Sammy ignored the sounds filtering in from the bar: music, chatter, laughter. It sounded like a busy afternoon, relatively normal. Irritation flowed through Sammy. This wasn't fair. It really wasn't. First the dumbwaiter'd had it in for him, now he'd been the victim of some random... accident.
Sammy looked at Pete. "I don't suppose Matt was anywhere near me when I fell over, or whatever it was I'm supposed to have done?"
Pete shrugged, his face blank. "Wish I knew. Apparently, I was in the room, along with two paramedics, who were also out cold. Ryan was there, too, but Matt was out in the hall. No one seems to know more than that."
"Ugh." Sammy glared down at the stairs as he trudged up them. "That's just... stupid."
"Hmm..."
Sammy wasn't sure if Pete agreed or not, but he didn't seem to have much more to say on the matter.
Arriving on the first floor, Sammy glared once in the direction of Matt's kitchen. It wasn't as noisy as it usually was, but he could still hear music playing. He rolled his eyes again, and let Pete lead him through the staff door, and up to the second floor.
"There's plenty of hot water—for once—if you want a shower?" Pete asked.
The thought of wrapping up his cast and faffing around to have a shower seemed like far too much effort. Sammy shook his head. "Think I'm gonna watch TV for a bit."
"Okay. Want me to do anything?"
"No, I'm fine. Cheers."
"Okay," Pete said, about to leave. "Oh, almost forgot." He pulled a mobile phone from his pocket. "One of the policemen found this. I think it's yours."
His mobile phone. Sammy accepted it with his good hand. "Awesome. Where was it?"
"No idea. Somewhere in the bar, they said. One of them handed it in."
"Oh. Well, thanks."
Pete smiled at him. "Call me if you need anything. Rachel's come in to see us, so I'll be downstairs with the others."
"Thanks, Pete."
As Pete left the kitchen, Sammy switched on his phone. The screen flashed to life. He had only two bars of reception, the norm for up here in the kitchen. Sammy waited, watching the messages appear on his screen. He flicked through them in a cursory glance. The messages dated from Friday or Saturday night, when his phone had gone missing. They were from various mates, asking if he was coming out clubbing. None of them were close friends, more clubbing buddies. No other messages. Sammy felt more than a little peeved at that.
Didn't anyone know he was injured?
He left his phone on the kitchen table and went to inspect the fridge. He was starving. He needed to eat something now, but he wasn't holding out much hope for there to be any food worth eating.
But when Sammy wrenched open the fridge door, he was greeted with a surprise. On the middle shelf, right in his eye line, was a plate of food covered tight with cling-film. A yellow post-it note was stuck on top, with the scrawl Sammy.
Intrigued, Sammy picked up the plate with his good hand, nudging the fridge closed with his hip. Through the film, he could see that it was a massive slice of homity pie—his favourite!—along with coleslaw, slices of ham, shredded beetroot, and a small, dainty pork pie.
Wow.
Sammy wasn't sure if this had been Matt's idea, or he'd been coerced into it by Pete, but he wasn't about to turn it down. Grabbing a fork, he sat down at the kitchen table and unwrapped his lunch. The TV was on, tuned into some boring day-time programme. Sammy didn't pay it much attention to it as he hungrily devoured his food. After being fed hospital crap for two days, he certainly appreciated the freshness of home-cooked food. This was heaven.
It didn't take him long to eat. When he was done, Sammy left his plate on the counter, and swiped the bottle of lemonade from the fridge. He shuffled along the hall to the living room. He was so tired, and just wanted to veg. He couldn't even be bothered to choose something to watch. Maybe he'd have a doze. He'd only just switched the TV on and sat down, when a figure appeared in the doorway. Sammy jumped slightly, surprised, but it was only Matt.
"Christ, Matt, don't creep about like that. You trying to give me a heart attack?"
The big oaf shifted nervously on the spot. "Sorry," he mumbled.
Sammy's eyes noticed what he was carrying. A plate, with what looked suspiciously like a slice of cake on it. Even though he was full, Sammy's stomach took immediate interest.
"What's that?"
"Hm? Oh, I, um, made you banoffie pie."
Sammy's jaw dropped. It was a good thing he was already sitting down, or he may have fallen over in shock. "I'm sorry, Matthew, I think I just hallucinated. What did you say?"
Matt shifted again, and a slight frown appeared on his face. Either he was concentrating really hard, or he was getting annoyed. "I said, I made you banoffie pie. I thought... you liked it?"
Sammy was speechless, and that didn't happen often.
Matt waited for a moment, then huffed in annoyance, and strode into the living room. He placed the plate, with a fork, on the coffee table in front of Sammy. "You don't have to eat it if you don't—"
"Whoa, whoa! Hold on." Sammy sat up, eyeing Matt carefully. "Who says I don't want it? I'm just wondering if, y'know, you've laced it with arsenic, or something."
Matt straightened in surprise, shock written over his face. "Why would I do that?"
Sammy rolled his eyes. "Oh, chill out, Matt. I'm only teasing." He reached out with his good hand to grab the plate, before Matt could take it away. "I do like banoffie."
Matt watched him take the plate, and the fork. He nodded, somewhat furiously. "That's what I thought."
"Yeah." Sammy ignored Matt, focussing on the big slice of cake. It looked delicious: a work of food art. Fluffy and creamy, with chocolate curls on top. Mmm. Sammy's fork dived in. He raised a forkful of cake to his mouth. Just as he was about to eat, he noticed Matt was still watching him. "What?" Sammy demanded.
Matt looked away. "Nothing."
Sammy pulled a face, looking at Matt in confusion. What was up with him?
"Um..." Matt fiddled with the edge of his T-shirt. Sammy noticed he wasn't wearing his grease-spattered clothes for a change; he was actually wearing something clean.
Sammy's eyebrow crept up higher. "What, Matt?"
"I just wondered, what did you want for dinner?" Matt asked quietly. "I've closed the pub kitchen now. Having the night off. I'll make you dinner, if you want."
While Sammy was surprised—again—his stomach cheered at the idea. Truthfully, he hated cooking. Loathed it. Now Matt was offering to cook him dinner? Even though his instincts screamed that this was suspicious, Sammy wasn't about to turn it down.
"Well... I wouldn't say no."
Matt met his eyes, clearly relieved. A smile made it onto his face. "What do you want?"
Sammy went to shrug, then winced at the pain in his shoulder. "Ow. Um, I don't know. Let me think for a minute."
"Okay." Matt shifted from foot to foot.
His nervousness seemed strange, Sammy thought. Was Matt feeling guilty? Was he the one to blame for the accident? But that was nuts, surely; why would everyone else cover up something like that? Maybe Matt still felt guilty over dumbwaiter incident. Whatever it was, if Matt wanted to cook to ease his guilt, Sammy was all for it. He took his first mouthful of cake, and ate thoughtfully.
Matt waited.
Was he going to stand there forever, like a butler? Sammy sighed, trying to think. "I guess... I haven't had bangers and mash in a while."
"Bangers and mash? That all?"
Sammy nodded. "Yeah, I feel like something stodgy, but not icky stodgy, I want nice stodgy."
"Right." Matt smiled, not meeting his eyes. "Bangers and mash. When did you fancy eating?"
"Oh, not right now, I just ate that homity pie."
"Good."
"Did you make that for me?"
Matt glanced at him, then away. "Yeah."
Well, he hadn't been poisoned so far, Sammy thought. And this cake was amazing. "Um... thanks, for the food. I thin
k... maybe a couple of hours, like six? I didn't eat much in the hospital. Their food was rank."
"Yeah, I bet. Okay, I'll go start the prep, then. Six is fine." Matt went to turn away, mumbling quietly, "Maybe we could watch a movie... or something?"
What the fuck? Sammy put down his fork. "Matt, what gives? Why are you being so nice?"
Matt froze on the spot. He didn't turn around. "Um..."
"Are you feeling guilty for something? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'll never turn down good food, but don't feel like you have to nanny me." Sammy's eyes narrowed. "Unless you have something to actually feel guilty about?"
That did it. Matt turned to face him, blinking in surprise. "No," he said, with feeling. "It's not like that, I just... well, it's just..."
"Mm?" Sammy urged. "What?"
"Well, look, I..." Matt ran a hand through his short hair. "I think we got off to a bad start, and... and I want to... start again? Be friends, I mean. I feel sorry that you're... that it always seems to be you who takes the brunt of stuff here. What with the dumbwaiter, and now breaking your arm and that."
Sammy snorted, half in surprise, half in sheer amusement. "Yeah, you can say that again." He let out a sigh, giving in. He didn't know what to think any more, and he didn't have the energy to care. "Okay, whatever. I'm too tired to argue, luckily for you, Matthew."
"So... does this mean we're watching a movie?"
"If you want." Sammy glanced at him. "I'm choosing, though. I'm not watching any of your boring Kung Fu movies."
Matt was clearly trying not to smile. "How about we both choose one? You watch one of mine, I watch one of yours?"
Huffing, Sammy picked up his fork again. "I'll think about it. Now and go make my dinner."
"I'll take that as a yes," Matt said, smiling. Before Sammy could reply, he retreated from the room.
Sammy watched him leave, utterly stunned.
Why was Matt grinning like that? So bizarre. Sammy had seen Matt joking with friends before, usually those morons Dee and Glen, but never with him. Sammy had always assumed Matt didn't like him much.
Hm.
He stared down at his cake, thinking things through. Matt was willing to watch a movie of his choice? For real? Mentally, Sammy went through his DVD collection. What would appeal to a big, grumbly man, yet still sneak in a little camp? A comedy? Something with cheerleaders in, perhaps?
Yes, definitely cheerleaders. It would be fun to watch Matt squirm.
Smirking to himself, Sammy put down his cake. He could finish it later. Standing up carefully, he checked the hall, making sure Matt wasn't around, then headed for his room. Maybe he would have that shower, after all.
* * * *
Having been closed for three nights, the reopening of the pub proved to be busy. Likely thanks to the hype caused by that daft newspaper article. Fizz had glanced at the newspaper, but he didn't want to read. He'd heard more than enough speculation from the doctors and police. No one could give him answers and, quite frankly, it all made his head swim.
Better to concentrate on something else.
Fizz hadn't planned to be sneaky, he really hadn't. He'd helped out in the bar all afternoon, and would have continued to help in the evening if he'd had nothing better to do. A grin broke over his face when he thought of Ash. It just so happened that Fizz did have something better to do.
He had a date.
The bar was busy, but with Pete, Ryan, and Ginger behind the bar, they were sure to be fine. Fizz's usual panic over doing the right thing, and feeling guilty, just couldn't permeate his excitement. Was he being selfish? Maybe a touch. Maybe not at all.
He slipped out from the bar and, making sure no one was around, picked up his hooded sweater that he'd already placed over the bannisters. Quietly, Fizz opened the side door to the street and slipped through without anyone noticing. He wouldn't be able to get back in this way, not without a key. He'd have to make sure he was back before closing tonight.
It was dusk, though still light enough for cars not to have their headlights on as they thundered through the Old Steine. Cradling his hoody under one arm, Fizz hurried away, feeling incredibly naughty, reckless, and relieved. He got out his phone, texting as he walked. He sent a message to Ginger, to tell him not to worry; he'd just gone for a walk.
That was partly true, anyway.
Fizz turned off his phone after the message had sent. Hopefully, Ginger would understand. As he reached the end of the footpath, Fizz grinned. Up ahead, across the single lane of traffic that sped up Church Street, Ash waited for him. He wore skin-tight jeans: the ones Fizz knew had a patch on the back pocket, and hugged Ash's figure perfectly. Fizz loved those jeans on him. Ash's leather jacket and the skull-print scarf completed the adorable bad boy image, and Fizz's heart beat double-time in response.
Other things were responding, too. A flush of heat flooded his groin, and Fizz was suddenly so preoccupied with holding his hoody in front of him to hide his interest, that he almost walked straight out onto the road. Ash's frantic waving and wide eyes made Fizz pause. A car shot past, and Ash looked relieved.
After glancing left and seeing a gap in traffic, Fizz bounded across the road, right up to Ash. He didn't quite have the nerve to embrace him, and maybe Ash didn't either, but they stood close to each other. Closer than friends would, Fizz thought.
"God, Fizz," Ash said, breathing a sigh. "Have you never crossed a road before? Look for traffic first."
Fizz's smile grew wider, even as he apologised. "Sorry. I didn't think."
Ash snorted a laugh. "Yeah, right! Don't make me hold your hand next time."
The wink which followed had Fizz smiling so hard that he thought his face might break. They walked down the path together, chatting about nothing and everything. The Pavilion and its gardens were in full view to their right. Fizz thought to himself that he wouldn't mind looking inside one day, but right now, his entire focus was Ash.
"How's your dad?" Fizz asked, broaching the delicate subject. Mr Singh hadn't been in a good mood when Fizz had last seen him at the hospital.
Ash rolled his eyes. "Dad is Dad. I think he's calmed down, but he doesn't want me going in the pub again. I wish I could tell him what happened but... I just don't remember anything, you know?"
Fizz nodded. "Me, too. I mean, it's really weird, isn't it?"
"That report said it could've been a gas leak."
They stopped at a pedestrian crossing, then raced to the other side as the green-man symbol beeped and impatient cars waited. On the promenade, cyclists and teenagers on rollerblades and skateboards whizzed by. Stalls selling colourful items like wind-catchers and sweets were just closing up for the day. The sea glistened as the last of the sun disappeared below the horizon. Fizz stared at the water, feeling strangely emotional: not in a bad way, but in a thankful-to-be-alive way that he couldn't explain. A chill brushed his bare arms, making him shiver.
"Hey." Ash touched his shoulder. "Are you cold?"
Fizz met his eyes, smiling again. "Not really." He shook out his hoody and pulled it on, mostly to appease the concerned look on Ash's face. "I'm fine. Honest."
"Okay," Ash said. "C'mon, then. I'm dying for some donuts." Leading the way, they approached the entrance to the pier. Lights were turning on, illuminating the different food huts that surrounded the entrance. In the distance, Fizz could see the colourful rides at the very end of the pier, lit up and flashing, humming quietly. A tremor of excitement ran over his body.
"Are we going on the rides?" he asked.
Ash, who was busy gazing at a menu, nodded absently. "'Course we are. Can't go on the pier without going on a crap ride or two."
"Crap?"
"I'm kidding. They're amazing." Ash cleared his throat, then took out his wallet and placed an order with the attendant. Soon, he was handed a white paper bag of freshly sugared, steaming-hot donuts. He burnt his mouth on the first bite, swearing under his breath.
Fizz tried not to laugh. Once the donuts had coole
d a little, they shared the bag between them as they walked the boards. Gazing down, Fizz could see the sparkle of water underneath their feet.
It was windy here: great gusts seemed to come from nowhere, buffeting them as they walked. Ash suggested they walked on the other side of the stalls, which provided some protection against the wind. Fizz could have put his hood up, but he found he enjoyed the feel of the wind in his hair. It was just like being on a boat, he thought, which was strange, as Fizz knew he'd never been on a boat in his life. As he gazed out to sea—as Ash pointed out the newly-installed Brighton Eye, like a big, white Ferris wheel, and the marina in the distance—he felt so incredibly happy that he thought he might burst. "Ash?" he said, cutting Ash off from describing yet another point of interest.
"Yeah?"
Fizz held the last sugary donut in his fingers, offering it to Ash. "Thank you for bringing me here. It's... really cool."
Ash smiled in response. Even on his dark skin, Fizz noticed the blush stain his cheeks. "No worries." He tore the donut in half, sugar spilling everywhere, and handed half back to Fizz. "You, um, wanna go to the arcade?"
"Arcade?" Fizz blinked at him, unable to picture what Ash meant.
"C'mon. It's this way." Stuffing the donut in his mouth, Ash carried on walking. As they reached the middle section, a large tent-like structure came into view, blazing with different lights and noises. From just one glance, Fizz knew it wasn't for him. He shook his head. "Er, I don't think I want to go in there."
Ash shrugged. "Let's go to the quieter bit. There's a milkshake bar, and they do iced lattes, too."
They bypassed the arcade, getting near the end of the pier and its rides. As they approached the milkshake bar that Ash headed for, something else caught Fizz's eye. A brightly-coloured stall set out like a camp version of an old-style Texas shoot-out. Tin Can Alley had neatly-stacked tin cans along the back of the stall, with gaudy prizes hanging from every available inch. The counter was waist-high, with a bored-looking man standing in the corner.
When he saw the replica rifles lined up on the counter, Fizz's feet carried him there. He couldn't explain why, but he had to try one.
Ash appeared a moment later at his side. "Oh, yeah? You wanna have a go?"
The Haunted Pub Page 28
