Текст книги "The Haunted Pub"

Автор книги: Melanie Tushmore

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Ryan made sure he picked up his own cab, and that Ash was the one helping him. They carried it

upstairs, while Dee and Glen crashed and bumped behind them with Dee’s bass amp. “Not so fast!”

Glen complained.

“Careful,” Dee grumbled back. “That’s my leg, you knob!”

“What?”

Thump.

“ARGH! Fuck’s sake!”

Smirking over the top of Ryan’s amp, Ash muttered, “It’s like the bloody Chuckle Brothers.”

“Scarily accurate,” Ryan muttered back.

They carried the amps upstairs without too many mishaps, and deposited them in their new

designated practise room in the pigeon loft. After minor disagreements over where to place the

equipment, Glen started moving his drums into position.

“Don’t set them up yet,” Ryan told him. “I want to get some carpet down on the floor to muffle the

noise a bit.”

“Are we sticking carpet on the walls too?” Ash asked.

“Not sure,” Ryan said. “Let’s see how hot we get on first. There’s some old carpet in the cellar we

can use. Er, if you guys wanna go get it for me?”

“I’ve got some egg boxes at home,” Dee piped up.

Everyone turned to frown at him.

“What?” Ryan asked.

“Egg boxes. Thought we could fill ‘em with sand, and stick ‘em on the walls. Be like those soundproofing

tiles.”

Ryan couldn’t believe he was hearing this. Ash bit his lip, obviously trying not to smile.

“Dee,” Ryan said, as nicely as possible. “Egg boxes full of sand are not going to do the same job as

sound proof tiles, which are made of foam.”

“Sand will still deaden the sound,” Dee insisted. “I’ll bring ‘em along and do it for you. It’ll work

great.”

Ryan threw his hands up, defeated. “Sure, why not?”

“Awesome, dude!” Dee grinned.

“Stop saying dude,” Ash told him.

“No way, dude.”

“Okay,” Ryan interrupted, before any bickering could ensue. “Come and help me with this carpet,

then.” He herded them out of the room, and down the hall.

Ash hung back, eyes darting over to the open doorway of Fizz’s room. “Think I’m...gonna grab a

coffee,” he said casually.

Ryan wasn’t fooled. “Okay,” he smirked. “See you in a few.”

Chapter Five

The boy, Fizz, laid on his bed fully clothed, nestled in the bunched up sheets. His pale blue eyes

stared vacantly, and the small device that now played his music – after the red-head had insisted upon

it – was blaring tinnily into his ears. I watched him from the corner of the room.

Those other boys had struggled past the open doorway – as there was no door in its frame – several

times, hefting their music equipment. I only knew they were machines to do with music because I’d

seen similar models downstairs in the bar, set up for various rag taggle musicians to play in the

evenings, when the bar was busiest.

At least now I knew what made that incredible racket my new lodger listened to. Guitars powered

by electricity. Simply fascinating. And drums. So many drums, it seemed impossible that one human

being could play them all at once. The energy that was created through live music was electric in

itself, and I was positively thrilled to see the colourful Ryan and these boys set up shop in the larger

room, two doors down the hall. I could hear them discussing carpets, then Ryan was hurrying his

companions away.

One boy hung back, and hovered at the door. It was the handsome Indian, I was pleased to see.

I was out in the hallway in an instant. Standing behind him, I concentrated enough energy to push

him into the room with a nudge. It was a gentle, persuasive trick. He was so focussed on Fizz, he

didn’t notice a thing.

Hopping back into the room to watch them, I felt the grin spread over my face. Fizz finally noticed

he had a visitor, and pulled the noisy ear plugs away as he sat up. His blue eyes were wide, panicked.

“Hey.” The boy smiled warmly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt or anything.” He waited, perhaps

for Fizz to say something. Fizz stared at him blankly, as if wondering what on earth he could want. “I

met you the other day,” the boy said, looking somewhat bashful. “The name’s Ash. I, um...I was gonna

go grab a coffee. Not the crap they serve downstairs, a nice one, I mean. From that café up the road.

Just wondered if you wanted anything?”

Fizz still stared at him, not answering.

“My treat,” Ash pressed, a nervous laugh on the edge of his voice. “It’s the least I can do, seeing as

we’re gonna make a racket later and likely deafen you.”

A great swell of emotion rose in Fizz. He was clearly confused, worried, yet excited by the offer

from this boy. It was the first tinge of hope that I’d felt in him, so I didn’t waste a second to crouch

behind him and whisper in his ear, “Say yes.”

Fizz sat up sharply. “Yes?” he said, sounding confused.

Ash looked relieved. “Great! What do you want? Flavoured latte? Cappuccino? Choccochino?

Frappe with cream?”

“Huh?” Fizz became flustered. “No, I mean – really, I don’t – I don’t want to put you to any

trouble.”

“No trouble.” Ash waved his concerns away. “Tell you what, I’ll bring you a surprise.” He flashed a

cheeky smile, then he ran off, probably before Fizz had the chance to say no. Fizz was left on his own,

clearly wondering what had just happened.

I was pleasantly surprised, too. Some people were easier to manipulate than others, and I hadn’t

tried such a thing in a long time. Obviously, in his current miserable state, my lodger would prove no

trouble at all to wrap around my little finger. I suppressed a chuckle, and resumed my place in the

corner of the room, near the window.

Fizz slowly sprang into action. As close to action as he was likely to get, at any rate. He turned on

the lamp, as the daylight had faded with the setting sun. He also turned off his music – thank goodness

– and smoothed down the covers on his bed.

Aha, I thought to myself. So you do care what Ash thinks.

Ryan and those other two louts returned, bumping and thudding down the hall with scraggy rolls of

carpet. Ryan said hello to Fizz as he passed, and afforded him a quick smile. Fizz watched them drag

the carpet past his door, and I could feel a desire to help bloom within him. Unfortunately, it couldn’t

overcome the crippling shyness and insecurities this boy harboured. I tutted to myself. What a waste

of life.

With the distant chatter having resumed down the hall as Ryan and his cohorts prepared their room,

Fizz seemed at a loss. He sat on his bed, waiting for Ash’s return. Soon enough, soft footsteps

preceded his arrival. I heard Fizz’s breathing pick up, and his heart rate increase. Ash appeared at the

door, holding two plastic cups. They were transparent, with domed lids, and straws stuck in their tops.

The contents were thick and swirled with two tones of colour. I had seen the bar staff downstairs drink

these strange confections by the gallon, sucking them up through the straws.

As far as I could work out, fashionable fellows drank their coffee cold these days.

“Hey.” Ash greeted. “You got a choice of chocolate vanilla cheesecake, or cookies and cream. The

fruit machine bust, so this was all they had. They did have mint, but I bloody hate mint flavours. I

mean, why not just drink toothpaste? Or like...yeah.” His gaze dropped shyly, likely aware of his

babbling.

I quickly moved myself behind Fizz, concentrating my energy into my right foot. Gently, I nudged

his behind with a little kick, until he rose up from the bed. Fizz took tentative steps towards Ash,

staring at the drinks. “What are they?”

“Frappe’s. Which one do you want?”

Fizz glanced up at him nervously. Indecision swirled through him, and the nerves choked his voice.

Goodness me. We would never get anywhere at this rate. I glided in behind Fizz, positioning my

hands under his left arm. Rather than actually touch the boy this time, I simply compressed the energy

underneath his arm which, in turn, forced it to rise. Fizz found himself pointing at one of the drinks.

Ash handed it to him. “Cool,” he said. Fizz stood there, now clutching his drink. An adorable blush

crept over his cheeks, perfectly visible on his pale skin. He stared down at the drink in his hands. Ash

watched him, a smile curving his lips. The air between them sparked and charged with energy, yet

neither boy said a word. I could hear their hearts thumping, and I reached my hands out, stroking

through their energy. I basked in the palpable tension, so strong, so heady…

“Oi, Ash!” a voice interrupted.

Irritation rippled through Ash. He turned to the doorway and glared. One of the other boys stood

there, a quizzical eyebrow raised. “What?” Ash said tightly.

“Aren’t you helping us get this shit together?”

“Do I have to?”

“Dee, leave it!” Ryan’s voice called out. “I told you, we’d be fine.”

“Nah, that’s hardly fair!” Dee called back along the hall. “If he’s slacking off, then I’m slacking

off.”

“All right, all right.” Ash gave in. He flashed an apologetic smile at Fizz, who had briefly glanced

up, only to look away again shyly. “See you later,” Ash said softly. He turned and left the room.

Out in the hall, he muttered under his breath.

Dee stared at the drink and demanded, “What’s that?”

“Frappe,” Ash replied.

“What?” Dee was incensed. “Ash, you nancy! You can’t drink those lame drinks and be in a punk

band. A Crappe is not punk rock.”

“Oh yeah?” Ash said. “Define punk rock.”

“What?”

“Define punk rock,” Ash repeated. There was humour in his voice.

Fizz crept closer to the door, silently watching them argue.

“Well, punk rock doesn’t come in fancy pants, corporate branded cups!” Dee huffed.

Ash took a long, noisy slurp through the straw. “Tastes pretty good though. I suppose you’d rather

we drank our own piss, or something like that?”

“What you’re drinking is piss.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

The energy between the warring boys was steadily building. Not wanting it to go to waste, I slipped

past Fizz, and into the hall.

“You don’t get it!” Dee snapped. “If anyone sees you drinking that shit, our rep’s ruined.”

“Rep?” Ash laughed, but the laugh had a hard edge to it. “What rep? Do me a favour.”

“Do yourself a favour!”

“Guys.” Ryan appeared between them. His aura was strong, calming, and immediately washed over

the two boys. “Chill out, yeah? It’s doesn’t matter.”

Ash shrugged, then took another slurp of his drink.

“Whatever, dude,” Dee snorted.

“Quite,” Ash said.

Ryan herded them back along the hall. “Awright, Fizz,” he called over his shoulder. Fizz quickly

ducked back into his room, still clutching his drink.

I grinned to myself, then followed Ryan’s boys.

* * *

After almost an hour setting up their various instruments and bickering with each other, Ryan and

his band spent another hour cranking their machines up high and drowning each other out. Electrical

currents surged through the room, and the air reeked of sweat, sweetly intoxicating. There was more

bickering over who sounded loudest, with no conclusion met. My head swam from the amount of

energy they had.

Of course, I had gently encouraged their irritations. The four of them were wound so tight anyway,

all I had to do was a gentle push here, a careful pull there. It was like conducting an orchestra of bratty

children. The way they expelled even more energy into their songs – albeit not exactly in time – was

breath taking.

As soon as they descended downstairs, unwittingly pulling me behind them, their irritable tempers

dispersed. “I felt like I had a headache before, but it’s gone now,” Ash commented.

“Yeah.” Dee frowned. “Me too. That room is really –”

“Stuffy?” Ash ventured. “Close?”

Ryan shivered, although no one noticed. I could feel the chill pass over his sensitive skin. “Let’s

just go have a drink, yeah?” he suggested. I followed them downstairs, through the bar, and into the

reasonably quiet ground floor. The bar maid, Rachel, and that young, obnoxiously loud boy, Sammy,

served them drinks.

Along the bar, I nodded to two spirits who sat amongst the living patrons, eyeing the drinks they’d

never be able to touch or taste. Fools. Why waste away, pining for alcohol, when the living had so

much energy to give?

Ryan and his friends took their drinks, and made their way outside. These days, smokers were

banished to the courtyard, at the mercy of the elements. Luckily for them it was a dry night. I followed

them outside, and caught a glimpse of Amelia, another spirit, in the farther end of the courtyard. It

would be pointless calling out to her; Amelia wandered as endlessly and silently as she’d done before.

Ryan and his boys huddled together against the wind, lighting their cigarettes. They congratulated

themselves on their first practise in the pub. The other boys commented how well it went, and asked

Ryan when the next one would be.

Poor Ryan looked aghast, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. He was certainly more in tune to his

surroundings than most people. I knew he could sense my presence at times. When he appeared to

relax some, I passed a hand through him gently. He shivered at my touch, and I barely held in a moan

at the sheer amount of nervous energy and tension stored up inside him.

Having Fizz here upset Ryan, that much was clear. Because it was Fizz who had stolen the

attentions of Ryan’s beautiful red-head. I smiled to myself. Where was Ginger, anyway? I moved

away from the boys, floating through the bar. I was high on their energy. As I passed through the

staff’s private entrance, I spotted that familiar piece of rumpled paper, squashed into the waste paper

basket. Or bin, as they were want to call it.

Making sure no one was looking, I focussed the energy in my hand so I could gently pick up the

paper. “Rebecca,” I called, slowly ascending the stairs. I had to walk, rather than project myself, if I

wanted Rebecca to find me.

Her light, skipping footsteps echoed from behind. I stopped, and turned to smile at the spirit of the

young girl who’d died in what were now the cellars, years before I was even born. “Hello, Rebecca. Do

you want to play hide the treasure map again?”

She looked at the paper I held, and nodded her head. “Good girl. Here you go.” I handed her the

paper, careful that she could take a hold of it. “Concentrate hard, hold onto it. That’s right, Rebecca.

Now, I want you to hide it in Sammy’s bedroom.”

She frowned in thought.

“Sammy’s bedroom is the third door from the bathroom,” I reminded her. “One, two, three. Third

door.”

“The messy one?” she whispered. I nodded at her, pleased she was concentrating so much. These

games were obviously good for her.

“That’s my girl,” I praised. “Now, hurry. They’ll be coming upstairs soon.”

Rebecca let out a giggle of delight, then bounded up the stairs. With her occupied, I was able to

project myself up, to the exact place in the building Ginger was; the kitchen.

The staff had a room set aside as their lounge, but Ginger spent a lot of time in the kitchen. The

room was spacious, even with the battered dining table and chairs taking up half of it. The kitchen felt

very central in the building. It was the same place the officer’s mess had been once, and it still carried

that strong aura.

Ginger lounged in his chair, a chilled bottle of beer held in his hand. He absently stared at the

flickering box at the other end of the table – the television – but I could see him keeping one eye on

his cousin, also sitting at the table. Fizz had no doubt been extracted from his room and fetched here

to eat his supper. It was late, but they all kept late hours due to the bar downstairs. Fizz hunched over

his plate, pushing the food around with his fork. I could feel the displeasure emanating from him, the

self-loathing and wretchedness growing.

Nothing at all like he’d felt when the lovely Ash had brought him that bizarre drink. It was almost

as romantic as bringing him a bouquet, I thought. Very modern. Fizz hadn’t had a chance to feel guilty

about the interaction then, not while I was there. Perhaps I was more of an influence over him that I

realised.

I swept around the table, standing behind Fizz. Laying my hands at the base of his spine, I tickled

my fingers up its length. He shuddered suddenly, hissing a breath in through his teeth.

Ginger looked at him. “You all right?”

Fizz shivered again, but nodded.

“Are you cold?” Ginger was up off his seat. “I’ll get you a jumper.”

“No,” Fizz said quietly. “I’m fine, really.”

Ginger smacked his beer onto the table with unexpected force, glaring down at Fizz. “Well, you’re

not fine, are you? Because nobody your age stays in every single day of their bloody lives. You need

to get out, Jamie.”

Fizz curled in on himself, hunching over. “No, no, please. I don’t– I –” The tears welled up. He

squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to stop them, and covered his mouth with his hands. “I’m sorry,”

he said, voice hitching. The sobs were but a breath away.

Ginger sighed, visibly deflating. “Jamie, you don’t have to be sorry, for God’s sake. Quit saying

sorry all the time. I just want you to have a life, you know?”

“I’m sorry,” Fizz sobbed out. The tears rolled off his cheeks and dropped into his barely touched

dinner. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop being sorry.” Ginger crouched beside him, rubbing his back. Still behind Fizz, I held my

hands out and closed my eyes. The energy from both of them was brimming with nerves and despair.

So, so strong.

“Look...” Ginger sighed. “If I make you an appointment at the doctor, will you go?”

Fizz looked up at him, clearly distraught at the suggestion. “No!”

“Or we can have one visit you here?” Ginger said. “You won’t even have to leave –”

“No, please, I can’t! It doesn’t help, they don’t do anything.”

“But you’ve had meds before. I talked to your mum, she said you should be taking them every day.”

“Pills don’t help.” Fizz sobbed again. “All they want me to do is take pills, but they don’t work. I

don’t want to be forced into meds again, please!”

“Okay, okay,” Ginger soothed. “You don’t have to do anything right now, all I’m saying is –”

“Please can I go to my room now?” Fizz interrupted. The tears streamed down his face.

“Jamie, you need to –”

“Please, Daniel.”

That little voice was so small, so pathetic. Ginger obviously realised there would be no conclusion

drawn tonight. “All right,” he said, standing up. “But we’re not done talking about this.”

Fizz stood, then hurried from the room, desperate to escape. Ginger found his packet of cigarettes,

pulled one out and lit it. The first exhale of smoke became a long sigh. He muttered under his breath,

“How am I supposed to deal with this?”

“You okay?”

At the voice, Ginger turned to see Ryan standing in the doorway. He drew in a sharp breath,

obviously trying to right himself. “Yeah,” he said tightly. “Yeah, fine.”

Ryan hesitated. Unspoken questions burned in him, until one finally bubbled to the surface. “I...I’ve

got something stronger,” he offered, gesturing with his eyes at Ginger’s beer. “It’s in my room, if you

fancy a drink.” The invitation was made. Ryan was already tipsy, and still keyed up from playing his

guitar earlier. His face was faintly flushed, those freckled cheeks tinged soft pink. His eyes were

bright as he stared at Ginger, waiting for a response.

Oh, the way this boy looked at him sent shivers down me.

This time, it was Ginger who hesitated. He seemed to hear Ryan’s question, hear it for what it could

mean, but he brushed it aside. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. He went to a cupboard, rifling through it.

“Got some whiskey to finish.”

Disappointment nearly crushed Ryan but, admirably, he didn’t let it show. Ginger took two glasses,

filled them with whiskey and placed one at an empty seat. It wasn’t quite what Ryan had been hoping

for, but he wasn’t about to turn it down. He moved into the room and asked, “Ice?”

“Sure.”

“There’s some ginger beer in the fridge if you want me to top it?”

“Okay.”

I watched these two, listening to their voices. How reserved they seemed, how guarded. Their

normal bond, comfortable in its familiarity, was close to breaking. A new energy was attempting to

rise. I could feel the tension in both of them, coiled tight beneath the surface and ready to spring. They

sat at the table and drank quietly, staring at the flickering box. I stood between them, absorbing the

energy they created from being so close to each other.

Strong, potent and addictive.

Something was about to change, I could feel it. Their energy was aligning, each one desperate to

match the other’s. This was it. Ryan’s muddled mind began to stir. It begged to ask the questions his

sober self would never dare utter. He was close, so close to voicing his feelings. If he did that,

everything would change. I realised this was their natural course; these two were meant to be together.

But if that happened then their energy would soon settle, even out. One of my strongest sources of

energy would be gone, and I couldn’t have that.

Bending low, I whispered in Ryan’s ear, “Not yet, my dear.” He sat up straight. Absent fingers

brushed at his ear, searching for the source of whatever tickle he must have felt. Smiling to myself, I

whispered in his other ear. “Go to bed now. Alone.”

Drunk men were so easy to manipulate. Ryan blinked, then got to his feet. “Guess I’ll...go to bed.”

Ginger tried hard not to look at him. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Ryan hovered a moment longer, looking down at Ginger, who stared ahead at the

television. Another sigh, and Ryan moved off, slightly unsteady on his feet.

Ginger frowned, although Ryan didn’t see it. Disappointment washed through the man, along with a

surge of baffled confusion. As Ryan reached the door, Ginger said, “Ryan?”

Eager to stop, all too willing to rush back to the man at the table, Ryan stopped and whipped

around.

“Yes?”

“Um...” Ginger stared at him as Ryan stared back. The waves of sexual tension rolled and crashed

through the room, so strong I was all but knocked off my feet. It took all I had to force myself through

the buzzing wall of energy, and plant myself at Ginger’s side. “Wait,” I whispered in his ear. “Say,

thank you.”

“Thank you,” Ginger said, not all that convincing.

Ryan visibly deflated, and offered a weak smile. “No worries.”

“Night.”

“Yeah, night.” Ryan left, trailing disappointment in his wake.

Sorry, lad, I snickered to myself. But this is far too much fun. It’s time to shake things up around

here.

Chapter Six

“Shit!” Matt knocked pots and pans aside. Why had all his best chopping knives taken to hiding

recently? He crashed through more utensils, knocking a pile of cutlery onto the floor with a deafening

crash. “Shit, shit, shit!”

Chopping knives still nowhere to be found, Matt fought against the impulse to curse someone’s

name for hiding them. Someone in particular. The knives weren’t the only things that had gone

missing lately. Certain ingredients for the lunches, the washing up liquid, his oven glove, and

generally anything useful that Matt wanted to lay his hands on had mysteriously vanished.

Hell, even his phone had gone for a walk.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out who it was. Sammy was obviously pissed off with him, and

exacting his own brand of childish revenge as punishment. Although Matt felt that was incredibly

unfair. Just because that stupid note saying “Sammy’s boudoir” had apparently turned up in Sammy’s

bed of all places, Matt had got the blame. As if he’d go into Sammy’s room anyway, and put that note

in his bed. It was ridiculous.

All right, so he’d admitted to starting the whole thing, and putting the note on the toilet door last

week, but that didn’t mean he was the one who kept fishing the damn thing out of the bin and mucking

about with it. For all they knew, it was Sammy doing it himself.

Matt could just imagine it being the sort of thing that moronic kid would dream up. The perfect

excuse to get Matt in trouble. Sammy seemed to be gunning for him at every opportunity lately. Well,

it was bound to come to a head sooner or later. Sammy had been itching to pick fights with Matt since

getting dumped by his boyfriend. It was like Sammy was taking out his frustration on him. They

hadn’t exactly seen eye to eye since Sammy had moved in six months ago, and insisted on engaging in

noisy, late night activities with his then-boyfriend.

All Matt had asked them once was to keep it down. He was the one who had to get up early every

day to prep the kitchen, and their bedrooms were right next to each other. Sammy had taken that

request as to mean Matt was homophobic, which wasn’t fair at all. Matt didn’t care who was having

sex, he just didn’t want to hear it every Goddamn night. Was that so unreasonable?

Two months after that, Sammy got dumped anyway. Matt had admittedly made a poor joke about

being able to get some sleep now. Sammy hadn’t taken it well, and things had been tense ever since.

Matt wanted to apologise for the joke. He didn’t realise Sammy would be that upset by it. He’d tried

to say sorry a couple of times, but Sammy had a way of throwing everything back in his face, and

annoying him even more.

Matt didn’t think there was anyone on God’s green earth that irritated him more than Sammy.

After yet another spat yesterday, Ginger had told them to shut the fuck up, or he’d tell Pete to

demote them both. Well, that had worked for now. But what about Matt’s kitchen? How did they

expect him to work when he was being sabotaged like this?

Matt heaved in a sigh and rested his hands on the counter. Working in his own kitchen was

supposed to be a dream come true. No one else got under his feet, and he could play his favourite

music at whatever volume he liked. Up in the gods of the building, no one gave a damn about the

noise. On weekends, he occasionally had a helper to carry plates, but truth be told, Matt preferred to

work double the speed in order to work alone. He liked it that way.

But recently, with everything reaching boiling point – so to speak – he wasn’t sure any more. It

wasn’t as if good chef positions were abundant these days, and he definitely didn’t want to go back to

a shared kitchen. Aside from Pete and Ginger, Matt had been here the longest. With any luck, certain

irritating members of staff would soon move on, and his life could get back to normal.

Matt grabbed a tea towel and yanked open the oven to check on his pies. It didn’t feel hot enough.

Carefully, he stuck a hand in the oven, feeling the air.

No, definitely not right.

Annoyed, he slammed the door shut and checked the dials yet again. Everything had been prepped

the same as it always was, on a typical Friday lunch time. So why was the oven now playing up?

Everything was obviously determined to go wrong today.

The air was close and stuffy, even with the windows thrown open. The breeze just couldn’t seem to

penetrate the inside of the kitchen. Usually he was lucky to get the odd burst of fresh air, but today,

nothing. Matt wiped at his brow, smearing away perspiration. Picking up the next order, he attempted

to read the illegible scribble. What was that supposed to say? That first part could be “Homity pie,” or

maybe, “Half potato.”

Even though Matt had said a hundred times, write jacket not potato, there was one person who

always had to be awkward. Muttering to himself, Matt crossed the kitchen and picked up the intercom.

His finger hovered, ready to punch in the button that would call the bar downstairs, but the line

crackled with static. Frowning at it, he depressed the receiver a couple of times. Still static. The other

buttons weren’t working either.

“Does nothing here bloody work?” he muttered.

Without his mobile phone, Matt was out of options. He didn’t want to trudge all the way

downstairs, especially when Sammy was around. Instead, he slid open the hatch to the dumb waiter in

the wall. Sticking his head in, he had to peer around the shelving unit, and down to the next floor. It

was dark. The hatch in the bar down below was closed.

“Ryan!” Matt shouted, hoping someone would hear him. Someone being Ryan, not Sammy, who

was also on shift. “RYAN!” Matt bellowed. Realising his own loud music wasn’t helping matters,

Matt reached to the side, fiddled with his stereo and switched it off. In the sudden quiet, he heard the

distant strains of music from downstairs and the buzz of traffic outside, all over the hums of his ovens

and dishwashers. Peering into the hatch again, Matt shouted, “RYAN!”

The music from downstairs was all he heard, and a familiar laugh. Matt peered in further, squishing

his face between dumb waiter and wall. He grunted, wishing he knew where his phone was. “RYAN!”

Suddenly light flooded the bottom of the shaft, and a face appeared. It wasn’t Ryan though, it was

Sammy. Matt resisted rolling his eyes, and took a breath in. “Sammy, what did you write down for

table three?”

“What?” Sammy called back. “Can’t hear you.”

“I said,” Matt raised his voice. “What did you –” He stopped himself, grunting again as he pulled

his face free. This was ridiculous. Grabbing his notepad and a pen, Matt scrawled out a note to

Sammy, asking for clarification on table three’s order. He tore off the top note, placed it in the dumb

waiter and grabbed the rope. “Coming down!” he shouted. Pulling the ropes, although not too fast, he

lowered the dumb waiter down.

The contraption was so old and noisy, Sammy would be well aware of its impending arrival. Matt

hoped Sammy didn’t keep him waiting too long to read the note. The orders were already taking long

enough, thanks to everything else either not working properly, or hiding from him.

He tapped his foot on the floor impatiently.

After a couple of minutes, Matt finally heard the dumb waiter coming back up. He hoped this time

there was a more legible order in it. As the wooden unit appeared in his hatch, Matt reached in for the

note. He frowned as he read it. Written in curly script, Sammy had replied, “Sorry, Matthew, I can’t

read your crappy hand writing!”

And he’d drawn a heart, with a smiley face.

Matt scrunched the note in his hands as his rage threatened to boil over. If only he had his phone, or

the damn intercom was working. To think in this age of technology and communication he was

reduced to swapping paper notes with that brat downstairs.

Taking up his pen, Matt wrote out another note. In block capitals, as large as he could fit in, he