Текст книги "The Haunted Pub"

Автор книги: Melanie Tushmore

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wrote, “WHAT WAS TABLE THREE’S ORDER.”

Resisting the temptation to add a P.S. on the back, Matt threw the second note in the dumb waiter.

“Coming down!” he growled, pulling the ropes.

Laughter filtered up through the shaft. Matt frowned. That was odd. Sammy had more of a bubbly,

care free laugh. The low, echoey chuckle that rose up now sounded more...dirty? Shaking his head,

Matt ignored it. He waited again for Sammy’s reply.

After what seemed like an age, the dumb waiter began its return. Matt waited by the hatch. Just as

the top of the unit appeared, he reached out his hand to grab the moving rope. Before his fingers even

touched it, he heard a sharp snap. The ropes stopped, then swiftly unravelled backwards as the unit

dropped. Matt’s stomach free-falled just as quickly, and his heart leapt into his throat. “Sammy!” he

shouted. “MOVE!”

Laughter echoed through the shaft, and as the unit landed in the bottom hatch, Matt definitely heard

someone yelp.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Matt charged out of the kitchen, almost wrenching the door off its hinges. Not

caring if he was over reacting, he sprinted out into the hall and down the stairs. He stumbled on the

last step, but kept going. Bursting into the downstairs bar, he spared a quick glance around for anyone

else, but it was empty. No one was in the pub. Likely the only customers were in the garden. Matt

rushed around the corner, into the dingy back bar where the dumb waiter was.

His heart beat double time at the sight of Sammy, slumped against the wall just under the hatch.

“Sammy!” Matt was at his side in a second, gently turning his face up. “Sammy?”

There was a cut on his forehead, and a bright trickle of blood traced the outer edge of his eyebrow.

Matt absently wiped it away with his thumb, before it went in Sammy’s eye. Those eyelids fluttered

open, as Matt breathed a sigh of relief. “Jesus, Sammy, Jesus. Are you okay?”

Sammy stared at him placidly, a breath sighing out of his mouth. He must be in shock, Matt

thought. Funny, he’d never noticed Sammy’s eyes before. They were pale green, except for the starburst

of dark blue around the pupils. He’d never seen eyes of two colours before. But then, he’d never

spent much time looking into anyone’s eyes.

“What’s going on?” Ryan’s voice startled him. Matt glanced over his shoulder, then back at

Sammy. He suddenly realised he was cradling Sammy’s body against him, and felt his face flush. Matt

tried to prop Sammy against the wall, and pulled his hands back. “It...it was an accident.”

Ryan stood over them, eyes wide as he took in the scene. The dumb waiter, hanging loose and

broken. Sammy, dazed on the floor, with a bleeding head. And Matt, crouched over him, looking

guilty.

Matt winced. If he were Ryan, he’d be jumping to the same conclusions.

* * *

Ryan just couldn’t believe today. It was one drama after another. First, Sammy and Matt had some

kind of mishap with the dumb waiter, which resulted in Sammy getting knocked out. Ryan had called

upstairs to Ginger, who was their resident first aider. The look Ginger had given Matt when he’d

arrived on the scene had Ryan start to feel sorry for Matt, who surely couldn’t be to blame. Once

Sammy came around, he’d insisted he was fine, but after a woozy stumble, Ginger decided they’d

better go to casualty, to be on the safe side. He’d borrowed Pete’s car, and Ryan had helped him load

Sammy into the passenger seat.

They’d left around one in the afternoon, and there were still customers in the garden, awaiting their

orders. Matt had turned into a nervous wreck, and proceeded to get every lunch order after that

completely wrong. Pete came down to help Ryan out at the bar, especially when more than a few

disgruntled customers had made their feelings known about their messed up lunches.

Time was getting on. Ginger had sent a couple of texts on his phone, updating Ryan on their

progress. Of course, casualty had been busy, and they’d waited a long time. It was almost four o’clock

before Ginger texted to say that Sammy had been seen, but there were delays on the tests he needed.

Ginger wasn’t sure what time they’d be back. He added at the end of his last text that there were a

couple of grizzly drunks in the waiting room that kept trying to engage him in conversation.

Why me, Ginger said.

Ryan pressed his lips together and tried not to smile. Poor Ginger.

Well, poor Sammy.

Then the real ale lines stopped working for apparently no reason. Pete had to go down to the cellar

to fix them, and it wasn’t a quick job. Two of the regulars were at the bar; they were proper ale fans,

and weren’t impressed with having to wait. Ryan tried to keep them occupied with friendly chat, while

Pete worked his magic downstairs.

Rachel was due in at six to start the evening shift. When the phone rang at quarter to six, Ryan

winced in anticipation. To add to the crap of the day, Rachel told him she was calling in sick. “Rachel,

please,” Ryan pleaded with her. “You can’t be that ill. Just work until ten, and I’ll close for you.”

“I can’t,” she wheezed down the phone. “It came on last night, Ry, I’ve got this terrible fever. I’m

all shivery.”

Ryan sighed. “All right, don’t worry. Get better soon. As in, tomorrow, please.”

“I’ll try, hun,” she said.

Hanging up the phone, Ryan felt like banging his head on the wall. With three members of staff

down, it looked like he’d be pulling a double shift today. As if he wasn’t tired enough. There was the

option of calling round some of the part timers, but on a Friday night, Ryan knew it was unlikely any

of them would want to work at such short notice. At six o’ clock, most of them would already be out

on the lash by now.

Suddenly, a spark of inspiration lit in his mind. Ryan ducked out back, through the door, and raced

up the stairs two at a time. By the time he reached the pigeon loft, he was only a little out of breath.

He paused on the threshold. What was it about this part of the building that made him uneasy? The air

was stifling, yet all the windows were open. The day had been sunny, but not that hot.

Taking a breath, Ryan stepped into the hall and took the three small steps to Fizz’s bedroom. Or

“grief hole,” as Sammy had called it. Ryan peered in the open doorway. He saw what he expected to

see, the figure of Fizz laying on the mattress, with music blaring in his ears.

Then Ryan blinked.

Was that someone else standing by the window? A figure? He squinted against the gloom. The

window had a faded lilac throw draped over it, partially blocking out the last of the day’s bright sun.

Through the light and dust motes, Ryan tried to focus on that patch of bare wall by the window.

No, there was no one there. He must have imagined it.

Ryan ignored that uneasy feeling in his gut, and stepped into the room. Of course, Fizz couldn’t

hear him. He might even be asleep. His eyes were closed, but how on earth could anyone sleep with

that volume of music in their ears? Ryan walked up to him slowly, not wanting to give him a fright.

With his foot, he gently nudged the bottom of the mattress. “Fizz?”

Fizz opened his eyes, red rimmed and bloodshot, and they darted about wildly until finally resting

on Ryan. “Oh.” Fizz pulled out his ear phones and sat up. His cheeks flushed, and he stared at the floor

as he spoke. “Sorry, Ryan, I didn’t hear you.”

“Don’t worry,” Ryan said, forcing cheer into his voice. “How’s it going?”

At that, Fizz glanced up at him, almost quizzically. Then he blushed even harder. “F-fine.”

Oh brother, Ryan thought. Well, here goes nothing. “Great! Look, Fizz, um... We’re kinda stuck. I

was wondering if you’d do me – and Ginger – a massive favour?”

Fizz stared up at him, blue eyes wide. “Favour?”

“Yeah, we’re down by three staff members, and it’s gonna get busy soon. Would you give us a hand

downstairs? Just until Ginger gets back.”

Ryan didn’t think it was possible for Fizz to become any paler than he already was, but the boy

definitely paled at that suggestion.

“But – but – I don’t know how...I mean...”

“Don’t worry,” Ryan said, trying to put him at ease. “You can collect glasses. Just small, easy jobs.

That’ll help us out a lot.”

“But – but I –”

“You won’t have to talk to anyone.”

Fizz bit his lip. The kid was clearly distressed at the very idea of interacting with people. Ryan

sighed, and went for a last ditch attempt. “Please mate, I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t desperate.”

“I don’t–” Whatever Fizz had been about to say was cut off as his body shuddered, like an

exaggerated shiver. His back arched and his eyes closed momentarily, then he sprang off his bed.

Throwing his music player down, Fizz said breathlessly, “Actually, I think I will come downstairs.”

Ryan stared in shock as he watched Fizz run out of the room. “Huh,” he said, frowning. “Okay.”

* * *

Fizz tried not to panic. He breathed in deep through his nose and let it out slowly through his

mouth. Gentle breathing exercises, like he’d been told to do. Normally, around this many people, he’d

be having a full blown panic attack. Their chatter, combined with the music, swirled around in the air,

creating a buzzing net of sound. There were a handful of people, mostly men in smart clothes,

standing around the bar. Ryan said they were the ones just out of work, desperate for their first pint.

More people had started filing in, just dribs and drabs. Most of the tables in the garden were full by

now, and a few inside as well. There was a large gathering of smokers at the pub’s entrance, but Ryan

said they would be shooed inside once the bouncers showed up, and the evening really got busy.

Ryan had asked him to go around collecting empty glasses, and at first Fizz was terrified of doing

something wrong. He didn’t mean to, but his mind always raced ahead of him, and dreamt up all the

worst case scenarios. What if he dropped a glass? What if he tripped and dropped a glass on someone?

What if there was blood, and screaming, and it was all his fault? And God, what if someone tried to

talk to him? What then?

The flutterings of panic started as he approached the first empty table, staring at the two used

glasses. Glancing back at the bar, the few steps to safety seemed miles away. Anything could happen

on his way back, holding delicate glass in his hands. He didn’t know how the others carried such big

stacks of glasses. It was impossible, Fizz told himself. Impossible.

Then something cold pressed onto the back of his neck. It felt like ice but, strangely, not cold.

Almost hot. Fizz had been halfway through turning around to see what it was, when a voice from

somewhere deep inside started telling him what to do.

“Relax. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

Fizz forgot about the icy touch on his neck and focussed on the voice. The calm, soothing voice that

told him to pick up first one glass, then the other. It told him to walk to the back of the bar, and place

the glasses on the bar top like Ryan had shown him. As he set the glasses down, Fizz couldn’t quite

believe his own eyes. He’d done it. He’d actually done it, and it was fine. In fact, he could barely

remember doing it.

Then he was picking up more glasses, and more. There were enough dirties collected on the bar top

now, and Fizz walked through the gap in the bar that the staff used, not noticing anyone else, and went

straight to the glass washer. He unloaded clean glasses, refilled the washer with the dirties, and then

began collecting glasses again.

At some point, Ryan asked him, “You doing okay?” Fizz didn’t really hear him, but nodded

absently. “It’s nearly seven,” Ryan told him. “Ginger’s sent a message, and he’ll be back soon. Tell

him he owes you one hour’s pay.”

Fizz looked at Ryan, at the smile on his face, and nodded absently. He wandered out into the garden

again, which was still light. There were more groups of smokers by the back door, and he breezed past

them. Half in a dream, he flitted from table to table, picking up the empties. He was carrying them in

stacks of four now, without even thinking about it.

Fizz wandered back inside, and placed the empties on the side bar, just like the voice told him to.

He thought he heard someone call his name. As he rounded the bar yet again, heading for the glass

washer, he bumped into Ginger. He’d obviously just arrived, as he was still wearing his leather jacket,

the one with the patches and badges all over it.

“Oh, hey, Fizz.” Ginger looked surprised, yet tried not to show it. “Thanks for doing this. I’ll make

sure you get paid.”

“Hour and a half,” Ryan chipped in with a smile. “It’s half seven now, and he started at six.”

“That’s fine,” Pete called from the other end of the bar, agreeing it.

Fizz watched them, in the middle of serving customers and talking at the same time, but it was like

they were talking to him from underwater. He quietly continued on his way to the glass washer.

“Um...” Ginger started to say something then obviously decided against it. “Okay,” he shrugged off

his jacket and chucked it through the staff door. “Right. Who needs serving?”

Fizz ignored the hustle and bustle of the bar. He focussed on the glasses, and that voice. Time just

seemed to disappear. It was relaxing, in a way, yet strange. Like he wasn’t really there. Almost like

being on the pills again. With that thought, his breathing picked up. Something wasn’t right, but he

couldn’t work out what it was, not with his head so foggy like this. He was walking without really

thinking about it. Past tables, past the thumping speakers, out into the garden again.

The various smokers were still gabbing away by the door. Fizz floated past them and up the steps.

He picked up one empty pint glass at a table, then turned. There was a person right in front of him, and

as Fizz looked up to see that familiar handsome face with the dark eyes, the glass simply slipped from

his fingers. With the smash on the concrete, and the laughs and jeers that followed, his spell of peace

was broken. The air cleared, and grew loud. Every little sound – talking, shouting, the clinking of

glasses – suddenly seemed hundreds of decibels too high. Fizz felt like he’d woken up from a dream to

find himself standing outside in the busy beer garden. He looked down at the smashed glass at his feet,

then up again at Ash.

“I – I broke a glass.”

Ash shrugged and gave an easy smile. “Ah, don’t worry. I break about ten every weekend. Ryan

said he was going to give me a plastic tumbler soon.”

Fizz wasn’t sure what to do, but he knew he felt uncomfortable. His eyes dropped, and he felt his

cheeks flushing.

“You okay?” Ash asked. The concern in his voice was comforting, yet made Fizz feel utterly

useless. Shaking his head, Fizz willed himself not to panic. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in...

Warmth wrapped around his hand, and squeezed gently. “Come sit with us,” Ash said. “I’m sure

you’re allowed to take five.”

Fizz stared down at the hand clasping his, the two tones of skin set against each other, one dark,

one pale. A flush of warmth travelled up his arm, and a new feeling joined it. Not his usual waves of

panic, but more a gentle fluttering in the stomach, like butterflies. By the time Fizz had thought about

it, Ash had already coaxed him over to his table.

Chapter Seven

“Don’t know if you’ve been properly introduced yet,” Ash said, still holding onto Fizz’s hand as

they reached the table. “This is Dee, and that’s Glen.”

Fizz darted a glance at the two boys sitting at one end of the table. Well, picnic bench. They were in

Ryan’s band. Fizz had seen them upstairs a few times now. Glen was the one who had spiky, bright

green hair, and several piercings. Dee was the one with more tattoos, and the pink and purple mohawk.

Unlike Ryan’s hair, Dee’s mohawk was almost always sprayed up in all its outrageous glory.

Fizz wondered what they did for a living to get away with looking like that. Maybe they were still

in college. He knew he wouldn’t work up the courage to ask; after that initial glance, he lowered his

eyes. Ash manoeuvred Fizz into sitting down, then sat next to him. Fizz was relieved that Dee and

Glen didn’t pay him much attention. In fact, they barely seemed to halt their conversation.

“I say, it’s entirely possible,” Dee insisted.

“I’d love to you prove me wrong.” Glen chuckled.

“I will. If you hurry up and think how I can get the red part.”

Ash groaned. “You’re not still on about that?”

Dee grinned back. “It makes perfect sense.”

“Only to you.” Ash shot Fizz a sidelong look and hissed, “Whatever they say, just ignore it.”

“What do you think, mate?” Glen addressed him directly.

Fizz stared back in panic. “W-what?”

“Dee reckons,” Glen said. “That he can poo a German flag.”

Fizz’s panic subsided briefly, if only through confusion. “Huh?”

“Not an actual flag!” Dee laughed. “Although maybe you could if you ate one...”

Ash grimaced. “Dee, please shut up.”

“No, I’m serious,” Dee said. “I reckon if I eat the right things, at the right time, I can do a poo

that’s coloured like the German flag. For instance –”

“Dee,” Ash cut in. “Really. Shut up.”

“No, this is important.” Dee was apparently serious. Fizz didn’t know what to think. “If I drink

enough of this.” Dee held up his pint of Guinness. “I’ll do a black poo. So then I eat a load of chicken

korma, or something like that, and I’ll do a yellow poo.” Beside him, Glen started shaking with

laughter, with the odd snort escaping. “That’s two thirds of the flag, so now I need something that’ll

make me do a red poo.”

“Well, when your arse starts bleeding –” Glen began.

Ash jumped up. “I’m going to the bar!” he announced. “You two are grossing me out.”

“Don’t pretend to be all affronted,” Dee said with a smirk, then raised his eyebrows in Fizz’s

direction. “Just because your new friend is here.”

“I’m not pretending,” Ash replied. “This actually is gross. Anyway, Fizz –” He looked down with a

smile. “Do you want a drink?”

Panicked at being put on the spot, Fizz felt his cheeks heat up. He quickly looked down, before

anyone noticed. “N-no, thank you.”

Dee addressed Glen, “Let’s nip round the corner and get a korma to take away.”

“You’re trying it tonight?” Glen asked.

“Yeah, why wait?”

“But what about the red –”

Fizz was drawn from their inane conversation when Ash touched his shoulder. “Seriously,” he

asked. “What do you want? Just a fruit juice? Or soda?”

“Um – I – I –” Fizz was stuck for words. What could he do? He really wanted to say, thank you for

the offer, but no thank you. All he wanted was to retreat upstairs. The noise and openness of the

garden was getting to him. He couldn’t help but notice a few people at other tables were looking his

way, probably wondering who he was. Maybe they were more friends of Ginger’s, or maybe they were

complete strangers, but they all had curious, judging stares. He couldn’t deal with it, he really

couldn’t.

Yet he didn’t want to appear rude to Ash, who had been so nice to him. As Fizz fretted over what to

say, Ryan appeared in the garden and hurried over to join them. “I hope you lot are behaving,” Ryan

said to his friends. Dee muttered something to Glen, but Ryan ignored them. He turned a warm smile

on Fizz and said, “Fizz, are you hungry? You haven’t had dinner, have you?”

“Oh,” Fizz breathed. Oh thank God. “Um, is – is Ginger...?”

Ryan guessed what he was try to ask, and shook his head. “No, Ginger said he’ll stay on the bar to

help, as it’s getting busy now. He said he’s already had a burger.”

“Okay,” Fizz said quietly. He stood up, pausing to say to Ash – or rather, Ash’s feet – “Um, thank

you, anyway.”

“No worries,” Ash said.

Did he sound disappointed? Fizz tried not to think on it. He stepped out from the table, waiting for

Ryan to lead him away. Ryan stood where he was, as if he was thinking about something. “Ah, I’ve

just remembered something. Matt’s out at his Kung Fu class.”

Fizz blinked at him. “Huh?”

“Are you any good at cooking?” Ryan asked him. “Matt will have locked his kitchen up. We’ve got

some stuff in our kitchen, but you’ll have to cook it from scratch.”

“Oh.” Fizz hated that he was being a nuisance, simply by needing to eat. “It – it doesn’t matter. I –

I’ll make some toast.”

Ryan shrugged. “I don’t mind cooking, but to be honest, I’d be better off staying down here and

helping Ginger and Pete at the bar. They’re really getting swamped. Maybe –” He directed a pointed

look at Ash. “Mate, you can cook. Would you do us a massive favour and make some dinner?”

Fizz’s stomach did a somersault. He glanced at Ash, who smiled in reply. “Sure, no problem.”

“Awesome.” Ryan beamed. “Get upstairs then.”

“Right.” Ash moved away from the table.

“All right!” Dee whooped. “Free food!” As he stood up, Ryan laid a hand on his shoulder to push

him back down. “Oh no,” he said firmly. “You two aren’t going upstairs without me there. Ginger

would kill me.”

“Oh, what!” Dee complained. Glen also muttered sullenly.

“No way, ever,” Ryan said. “Although if you ask Ash nicely, maybe he can bring you some scraps

down later.”

Ash chuckled, but tried to hide it behind his hand. Fizz felt his own lips twitch at the sight. There

was just something about seeing Ash laugh made him want to smile too.

“Actually...” Dee grinned at Ash. “You can make me a korma!”

“Bugger off,” Ash replied.

“When you go in the kitchen,” Ryan said to Ash. “Second cupboard on the right, up top, there’s a

bunch of stuff that belongs to me, or Ginger, so use whatever you find.”

“Okay.” Ash looked pleased.

“Right, then.” Ryan clamped his hand onto Fizz’s shoulder. “Come on, mate.”

Fizz was too stunned to protest, and found himself led away with Ryan and Ash. Once through the

pub and behind the bar, Ryan waved them goodbye at the foot of the stairs. With Ash behind him, still

smiling that breath taking smile, Fizz decided the best course of action was to look away, and get up

those stairs as quickly as possible.

Fizz knew everyone thought he was strange, but he wasn’t stupid. This set up couldn’t have been

more obvious. A part of him felt slightly indignant at the realisation, but that small part was quickly

snuffed out by the impending wave of anxiety that wanted to floor him. Halfway up the stairs

however, that strange, icy hot touch pressed onto his neck again.

“Relax. Walk into the kitchen.”

Fizz breathed in deep, and gave into the inevitable. Minutes later, he was sat at the kitchen table.

Ash moved around the kitchen, chatting away about what food options there were. “I’m afraid it’s

curry, curry, or curry.” He laughed. “How lame is that? All this lot have here is rice and curry sauce.

Oh, and some manky looking pasta. Let’s see what’s in the fridge.” He opened the refrigerator door

and half disappeared as he bent over, rooting around inside. Fizz’s eyes fell on his neat behind, clad in

tight jeans. There was a patch, a logo of some sort, sewn over one of the jeans pockets, on Ash’s left

butt cheek. Fizz tried to read the words, concentrating hard. Just like that, his dream-like state faded

away; the clear panic of reality came crashing back to him. He tore his eyes away from staring at Ash

and stared down at his hands instead, clenched tightly in his lap. His heat thumped, and his cheeks

burned hot. He bit down on his lower lip, concentrating on the pain in a bid to calm down.

Ash was still chatting, mostly to himself. Fizz couldn’t reply, not right now. This didn’t even feel

like his usual panic, but it was still debilitating. He felt embarrassed, useless, and somewhat angry at

himself. Just calm down, he thought. Calm, calm.

Perhaps sensing Fizz wasn’t likely to reply, Ash said something about seeing what was on TV. Fizz

was used to that; people gave up talking to him eventually, and tried to fill the long silences with

something else. He dreaded the TV. All those ghastly images, news reports of endless misery...

As Ash began flicking through the channels, briefly resting on the news, Fizz brought a hand up to

his face. As subtly as he was able, he tilted his face down and shielded his eyes, hoping Ash wouldn’t

choose the news.

The TV turned off. Fizz glanced up in surprise, dropping his hand. Ash looked at him, a thoughtful

frown on his face. “You don’t like the news, huh?”

Flushing hard, Fizz shook his head. “S-Sorry.”

“No worries,” Ash said. “The news sucks anyway. Look, this TV only has minimal channels or

whatever, but I know Ryan has hundreds of DVDs in his room. Wait two seconds.” Ash hurried out of

the kitchen. Fizz heard his footsteps thump down the hall, as if he was running. He winced to himself.

Now he felt awful for making Ash run around like that. The guilt started to well up inside. Before it

could eat away at him, that icy touch tickled his neck again.

“Relax.”

Fizz breathed in, and out. He kept doing that until Ash returned, grinning, holding a stack of DVDs.

“What shall we watch? Personally, I’m all for Austin Powers. This one –” He held up a DVD. “ –has

Michael Cain in it. Totally awesome.”

“Okay,” Fizz said, relieved not to be faced with the decision of choosing.

“You sure?” Ash asked. “What about any of these others?”

“No, honestly. That one’s fine.”

“Okay.” Ash smiled, wrenching open the DVD case. “You seen it before?”

Fizz shook his head.

“You haven’t seen Goldmember?” Ash’s smile grew wide. “Oh, you are in for a treat. I love the

dancing in this, especially when Britney pops up in the beginning, she turns into a Fembot...” Ash kept

talking as he loaded the DVD, and turned the TV on again. Fizz felt swept away by his sheer

enthusiasm; it filled the room. Usually the kitchen felt...kind of stuffy, like the rest of the place. But

with Ash here, it felt warmer, lighter, more homely.

The movie started, and Fizz relaxed knowing that he wasn’t going to be subjected to the evening

news. Ash had also picked up on the fact that Fizz couldn’t make a decision to save his life. The

subject of what to eat wasn’t broached again. Ash didn’t ask Fizz to choose, he simply started cooking

with pots and pans at the stove. He turned around every now and then to point and smile at the movie,

and offer his own feedback on it. Mostly along the lines of, “I love this bit!”

Fizz found himself watching Ash more than he watched the movie. Ash moved about the kitchen

with confidence and ease, tending three pots at once, while still watching the TV. Fizz felt like he

should be doing something, but he was utterly useless in the kitchen, always had been. Their kitchen

back home was tiny, and his mother had always snapped at anyone who dared step foot in it. Fizz

didn’t have a great deal of interest in food for himself anyway, but he had to admit sitting here with

Ash was...pleasant.

When he’d sat in here with Ginger it had almost felt like some form of punishment; being made to

eat, every mouthful watched. The panic over Ginger resenting him, which was bound to happen soon,

that was what shrivelled Fizz’s appetite. Then the never ending questions that churned over and over

in his mind. Why should he get food? Why should he be allowed to enjoy comforts when so many

others didn’t? And now what was he doing? Sitting here, being waited on by possibly the most

gorgeous boy he’d ever met, and all he could do was panic, and feel guilty about receiving a dinner.

“Stop thinking,” the voice hissed. “Relax.”

Fizz felt a tingle run up his spine, and he shuddered. Ash noticed but didn’t comment on it. In fact,

he purposely started talking about the current scene in the movie, as if to distract him. Fizz

appreciated that. He liked the way Ash didn’t seem to need a response from him; he kept chatting

away, as if he were completely comfortable doing so. Ash did pause at times, but he didn’t wait too

long for a reply from Fizz.

The conversation was all one sided yet seemed to flow naturally. Caught up with the chat, and

feeling more calm than he could ever remember feeling, even when he’d been zoned out on meds, Fizz

felt a strong urge to join in. It started with a nod, a shy glance, then a soft hum of agreement, and even

working up to a smile. Ash kept talking, not making a big deal out of anything.

Anyone would think this was all perfectly normal to him.

When dinner was ready, Ash quickly set the table with cutlery, glasses of fruit cordial, then laid out

two plates of steaming hot curry. The rice was fluffy, yellow, and smelled faintly of lemon. The sauce

was almost amber in colour, with spices and vegetables, and a drizzle of something white on top.

“That’s yoghurt,” Ash said, noting Fizz’s frown. “I found some natural yoghurt in the fridge. Bit of a

surprise, that! Maybe it was Matt’s.” He chuckled.

Fizz nodded. Ash sat down opposite him, and picked up his fork. “Hope it tastes all right,” he said.

Looking from the beautiful dinner in front of him to the even more beautiful boy across the table,

the smile Fizz wanted to show suddenly faltered. This is weird. What was this? A date? Panic flowed

through him like ice, threatening to take over. He didn’t want a panic attack now. Please, not now.

“Relax. Say, thank you.”

Hearing the words spoken in his head reminded Fizz of his manners. “Thank you,” he said.

“No worries,” Ash replied. “Honestly, if you don’t like it, no sweat. A toast binge is always a fall

back option.”

A breath of laughter escaped his lips as Fizz smiled. He wanted to show his gratitude, even if he

wasn’t entirely sure what Ash’s motives were in this. He picked up his fork and plunged it into the

food. He took a tentative bite, in case it was too hot, but it was perfect, in every way. Fizz was

surprised. He took another mouthful, then looked up to see Ash watching him.

This time it was Ash’s turn to look away, with a nervous smile on his lips. It seemed Ash’s shyness

only crept up on him occasionally. Fizz felt like slightly less of an idiot to know that even confident

people like Ash could be affected. Even if it was only small glimpses. And that thought brought up the

question of why Ash was nervous. Fizz realised it must be down to him. He swallowed, his throat felt

tighter all of a sudden.

Luckily, Ash started chatting again, distracting him. “You know, my favourite films are the ones