“You’re probably right,” Harry admitted. “How would we even know who’s a sinner and who isn’t, anyway?”
“Exactly,” said Nigel, seemingly satisfied.
Steph pushed another recently-thawed beer over to Lucas, who was about to finish his current one. . “Nigel seems to think that it’s all about drugs, and that Damien is the one they want.”
“Well, well, well. Is that right, now?” Damien emerged from the bar’s staff area and moved through the hatchway. Old Graham was with him and seemed to be cringing. Damien did not look happy. “So you think I caused all this, do you?”
Nigel shifted on his stool. “I didn’t say that. I…I was just talking to Steph about who could be out there and…and…”
“…and you thought you’d blame everything on me? Why’s that then? Is it because you think you’re better than me? That I’m just some fucking mug?”
“No, I just thought…”
“You thought shit!” Damien tensed up like a wild animal.
Lucas leapt up from his seat and stood in Damien’s way. “Do I have to tell you again? Calm down for a spell, fella; it’s no good for the blood pressure.”
Damien turned his anger towards Lucas. “What are you talking about, you thick Mick?”
“I had your word that you’d behave,” said Lucas. “The only reason our Nigel is looking to blame people is because he’s afraid.”
“Hey,” Nigel protested. “No, I’m not.”
“We’re all afraid,” Lucas continued. “And when people are afraid they flap their gums. Tisn’t personal; just what people do to try and make sense o’ things. Stops their minds floating away.”
“Yeah,” said Nigel. “I was just talking shit. Figured that, because you’re a tough guy, you’d have some tough enemies.”
“You’d better keep your accusations to yourself from now on,” said Damien, “because kicking your arse would be a nice way to warm up!”
Nigel nodded. “So, we’re good?”
Damien nodded. “Yeah, we’re good for now.”
Harry was glad Damien had been reined in yet again. In fact, he started to wonder whether the thug was really the bloodthirsty psychopath people made him out to be.
“Can we get a beer for Damien?” Harry asked, trying to encourage peace.
Damien shook his head. “Not now. I found that old dustbin in the basement, but I need help dragging it up. It’s an old-fashioned wheelie bin but the wheels have rusted off. We should be able to start a decent fire in it and get some goddamn heat in here.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “That’s great. I’ll come and help you.”
Damien shrugged and walked back through the hatch, disappearing through the narrow door behind the bar. Harry followed him into the rear corridor and then down the stairs into the cellar. At the bottom, Old Graham waited next to a rusty old double-wide dustbin. The rest of the cellar was a mess, with mounds of wood and cardboard rotting away in the corners.
“You going to help or not?” Damien asked, tipping the dustbin onto its edge.
Harry hurried over and grabbed the other side, while Old Graham kicked away the debris that covered the route to the stairs. The pensioner turned out to be quite spry for his age.
“After three,” said Harry. “One…two…three…” He and Damien heaved, heading for the bottom of the stairs with the steel dustbin. The container was empty, yet still substantial in weight and thick with rust. Harry felt his hands chafing under the pressure. “How are we going lift it up the stairs?” he asked as they neared the bottom step.
Damien laughed. “Back giving out on you? We’ll just lift it, step by step. Piece of piss.”
The two of them stopped at the stairway and righted the drum back onto its base, dropping it down with a Wong! “Okay,” said Harry. “You ready?”
“Ready for what? A bit of lifting?”
Harry shook his head, unwilling to get into a pissing contest. He turned to look at Old Graham. “Maybe you could gather up some of this cardboard so we can use it for the fire?”
Old Graham nodded and got to work.
Harry signalled to Damien and the two began to lift. They hoisted the bin onto the first step with little effort, and then again onto the second and third. By the fourth, Harry was starting to lose his breath. “Can we stop a sec,” he said.
Damien grunted. “Maybe if you didn’t drink so much, you’d have more stamina.”
Harry felt his pulse quicken as he fought the urge to lash out, but decided to let his actions argue for him. “Right, come on then! Let’s get this bloody thing up there.” He tried to sound full of vigour, despite the tightness in his chest. “Last thing I want is for your delicate little body to get cold.”
Damien snickered but didn’t rebuke. The two of them continued hoisting the steel dustbin upwards. They scaled the fifth step and then the sixth. The seventh and eight were hard work but they managed to shift the deadweight up using their feet to give it an added shove. With only two more steps left, Harry yearned to release the weight he carried. His shoulders burned with fire and his lungs started to cramp. Damien was right, a year of constant drinking had left Harry in the physical state of a man twice his age. He felt ashamed.
Just two more steps though and it would be done. He could make it.
They hoisted the bin once more. Damien began to slide it up onto the next step, but as he did so, the bottom edge of the dustbin struck against the outer lip of the step. Harry pushed his side up, trying to clear the centimetre needed to get the dustbin up onto the step, but he couldn’t manage it. He strained harder and willed his biceps to contract, but instead his arms lowered against his control. Harry’s grip failed, then gave out completely.
Damien cursed as the weight in his hands suddenly doubled. Harry watched helplessly as the lad tried to keep the dustbin under control by attempting to trap it with his leg. But it was futile. The hunk of steel twisted sideways and fell away from them both.
Harry stumbled forwards onto the step above as the dustbin struck his shin before beginning a spiralling journey down the old stone staircase. All of the hard work getting the dustbin to the top had been wasted, and it was Harry’s fault. But as he watched the rusty steel careen towards the bottom of the stairs, he felt a hundred times worse. Old Graham was bending over, gathering up all the cardboard just like he’d been asked. The old man was oblivious to the danger hurtling towards him.
The dustbin flew through the air.
A moment later, so did Old Graham.
18
Jess couldn’t stop worrying about Peter. She worried too about her mum and dad. They would be fretting. Usually they would stay awake until she return home from a late shift, finishing off a bottle of wine and arguing before finally retiring to bed. Jess hoped they were too drunk tonight to notice that she wasn’t home yet. With a bit of luck they would have had one of their rare nights of fondness and gone to bed early for a bit of nooky. What better way was there to stay warm on a night like this? Jess knew that probably wasn’t the way of things though. Her parents were more likely to throw things at one another than show affection. They hadn’t always been like that.
Jess convinced herself that her parents would be fine. Peter was a much bigger concern than her parent’s marriage problems. She looked down at her sleeping friend, surprised to find that his injuries still had the ability to shock her. Beneath the bandages, Peter’s left eye was caked with foul-smelling custardy puss, but that wasn’t what disturbed her most. It was the deep carvings sliced into the pale flesh of his chest. SEnD Out ThE SiNNeR.
Whatever it meant, it was the work of a sicko. Peter never did anything to anyone. He was a quiet boy, sweet and gentle. Not like the usual, football-obsessed, dickheads that lived in the area, or a thug like Damien. Despite the blood on Peter’s face, Jess could still make out his gentle features, his soft lips. She suddenly wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She wondered if he’d ever thought about kissing her.
; Bloody hell, Jess, she thought. Peter’s lying here, dying, and you’re thinking about making out with him. Jeez!
At that moment, Peter opened his good eye. Jess didn’t notice at first, but when he started to moan it startled her. He continued moaning until the strangled noises eventually began to form words. “Jess…ica.”
Jess nodded and smiled, tears gushing down her cheeks. “Yes, yes, it’s me. I was so worried about you, Peter. What on Earth happened to you?”
Peter focused intensely on her for a moment, lips puckering as if preparing for some great speech. She hoped it wasn’t going to be a final one. “Jessica…” he grimaced, “listen…to me.”
She put a hand against his cheek. It throbbed heat like a radiator. “I am, Peter. I’m here.”
“Get away,” he said, “out of here.”
Jess blinked. “What do you mean?”
A hiss of air whistled in Peter’s nostrils as though forcing its way past a blockage. He repeated himself, but more weakly, like he was going to lose consciousness again at any moment. “Get away. They are…coming.”
Peter’s good eye rolled back in his head, disappearing behind his drooping eyelid. Before Jess had time to consider what he’d been trying to tell her, she was alerted by a crash. Followed by cries of pain and screams of agony.
What the hell’s happening now? I don’t think I can take any more.
Making her way over to the bar area, Jess saw commotion taking place. Lucas, Steph, and Nigel were standing around, looking concerned.
“What’s going on?” she asked Lucas.
“Dunno, lass. The menfolk went downstairs to get us something to build a fire. Next thing I know there’s a load of caterwauling.” He moved into the doorway behind the bar and faded into the shadows. Before disappearing completely, he turned back. “Well, you coming or not, lass?”
Jess stood for a moment, then nodded. She followed after Lucas and they headed into an unlit corridor at the back of the bar. The sound of someone in pain became clearer, and so did the noise of people bickering.
Lucas sparked his lighter and gave them light. “I think they’re down there,” he said, referring to an open doorway on their left. It led to a narrow staircase, leading down. A breeze floated upwards from the cellar beneath. It tickled Jess’s cheeks and the inside of her nostrils.
Lucas placed his hands either side of his mouth and shouted down the staircase. “You fellas okay down there? We heard yelling.”
“We need help.” The voice was Harry’s. “Graham is hurt. I screwed up. I screwed up rea-”
“Just bring some blankets and whatever is left of the first aid kit.” The new voice was Damien’s and it cut Harry off mid-sentence. “Graham’s hurt, but he’s gunna be alright. No need for anybody to get their knickers in a twist.”
Jess couldn’t help but feel faint. Peter was at death’s door and now Old Graham was injured too.
Two down… How many more to go?
Kath almost felt bad.
Almost.
It’d been Peter’s decision to run off and look for Jess. Nobody made him do it. Ironically, it was Kath who eventually ended up finding Jess, and that had proven even more how idiotic Peter had been for not listening to her. Still, she couldn’t help but ruminate over what had happened to the boy. Someone had messed him up real nice.
Probably crossed the wrong people, Kath assumed. Polish Mafia or something. At least she hoped so. The alternative was that there really was a psychopath out there in the snow?
Not that being trapped inside The Trumpet with her current companions was any better. There was Lucas, prancing around like a drunken parody; Nigel, an ugly man who lacked any discernible personality; 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 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. And that thug, Damien, was a walking billboard for dysfunctional youth if ever she saw one. To complete the agony, was Old Graham, a pensioner stinking of piss and beer, and Harry, a hopeless case from what she could ascertain. It was obvious Harry was a drunk because of the weathered look on his face. It was the same look her father used to have. Alcoholism was a slow, draining sickness which killed a man one drink at a time while making him neglect everything that was important. But no matter what anybody said, it was not a disease, it was a choice. A selfish, weak, and pitiful choice. Nobody ever forced a bottle to an alcoholic’s lips.
Maybe if Kath’s father hadn’t been such a deadbeat she would have finished her History degree and actually done something with her life. Instead she’d ended up supporting him all the time until she hit twenty-eight. The day she found the old drunk lying on the living room floor, rapidly fading from a severe heart attack, had been a godsend. The vision of him pleading with her to call for help, while she stood there shaking her head at him and watching him die, was a significant turning point in her life. It was the day she decided she would no longer let anyone take advantage of her. She would look out only for herself. Everybody else could go right to Hell.
All around Kath, the degenerates inside the pub with her scuttled like ants, clutching blankets and bottles of water to their chests while taking them from one place to the next.
Something was going on, but Kath didn’t really care. She was only with these people for safety, and the last thing she wanted to do was get involved. She would remain by the bar, warming her hands over the candle flames and waiting for the power to return.
Slowly, everyone filtered behind the bar and left the pub empty. Kath suddenly found herself alone in the flickering shadows. She cleared her throat. “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 behind the bar.
19
“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 fifteen 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 he was obviously winded by his ordeal. “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 the man. “I don’t think tomorrow’s going to be any better. I’m not sure if we can get you help soon enough.”
Old Graham snorted. “Then just put me in a bathtub 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. All the times he had labelled Old Graham a nuisance, and he’d never taken the time to see what a kind forgiving old soul he was. Harry had stopped taking the time to know anyone after the crash that had taken his family. He realised how selfish that had been.
“Can I do anything for you?” Harry asked Old Graham.
“No, just get me a beer, and a snog off Steph, and we’ll call it quits.
Harry laughed. “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, but somehow finding it impossible. Laughter was a luxury he was all out of.
In the hallway above, a sphere of light began an ethereal descent down the shadowy staircase. By the time it got down to the last few steps, the source of the
glow revealed itself. Steph was carrying a tray full of candles. She set them down on the floor.
“Hey,” said Harry, quietly taking her to one side. “I think he’s going to be okay for now. Tough as old boots, that one.”
Steph smiled. “Old Graham? Yeah, I could have told you that. Took a bullet in the Falklands. Didn’t even realise till he was back at base half a day later.”
Harry frowned. “He tell you that?”
“Yeah,” said Steph, keeping her voice down. “It’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?” she asked him.
He didn’t know what to say. 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 get eaten by monsters. Something isn’t right, but I keep telling myself that everything will be okay. I hope I’m not just being naïve.”
Harry reached out and gave her hand a squeeze. “We have to keep reminding ourselves that this is reality, not one of Jerry’s horror movies. Whatever is going on is really strange, maybe even dangerous, but as long as we stick together, we’ll come out the other end of this and find out what the hell has been going on all night.”
“I hope so, because this is starting to feel too much like a nightmare.”
“My whole life is a nightmare,” said Harry. “I’m getting pretty sick of it.”
“When this is all over, I’m gunna take a holiday.”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Me too. Maybe I’ll go skiing.”
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.
The World's Last Breaths: Final Winter, Animal Kingdom, and The Peeling Page 29