephen King to John Grisham; anything I can get my hands on, really.”
“You don’t find that enough nowadays,” said Harry. “People treat reading like a taboo – television’s uncool relation.”
“Totally,” she agreed happily. “I take it you’re a big reader as well then?”
Harry shook his head. “No, not really.”
Steph stared at him for a moment looking confused, but then broke out in hysterical laughter. After a moment, Harry was surprised to find that he was joining her. Maybe laughter wasn’t a luxury he was completely out of just yet.
Or maybe Steph is just a master of getting blood out of a stone.
Or feelings from a torn heart.
“Oh Harry,” Steph patted him on the shoulder. “You do make me laugh! I’m really going to have to get to know you better when this is all over.”
Harry considered that and decided he would like it very much. It was time to start living again, forgetting about the things he could not change.
“Anyway,” he said, starting a new subject, “got a plan on what to do next?”
Steph nodded. “Damien said the barrel is just too heavy to get up the stairs so we should all come down here to start a fire. He said a small windowless room like this would be easier to heat anyway. We just need to leave the door at the top of the stairs open so we can breathe.”
“Good idea,” agreed Harry, immediately wondering why Damien hadn’t cried bloody murder over his earlier mistake. The lad knew it was Harry’s fault; that when the drum had been only one step away from the top he had dropped it. Yet, for some reason, Damien made out as though it had been an impossible task to begin with and nobody’s fault. Tonight had muddled Harry’s entire opinion of the lad. He wasn’t ready to trust Damien just yet, but had at least started to consider it.
“Everyone’s upstairs,” said Steph, “gathering stuff to burn. We’re going to leave Peter in front of the fire. Jess said she’d stay with him.”
Harry nodded. “We’ll have to keep an eye on them both. It may not be safe for her to be alone. I’ll go see if she needs anything and then go help the others.”
“Okay, Harry. I’ll get Old Graham nice and comfy then get this place lit up. See you in a bit. Mind yourself in the dark.”
Harry moved aside to let Steph past with her candles and then he started to climb the stairs. He was taken back to earlier when he’d tried to climb up with the barrel. He had a lot of making up to do to Old Graham that was for sure, but at least Damien had turned the disaster into a sustainable plan B. It would indeed be warmer in the cellar once they got the fire going and Harry started to feel far more hopeful about their situation just thinking about it. Prior to now, he had been scared that they would all freeze to death. It seemed silly now.
The corridor at the top of the stairs was pitch-black, but Harry could make out a dim, flickering light coming from the bar’s candles at the far end of the hallway. He felt his way towards them and found Lucas standing at the bar. The Irishman was busy gathering beers and a big bottle of Famous Grouse whiskey into an empty crisp carton.
“Getting essentials, I see?” said Harry as he entered the bar.
Lucas held up an uncapped beer and swigged from it, letting out a lip-smacking sigh at the end. “Don’t ya know it! I asked the old fella what he needed and all he said was beer and plenty of it. Can’t deny an injured pensioner now, can I? What kind of man would that make me?”
“Never thought of it like that.” Harry fired off a mock salute. “Keep up the good work, private.”
Lucas returned the salute. “Will do, Major Jobson, sir!”
Harry continued on from the bar and walked over to Jess at the fireplace. She flinched, as though he had startled her. It wasn’t surprising really; sounded as if the poor girl had been through worse than anyone tonight.
“You okay?” he asked her.
“Fine,” she replied, stroking Peter’s forehead with a damp cloth she had no doubt warmed in front of the fire. “I can’t leave him here alone, and I don’t think it would be right to move him either. Jerry has gone to find us some snacks. He’ll be back soon to keep me company. Anyway, I have this if I get into any real trouble.” Jess reached down beside the sofa and came up with a great shiny piece of metal.
Harry nodded. “The call bell. Good idea. Not a single man whose ears don’t prick up at that sound. Just ring if you need help, okay?”
Jess seemed proud for a moment, but her sombre expression soon returned when she went back to nursing Peter. When she spoke again, she did so without looking Harry in the eye. “How is Graham doing? His leg seems painful.”
Painful wasn’t a good enough word to describe the result of Harry’s stupidity. He smiled to reassure her. “Luckily, there’s no bleeding. I think it’s broken, but he’s okay for now. Chipper as ever, long as he has us bringing him beer all night.”
“He seems like a nice old man,” she said. “I hope he’s okay.”
Harry nodded. “Me too.”
He thought Jess was going to carry on the conversation a little longer, but instead of replying he caught her looking over his shoulder. Her eyes went wide as if something concerned her.
Harry swallowed a lump in his throat. Why is she staring like that? Is something behind me?
He spun around, and found Damien standing up against him. As usual the lad’s face was a thick, syrupy mixture of frowns and scowls, but there seemed to be something else in his expression too. Harry felt his wariness of the lad return. Had he really been thinking that Damien wasn’t dangerous? That he was a good person deep down?
Idiot, Harry. He’s probably looking to stamp your kneecaps in for dropping the barrel. God knows I deserve it.
Damien’s expression didn’t change as he pointed over his own shoulder with a thumb. “Come with me,” he said, walking off in the opposite direction and leaving Harry wondering what to do.
Should I follow? Or should I grab a weapon and prepare to fight for my freakin’ life? Harry didn’t know and decided that, until he did, it would be best to just play along.
Damien had headed over to the back exit corridor; the one leading outside or off to the toilets. It also led to the seldom-used dance floor at the back of the pub. Harry doubled his pace to
catch up; managing to get there a second or two before Damien stopped and turned around.
“Take a look.” Damien pointed to the exit door. “Look through the window at the top.”
For a second Harry had visions of doing as he was told and having his head rammed through the glass. Wasn’t that the kind of thing gangsters do? Made you dig your own grave? Harry sighed. If something was going to happen, it was going to happen. He stepped toward the door, waiting for an attack.
“Look through,” Damien ordered again.
Harry moved up against the door and put his face against the glass. There was no prompting necessary on where to look or what to focus on. It was clear for him to see.
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