The Haunted Pub Page 8

  "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, created 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 7

  "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 with, "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 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 c
hannels 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 inviting.

  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.