"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 him, 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 that 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 6
"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 anymore. 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 dumbwaiter 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 dumbwaiter, and grabbed the rope. "Coming down!" he shouted. Pulling the ropes, although not too fast, he lowered the dumbwaiter 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 dumbwaiter 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 handwriting!"
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 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 dumbwaiter. "Coming down!" he growled, pulling the ropes.
Laughter filtered up through the shaft. Matt frowned. That was odd. Sammy had more of a bubbly, carefree 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 dumbwaiter 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-fell 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 overreacting, 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 dumbwaiter 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 into 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 star-burst 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 dumbwaiter, 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 dumbwaiter, 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 lying 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..."
The Haunted Pub Page 7
