Текст книги "The Haunted Pub"

Автор книги: Melanie Tushmore

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make sure he was never on his own anywhere in the pub. Save for his bedroom.

Which was why he was pleased Sammy was with him in the cellar now, even if his jitters were

making Ryan more nervous. “This place gives me the creeps,” Sammy muttered, hopping from foot to

foot. “And it’s always so bloody cold.”

Ryan was busy checking the beer barrels. He couldn’t believe the mess they were in. Someone had

connected them all wrong, leaving the caps unscrewed. At least three barrels were ruined, the gas

having escaped. The beer was so flat, whoever had done this must have done it last night. Scrubbing a

hand over his face, Ryan made mental notes of the amendments to his beer order. No point crying

about it, they’d just have to make the most of what they had for a couple of days. Maybe the drey man

would do them a favour and fit their order in earlier.

“Right, Sammy.” Ryan tried to get the boy’s attention. “I’ll show you how to connect the barrels,

are you watching?”

“Okay,” Sammy said absently. Ryan went ahead and did the best he could to rectify the mess. He

connected new barrels of Guinness and Hobgoblin, then insisted Sammy have a go himself. After a bit

of a bodge, Ryan helped him out and they got the third barrel connected. Sammy’s teeth were

chattering. “Can we g-go now?”

Ryan felt the chills running over his skin too. “S-sure,” he chattered back. “We’re d-done here.”

They raced each other up the stairs, back into the warmth of the bar.

Sammy shut and bolted the door. “I hate that place.”

Ryan didn’t care to comment. Rachel had sidled up to them and said, “I heard voices last time I was

down there. I know everyone says it’s only echoes from the street, but that’s bullshit. I know what I

heard.”

“What was it?” Sammy asked, as Ryan winced.

“It sounded like someone calling,” Rachel said in a low voice. “I stopped and listened, but it wasn’t

anyone I recognised. I heard another voice, kinda deep and manly. Then a little kid, laughing.”

Sammy snorted. “Laughing’s better than crying.”

“I’m sure it’s just from the street outside,” Ryan said, trying to convince himself as much as his

colleagues.

Rachel obviously disagreed. “I know what I heard. I’m never setting foot down there again.”

Suddenly loud, clomping footsteps sounded overheard. Someone was walking down the stairs, towards

the bar. Ryan tensed, then jumped in fright as Sammy grabbed onto him and shouted, “Oooga booga!”

“God, Sammy!” Ryan snapped, swatting him away. “Don’t do that.”

Sammy laughed heartily. Their boss, Pete, appeared. “All right, troops?”

“All right,” Ryan replied, heart still hammering. Rachel and Sammy soon forgot the ghost talk, and

began fussing over Pete. Rachel used any excuse to flirt with Pete, and Sammy used any excuse to talk

rather than work. Ryan sighed to himself, and reached for the coffee pot. He’d already cut out as much

caffeine as he could, but even that wasn’t helping his nerves.

By midday, the pub was prepped and ready to open. Rachel had already delivered the peanuts to

Matt upstairs, and managed to coax him out of his sulk much better than Ryan ever could. The nut

roast was fine, in the end. Rachel bravely took the first taste, and sat at the quiet bar eating her

vegetarian roast dinner. Sammy opted to eat a flimsy, cold sandwich from the café up the road, rather

than ask Matt for a roast.

“Just kiss and make up,” Rachel cajoled, cutting up her steaming food. She breathed in the smells

before taking another bite. “Mmm, yummy.”

Sammy gazed at her dinner forlornly, but he still refused to speak to Matt.

Ryan prayed the pub would get busy enough for Matt to stay upstairs cooking. If it was quiet, Matt

would end up sitting at the bar, and then it wouldn’t be long before him and Sammy started sniping at

each other again.

Ryan just didn’t think he could cope with any more crap today. He kept out of the way, busying

himself at the other end of the pub for a bit of peace and quiet. Sunday Slam was on later, and as

entertainments manager, it was Ryan’s job to get the venue ready.

The venue consisting of the back end of the pub where the toilets were, and a rickety stage built out

of empty beer crates. Spit and sawdust, in other words, but it was good enough for the local punk

bands.

Ryan sat on the edge of the stage, with a box of tangled up wires at his feet that he absently began

untangling. He found himself dangerously close to thinking about Ginger again. Luckily for him, two

of his band mates showed up. Dee and Glen strolled through the pub. They spotted Ryan and closed in

on him.

“Duuude!” Glen drawled.

“All right, duuude, how’s it goin’?” Dee’s attempt at an American accent was almost as bad as

Glen’s.

Ryan frowned at them. “Why are you talking like that?”

“We watched Dazed and Confused last night,” Dee explained.

“Yeah, man!” Glen was still trying for an American accent, then shouted, “Air raid, freshman!”

Ryan winced. “Please be quiet.”

“Have you seen it?” Dee asked.

“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” Ryan said. Dazed and Confused was one of Ginger’s favourite films.

“Dude, we totally need to cover Slow Ride.”

“Nuh uh,” Glen frowned at Dee. “Thought we were gonna cover Cherry Bomb? But Ash was gonna

sing it as Curry Bomb instead. Hur, hur.”

“Where is Ash?” Ryan interrupted. It wasn’t like their singer to stay home on a Sunday.

Dee shrugged. “He said to meet him here. We’ve come to eat off our hangovers.”

“Yeah.” Glen chuckled. “Speaking of food, how’s old moody chops?”

“Matt? He’s....well.” Ryan shrugged.

Dee and Glen shared a look. “Uh oh!” Glen laughed. “Like that, is it?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Shall we complain about his food again?” Dee suggested. “Entice the grumpy bear from his cave?”

“Please don’t.” Ryan dropped his wires and stood up. “Go sit, be quiet. I’ll bring your usual over.”

“Ooh, what service!” Dee and Glen hurried to a table and sat down.

Thirty minutes later, Ryan’s phone buzzed in his pocket. After looking at the screen, he answered,

“Hey, Ash.”

“Are those two dick-knobs in your pub?”

Ryan blinked, then glanced over at where Dee and Glen were sat their table. “Uh, yeah. They said

you were meeting them here.” Ryan heard Ash curse and huff. It sounded like he was walking.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Just up the road,” Ash said. “I told those idiots to come pick me up first. Should’ve known they’d

get it wrong. I’ll see you in a sec.” He hung up. Ryan shrugged, then put his phone away and carried on

stacking glasses.

Rachel was engaged in a crossword, and Sammy was currently engaging in his own cross words

with one of the customers. Ryan waited nearby in case things got heated. Or rather, when things got

heated. The trouble had started when the female customer had approached the bar with a view to

complain about what was written on the food menu. Under “tuna melt” was written in marker pen,

“All our tuna contains at least ten per cent dolphin!”

Evidently, the lady didn’t appreciate Sammy’s ad hoc humour. Sammy, still wearing his offensive

t-shirt, had told her, “Build a bridge and get over it, love.”

It was one of those days, Ryan thought.

Pete had gone out, Ginger was still upstairs. Rachel clearly didn’t want to get involved. Just as

Ryan was debating how to intervene, the door opened and Ash strode in. Ryan waved at him as Ash

approached the bar. Ash’s arrival was also the end of Sammy’s interest in arguing with the customer.

His eyes lit up, and he positively beamed at Ash, hurrying over to him. Before Ryan could say hello –

considering Ash was his friend, after all – Sammy had pushed past Ryan.

“Hey, Ash!” Sammy greeted. “And what can I get for you?”

Ryan rolled his eyes, but he quickly made the most of Sammy’s distraction and stepped over to the

flabbergasted customer. Ryan apologised to her, and told a little white lie about Sammy being on work

experience, which managed to smooth over the situation. Appeased, the woman went back to her table.

Ryan was well aware of her beady eye still watching him, so he nipped around the bar and gathered up

the other menu’s. There was a marker pen behind the bar. He’d have to insist Sammy blot out the

slightly offensive joke, and hopefully that would be that.

Ryan glanced up, seeing Sammy dote on Ash while he fixed his drink. Ryan knew it would take

ages for Sammy to serve him. He’d drag out each moment as long as he possibly could to spend more

time with Ash.

Ash took it well, but he was probably used to it. Ryan couldn’t blame people for liking Ash; there

was a lot to like. As well as being tall and slim, he was half Indian and achingly handsome. Natural,

glossy black hair, smooth, tanned skin, and shining dark eyes. Ashcharya Singh. Which was apt, as he

did like to sing.

Maybe if Ryan hadn’t spent the last three years so completely hung up on someone else, he might

have pursued something with Ash. He knew Ash was bi, like him. But as it was, they were just friends.

Probably for the best, Ryan thought. They didn’t need any romantic soap operas disrupting the band.

No matter how crap their band was, it was what they did.

By the time Ryan made it back to the bar, Sammy was still mixing a simple lime and soda, and Ash

was still waiting patiently, responding to Sammy’s flirtatious advances with polite yet distant interest.

Ryan snatched Ash’s soda away and stuffed the menu’s into Sammy’s arms.

“What’s this?” Sammy questioned.

Ryan produced the marker pen, and thrust that at Sammy too. “You can spend the next ten minutes

scribbling out whatever you’ve written on those menu’s. Do it before Pete gets back or I’ll tell him

you’ve been upsetting customers.”

“Oh, come on,” Sammy started to whine.

“No,” Ryan said firmly. “Get on with it, please, Sammy. I’m going out back. Don’t upset anyone

else while I’m gone.”

Sammy huffed and rolled his eyes. Ryan bit his lip and counted to ten, moving out from the bar as

he did so. “Come on, Ash,” he said, handing Ash his drink.

“Bye, Sammy.” Ash took the drink and waved to Sammy, who instantly brightened.

“You know where to come when you need a refill, Ash!” Sammy trilled.

As they walked away, towards the back of the pub, Ryan gave Ash a look. “What?” Ash questioned.

“It must be hard being you.”

“Hah! Yeah, well...” Ash smiled back. “I’m kinda running out of excuses to say no to him.”

Ryan almost guffawed. “So, why not say yes?”

“He’s not really my type.”

“You have a type?”

Ash shrugged. “Maybe. You know when you meet ‘em, right?”

A vision of long red hair and a face with kohl-lined eyes flashed through Ryan’s mind. He had to

fight really hard against sighing. “Yeah,” he agreed. “You’re right.”

They approached Dee and Glen, who were on their second pints already. “You morons,” Ash said,

sitting down next to Dee. “You were supposed to come pick me up.”

“What?” Dee frowned at him. “You said, meet here.”

“I said, come pick me up! And why aren’t either of you answering your phones?”

“Needs charging,” Dee said.

“Dropped mine last night,” Glen added. “It’s in bits right now.”

Ash snorted. “Good job.”

“So, then...” Ryan hastily changed the subject. “I take it you lot being here means you want roasts?”

“Yeah!” They chorused.

“Don’t any of you upset Matt,” Ryan warned. “He’s in a mega mood today.”

“Mega mood?” Ash snickered. “Is that more than the regular mood?”

Dee piped up, “Ryan, after the roast, we wanted to have a nose upstairs at this rehearsal space.”

Ryan’s blood ran cold. “W-what rehearsal space?”

“Those empty rooms,” Dee said.

“Yeah,” Ash agreed. “It’d be great to practise here, save us a fortune.”

“Um, they’re not ready,” Ryan fibbed. There was absolutely no way he wanted to set foot in the

pigeon loft.

“Ginger said they were ready,” Ash told him.

“Eh?” Ryan squeaked. “What? When’d he say that?”

“Last night,” Dee explained. “We asked him about it, and he said we could use them any time.”

“Oh.” Ryan could feel the chill creeping up his spine. “Er, yeah. Great.”

Chapter Four

“You need to eat something,” Ginger said.

Fizz had been picking at his food for what felt like forever. He’d tried, he really had. A few

mouthfuls were all he could manage. The desire to eat just wasn’t there. His mother used to reprimand

him all the time. “There are people starving out there! Be grateful for what you’ve got!” But that just

made him feel worse. Fizz would much rather give his food to someone who needed it.

Why should he be allowed to eat and enjoy things, when others couldn’t? He didn’t deserve it. An

enormous blanket of guilt had weighed over him his entire life, and he couldn’t seem to shift it. Fizz

wondered how people managed to get through life without seeming to care. All it took was one picture

in a newspaper, or a flash of a documentary on TV, and he felt absolutely wretched and miserable at

the thought of others suffering.

All he could think was, why? Why was there so much misery in the world? And why had he been

given a relatively rich life, compared to others, but without the capacity to enjoy it? Was it everyone

else who was wrong? Were they simply born without guilt, or was it him?

Fizz had come to the conclusion that it was more likely him.

“Come on.” Ginger prodded him. “Don’t make me force feed you.”

Fizz was a little worried Ginger actually meant that. He reluctantly ate another mouthful, hating

every moment. They sat in the staff kitchen. Ginger had finished his own roast long ago. Wolfed it

down, in fact. Ginger liked meat, but Fizz had asked for the vegetarian option. Now his father wasn’t

around to insist he ate “proper food”, Fizz supposed he could even be vegan if he wanted. Ginger

didn’t seem to mind. At least Brighton was more open minded when it came to choice of diet.

However, the more immediate problems whirled around in Fizz’s mind, and stifled his already

small appetite. What the hell was he going to do? Ginger had already said he’d have to chip in and

work if he wanted to stay here, to help pay for his food. There wouldn’t be any rent – not while Fizz

was in that decrepit part of the building, and the company didn’t find out – but he still had to eat.

Fizz wished he didn’t have to eat. He just wanted to stay in his room, forever. But he had to eat, and

use the bathroom, and the washing machine. Ginger had put a load on for him now; the machine

trundled away to itself under the counter, washing his clothes. With each cycle the machine made, he

felt more and more awful.

Fizz hated being such a nuisance. He thought maybe he should disappear, and make life easier for

all his family. He’d send a postcard, of course, and tell them he was all right. He couldn’t bear the

thought of people worrying, or looking for him. Then he’d stay gone, and the guilt of their worry

would hopefully stop weighing on his mind.

Except, he hadn’t quite worked up the courage to leave yet. Pathetic, he told himself. His fork

pushed a hard piece of nut roast around the plate. Don’t cry, don’t cry.

“C-can I go to the bathroom, please?”

Ginger looked up from the newspaper he was pretending to read. “Mate, you don’t have to ask. You

know where it is.”

“Thank you.” Fizz was relieved to escape. He wanted to get out of there before his eyes started

streaming with tears.

As he reached the door, Ginger called out, “If I hear any puking noises, I’ll make you finish this

entire dinner, and then some.”

Fizz paused. The words were on the tip of his tongue, I’m not bulimic! But what did it matter?

People assumed all kinds of things about him, and what difference did it make? He nodded silently,

then left the room.

Out on the landing, he heard voices below. Curious, Fizz peered over the bannister, down two

flights of stairs. The door to the pub had opened, and Ryan came through it, leading a procession of

colourful, punky-looking lads up the stairs. Fizz ducked back and ran along to the bathroom. He

wasn’t up for meeting anyone else right now. Matt, the pub’s grumpy chef, had already scared the crap

out of him earlier. A towering brick shit-house of a man, with an angry glare to match.

Then there was Sammy, the loud twink who never seemed to stop talking. It took more energy than

Fizz had just to keep up with what he was saying. There was also Pete and Rachel, who were polite on

the surface, but Fizz recognised that curious, judging look in their eyes.

No, he didn’t want to meet anyone else.

Inside the bathroom, he shut the door and locked it. There was another toilet down the hall, literally

just a toilet in a room, but Ginger had told him it was blocked. Apparently, there’d been a big drama

about that, but Fizz hadn’t really paid attention. So this was currently the only bathroom for all the

staff.

Fizz sighed in relief. He felt...tired. More tired than usual. Since sleeping in his room here, almost a

week now, he’d felt really lethargic. Like the small amounts of energy he did have had just drained

away.

It was really weird. Especially considering he wasn’t on his pills right now. He should have loads of

energy. Or maybe years of taking the meds had wiped that out of him?

Just don’t cry. Don’t cry.

At the sink, Fizz splashed water over his face, willing himself to keep it together. He avoided his

eyes in the mirror, as always. Running wet fingers through his hair, he could feel by the length that it

was nearly time to cut it again. That meant he had to decide which was worse; finding someone who

was willing to cut it for him, or cutting it himself and look in the mirror for endless minutes. It

seemed so pathetic, and yet the thought of either scenario had him breaking out in a cold sweat.

Fizz forced himself to breathe in and out. Steady breaths, just stay calm. He sat on the edge of the

bath and gazed out of the window. Someone had left the frosted glass pane open, to air the room after

a steaming hot shower. It had a view of the buildings nearby, and the pub’s beer garden below. Fizz’s

thoughts strayed to wondering what it would feel like to fall from a window so high up. Or more

realistically, to jump.

Just leap, then splat. No more worrying.

Except he couldn’t help thinking about the people down below, and what they would have to deal

with. Imagine how awful it would be for them, if they were enjoying a quiet drink in the garden, and a

body fell out of the window. And what if the fall didn’t actually kill him, only mangled him? Fizz

shuddered. He knew he was too much of a coward anyway.

His mind wandered, aimless. Strangely, the bathroom felt relaxing. The air here was fresh and light.

Nothing at all like his bedroom. The air in his room felt...weird, and stuffy. But again, that was

probably his own fault.

Fizz wasn’t sure how long he was in the bathroom for. He heard voices, obviously Ryan’s friends

flitting about down the hall. He heard Ginger too, a quiet, low hum as he spoke to them. Ginger rarely

raised his voice.

A blaring car horn from the street jolted Fizz in surprise. He hadn’t even realised he’d closed his

eyes. How on earth could he be so tired? He hadn’t exactly done anything. Fumbling to the sink, he

splashed more cold water on his face, this time to wake himself up. A quick pat dry with a towel, and

Fizz left the bathroom. He didn’t want Ginger battering down the door.

It was strange that the air in the hall felt closer than the bathroom had. It felt hot and stuffy. Fizz

ran fingers through his hair, brushing it off his face. He glanced to the side with sleepy eyes, seeing

that one of the big windows was open wide, letting in the afternoon breeze. It still felt like there was

no air though.

Fizz was on auto pilot, slowly descending to the half landing that led back to the kitchen. Too busy

gazing at the window, he only just noticed the other figure, who was waiting patiently to come up the

stairs. “Oh,” Fizz said in surprise. “Sorry.” He stepped back, pressing himself against the bannisters.

He wanted to shrink into nothing, embarrassed for causing the other person to wait while he dithered

about.

The other boy smiled, and slowly ascended the three steps that separated them. “No worries,” he

said easily. Dark, almost black eyes flitted up and down, checking him out. A flush heated Fizz’s

face. He hated being looked at, but it was doubly awful to be scrutinised by someone so good-looking.

The boy’s unusual appearance was intriguing. Rather than pasty white and scruffy like everyone else,

he could easily be model material. Caramel skin, shiny back hair, and those gorgeous dark eyes. His

clothes looked a little too clean and stylish to make him a hardcore punk. Fizz could picture him

modelling for some trendy, rock-inspired fashion shoot. From the confident way the boy smiled at

him, Fizz knew he would be a natural.

“I’m Ash,” he said, holding out his hand. Fizz stared down at the proffered hand, then blinked at the

boy. He’d been so caught up in unexpected thoughts – fashion shoots? Really? – that he hadn’t

prepared for an introduction. The outstretched hand, whether a friendly gesture or something else

entirely, was more than Fizz could cope with. He couldn’t make his voice work, let alone maintain eye

contact. Shying back against the bannister, he hung his head and averted his eyes. How he wished the

floor would swallow him up right now.

“Hey, you okay?” Ash asked softly, a note of concern in his voice.

Fizz cursed himself for not staying in the bathroom. Then his saviour appeared. Ginger, likely

having heard Ash speak, stepped out into the hall. “Fizz,” he said firmly. “Come and finish your

lunch.”

Taking that as his excuse to run away, Fizz kept his eyes low and scooted around Ash. His arm

brushed the cool leather of Ash’s jacket, sending a tingle over his skin. Hurrying down the steps, he

rushed past Ginger and back into the stuffy warmth of the kitchen. Ginger stayed where he was, giving

Ash a parting look. “Bathroom’s just up there,” Ginger pointed out, then re-entered to the kitchen.

Fizz couldn’t have been more embarrassed. He sat himself down and took to the task of finishing his

dinner in silence.

* * *

Ryan leant against the warm brick of the building, gazing out at the street. The midsummer sun was

still high in the sky, and the late afternoon traffic around The Old Steine was starting to ease off at

last. He smoked a cigarette, and only half listened to Dee, rabbiting away next to him.

Across the road, in the middle of Victoria gardens, two slightly gnarled men in ratty old tracksuits

were having a row. Ryan recognised one of them as a regular, and prayed he wasn’t on his way into

The Queen Anne. The pub’s main entrance was about ten yards away, while Ryan and Dee were

waiting by the side door, which was situated in the front courtyard. This was the most direct entrance

from street level, also used as the disabled access, and a handy short cut to upstairs.

Ryan tried not to look at the iron grate, innocently folded back against the wall. This was the same

door that someone kept coming and going from at night. He could still hear the sound of those rusty

keys turning in the lock, the grate being pulled back, and the footsteps clomping up the stairs. Ryan

refused to believe he was the only one who could hear those same footsteps at night, walking around

the hallways upstairs.

What had been a rare occurrence was now becoming far too frequent for his liking. The others

blamed Matt and his heavy footsteps, or even Sammy dancing about to his pop music in his bedroom.

The joking was usually accompanied by uneasy laughter.

No one could deny there was some strange shit going on lately. Noises in the night. Sounds in the

cellar. Things going missing. And a strange stuffiness hanging in the air, no matter how many

windows they kept open.

Rachel and Sammy, ever ones to speculate, had said that there seemed to be a rise of strange shit

happening ever since Fizz had moved in. Ryan didn’t think that explained anything. Fizz was hardly

the one stomping about the halls, was he? The kid barely left his room, and he wasn’t big enough to

make that racket.

No, there was definitely something else going on. But in a way, Fizz was responsible for the one

thing Ryan was most upset about: Ginger had been rather distant this past week. Of course he was

worried about his cousin, Ryan could understand that.

Ryan stubbed out his cigarette, jabbing it into the wall. Okay, he was jealous. He knew it was

selfish but he couldn’t help it. As if it wasn’t difficult enough to get Ginger’s attention, now he had to

contend with Fizz. Not even connecting up that old VCR could get Ginger to spend time with him.

They’d accumulated a stack of vintage VHS tapes, purchased online or at second hand shops over the

last few months, because Ginger had expressed an interest in watching them. Ryan had managed to

track down most of Ginger’s favourites: The Decline of Western Civilisation Part Two: The Metal

Years, Zodiac Mindwarp: Sleazegrinder, Aerosmith: Big Ones You Can Look At, and even bumper

editions of The Fast Show.

Unfortunately, not even good TV could tear Ginger away. So instead, Ryan found himself spending

his free time helping in the bar, or propping it up on the public side, drinking his bad mood away. And

all that accomplished was to pour his wages back into the pub’s till.

Yep, this last week had truly sucked.

Dee still wittered on. Ryan barely heard him, watching the two gnarly men end their row with a

parting curse, then shuffle on their separate ways. Ryan was relieved.

“There they are!” Dee pointed across the Steine. Across the grass area, trapped on the one way

system, was the familiar white Ford van with “Singh & Kour’s Whole Foods” emblazoned on the side.

Ryan braced himself. He wasn’t looking forward to lugging the band’s heavy gear up all those stairs,

but he supposed it gave him something constructive to do on his night off.

A few minutes later, the van had navigated around the Steine, past The Royal Pavilion, and skidded

to a halt in the pub’s loading bay. Glen opened the passenger door and tumbled out, followed by Ash,

who stepped down rather more gracefully. Ryan and Dee waved to Ash’s father, who got out the

driver’s side. “Hello Mr. Singh,” they chimed.

“Hello, boys,” he greeted, sliding the van doors open. “Do you need a hand getting this upstairs?”

Ryan’s heart sank when he saw how much gear was in there, but it was an unspoken rule that any

parent nice enough to lend transport – and it was usually Mr. Singh – wasn’t made to carry heavy

loads. “We’ll be fine, thanks,” Ryan assured him. “Guys, let’s unload it all into the courtyard, then

take it upstairs from there.”

“Sounds good to me.” Mr. Singh grinned, then held out his hand towards his son. “Ash, give me a

cigarette.”

“What?” Ash was annoyed. “You never give me one!”

Mr. Singh barked an order in Indian, his tone firm. Ash muttered to himself, digging in his pockets.

“Come on, then.” Ryan nudged Dee and Glen into action.

Mr. Singh leaned against his van, smoking his pilfered cigarette, while they unloaded their gear as

quickly as possible. Ryan was worn out already, and that was the easy part. “That everything?” he

asked.

Dee poked his head into the now empty van. “Yep!”

“Okay, great. Thanks, Mr. Singh!”

“Yeah, bye, Dad,” Ash said, obviously eager to get rid of his father.

“Bye, boys.” Mr. Singh smiled at them. “Have fun playing with yourselves.”

Ash rolled his eyes. “Dad, go home.”

Mr. Singh chuckled as he got into his van. They waved him off, Ash breathing a sigh of relief. “At

last!”

“It’s good of him to drive us all the time,” Ryan said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ash muttered. “Next time, you sit in the van with him during rush hour. I swear, he

gets instant road rage behind the wheel.”

Ryan chuckled. He had seen Mr. Singh behind the wheel before. It was an intimidating sight.

“Right, let’s get moving,” he sighed, picking up one of Glen’s heavy cymbal bags. “We’ll load two at

a time. Dee, you and Glen stay here and watch the equipment.”

“Why, what’s it gonna do?” Dee quipped.

Ryan didn’t dignify that with a response. He grabbed another bag, and hefted them into the pub.

Ash was behind him, carrying two guitars in their soft cases. As they reached the foot of the stairs,

they saw Rachel stick her head around the corner of the bar. “Oh, hey, Ash!” she called.

“All right, Rach.” Ash bestowed her a smile, and Rachel blushed prettily in response.

Don’t mind me, Ryan thought. Talk about the invisible man. Lugging the bags up the stairs, he

concentrated on trying not to pull a muscle. Those damn cymbals were heavier than they looked.

“So...is Fizz upstairs?” Ash asked.

At the question, Ryan paused and shot a look over his shoulder. “Don’t go there.”

“What?” Ash blinked, trying to act innocent. “I’m just asking.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ryan turned away, and continued climbing.

“He’s Ginger’s cousin, right?”

“Yes.”

“So like, what’s the deal?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is he...I dunno, unwell or something?”

“Don’t ask me,” Ryan said, trying not to sound bitter. “No one tells me anything.”

“Oh.”

Ash sounded disappointed. Suddenly, Ryan had an epiphany. What was he doing warning Ash off

Fizz, when that could potentially be the very thing to help him out? If Fizz was happily occupied, then

Ginger wouldn’t be so busy looking after him. It all made perfect sense.

Turning back to Ash, Ryan smiled. “Now you mention it, I think Ginger said he’s fine, just a

bit...um, down in the dumps, you know?”

Ash raised an eyebrow. “Oh, right? Like how?”

“Well, I don’t know. No one’s been able to get him to talk, but I’m sure all he needs is a friendly

ear.”

“Hm.” Ash smirked back. “Is that so?”

Ryan shrugged, acting indifferent. “Might help.”

He secretly hoped that Ash’s interest would draw Fizz out of his doom and gloom. After all, who in

their right mind could resist Ash?

Hearing thumps and bumps behind them, Ryan and Ash both looked down the flight of stairs.

“What are you doing?” Ryan called. “Stay outside with the equipment!”

“Rachel’s there,” Dee called back. “Havin’ a fag.”

“Oh, right.”

With Rachel keeping guard outside, they were able to get the gear upstairs a lot quicker. Although it

did mean less time for breathers in between. They left the amps till last, as they were the heaviest.