The Haunting of the King's Head

by Amy Cross

  “Whore!” someone shouted at me in the street once, shortly before I left for good.

  And now look at me, standing in an empty pub. I have succeeded in the first part of my task, for I have kept The King's Head open. There is beer to serve, and the fire is roaring. It is the second part of the task that vexes me, for I have always found it difficult to draw people into the place. I fear there is something about me that is not particularly welcoming, something cold and offensive. Perhaps, then, I should have redirected Mr. Foster's money to somebody else, to somebody better equipped to turn this place into a roaring success. By taking the burden upon myself, did I choose the easy option? Have I relied too much on Mr. Foster's kindness?

  I glance over my shoulder, to check that Elsa is still upstairs, and then I head to the far end of the room. Crouching down, I take care to unfasten a hidden panel on the wall, and then I pull a section of wood away. Reaching inside, I feel the bag of money that I have long since hidden here. Even Jack does not know that this is in my possession. There is enough gold here to keep The King's Head running for the rest of my lifetime, but at some point the place will need to stand on its own feet and deliver a decent profit. So far, I have failed miserably in the task of getting anywhere close to that stage.

  Perhaps I am taking the easy route, then. Perhaps, deep down, I am some kind of whore.

  “Muriel?” Elsa calls out, and I suddenly hear her feet on the stairs. “Where are you, woman?”

  I hurriedly replace the panel and get to my feet. I take a moment to pull my thoughts together, and then I turn just in time to see my sister coming through from the hallway and appearing behind the bar.

  “What are you doing skulking around down here?” she asks. “Aren't you in the habit of serving breakfast to your guests?”

  “I'm sorry,” I reply, “I -”

  Before I can finish, the glass in one of the windows shatters, and I turn to see a hefty black brick crashing through. The brick slams into one of the tables and then falls to the floor.

  Shocked, I step back as I hear the sound of somebody running off into the distance.

  “Well,” Elsa says, putting her hands on her hips, “someone's popular round these parts.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Charley Lucas

  Today...

  “Was it you?”

  Stopping as her dog squats down for a pee, Judith Sinclair turns to me.

  “Was it you, last night?” I ask, as we stand in the cemetery in the middle of town.

  “Good morning to you too,” Judith says cautiously. “I'm afraid I -”

  “Someone threw a brick through our window last night,” I tell her, “with the message 'Get Out' on the side. If that was you, then you're way out of line. The police came by today to take a look at the damage. There's not much they can do, and I didn't mention your name, but if you're responsible then I'm here to tell you to stop.”

  I wait, but she's simply staring at me as if she's not quite sure what I'm talking about. Either that, or she's pretending that she doesn't know. Maybe she's just a good actor.

  “Young lady,” she says finally, “for all my faults, I do not go around throwing bricks through windows. I'm very sorry that this has happened to you, but I must say that it only backs up what I told you before. I'm sure this wasn't the first brick that's gone through a window at that place, and it won't be the last. You and your father are getting involved in things that you don't understand and -”

  “You mean ghosts?” I reply, interrupting her. “Because I already told you, we don't believe in ghosts.”

  She hesitates, as if she's about to contradict me.

  “Setting that aside for a moment,” she says cautiously, “there are other forces at work here. You'd be surprised at the number of people who don't want that pub to be open.”

  “Why would anyone care?” I ask.

  “Because they want it to stay sealed,” she replies. “They want it to be locked up so that they don't have to think about it anymore. So that they can pretend those awful things never happened. And, yes, so that they don't have to worry about something getting out.”

  “We filled the pub last night for a quiz.”

  “I can only imagine that those people were morbidly curious about the place,” she says. “You and your father should really reconsider your plans.”

  “Getting out?” Sighing, I realize what she means. “For someone who keeps an actual corpse in her house,” I continue, “you're very keen to tell other people that they're making bad life choices.”

  “Charley -”

  “Stay away from our pub,” I tell her, figuring that I need to end this nonsense now. I'm still not entirely convinced that she didn't throw that brick last night. “Do you understand? If you come anywhere near it again, I'll tell the police that they should talk to you about a few things. Including the dead body you've got in your weird little collection.”

  With that, I turn and walk away, not giving her a chance to come up with any more nonsense. I hear her call my name, but I don't look back. Hopefully I've scared her sufficiently. Hopefully Dad and I can get on with things now, without having any more idiots talking about ghost stories.

  ***

  A guy is already fixing the window as I return to the pub. I glance across the square and see a couple of women watching from the far corner, but I tell myself that there's no need to worry. Once the window has been fixed, people will stop gossiping and we can get back to normal. I've already got quite a few ideas about how we can boost the pub's performance and, as I step inside, I'm ready to give Dad a whole lost of possibilities.

  As soon as I see him sitting with his head in his hands, however, I realize that something's wrong.

  “Hey,” I say cautiously, stopping next to the bar. “Are you having trouble deciding what to do with the massive takings from last night's cheese quiz?”

  He sighs as he looks at me, and I can immediately tell from his expression that this is serious.

  “What?” I ask. “Dad, talk to me.”

  “I just got an email through from the brewery,” he replies. “They're making some changes to the way that my payments work. Originally I had an agreement that I could pay back the original beer orders on a delayed scheme, but now they want all payments up-front, ninety days before deliveries are due. That means I suddenly have to find the money to pay for the next twelve weeks. Today.”

  “They can't do that,” I tell him.

  “Actually, I've been looking through the paperwork, and they can.”

  “No, they can't,” I say, trying not to panic. “Dad, you signed contracts with them. They can't just change those contracts when they feel like it.”

  “Sure, but they can enforce the contracts,” he replies, before sighing again. “I had an unofficial agreement with the brewery, that they'd delay the first set of payments, but I never actually got that in writing. I didn't think that I needed to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It means that Gary Hayes is doing the opposite of what he promised,” he says. “It means that I thought a handshake was worth something these days.”

  “But it is!” I tell him. “You can take them to court!”

  “I have no proof,” he replies. “Charley, we have to face facts, I've been an idiot here. I thought I could just about make the finances work, and I could, but only if the brewery kept to their word.”

  “Call Gary Hayes,” I reply. “Maybe he just forgot.”

  “He didn't forget,” he says. “I just don't get it, though. Everything seemed fine just a few days ago. What could have changed to make him suddenly turn against us like this?”

  “He was here last night,” I point out.

  “I know. I spoke to him briefly, but we didn't get a chance to talk properly.”

  “He saw how well everything was going,” I continue. “This doesn't make sense, why would he pull the rug out from under us, just after he saw that we were turning the pub around and m
aking a go of it?”

  “I don't know,” Dad mutters. “Maybe he just doesn't want us to succeed.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that the idea is ludicrous, but at the last moment I suddenly realize that he might have a point. After all, Mr. Hayes definitely didn't seem particularly overjoyed last night, and I got a weird vibe from him whenever I tried to point out how well we were doing. He's part of the family that owns the Hayes and Storford Brewery, so I can't understand why he'd be set against the pub's success, and yet right now that's the one thing that actually makes a degree of sense.

  “It's not over quite yet,” Dad says. “I'm going to see what I can do, maybe I can pull some money in from other places, at least to keep us going for a few more weeks while I try to find a long-term solution. Just... don't get too attached to this place just yet, Charley. There's a fair chance that our career as pub runners might be short-lived.”

  “No,” I reply, “we can't let that happen. They can't just screw us over like this, there has to be something else we can do. Maybe if -”

  “I'm trying!” he snaps angrily, before leaning back in his seat. “I'm sorry, Charley, I didn't mean to shout. Just... I need some time to think, okay? I need to figure out what our options are.” He sighs. “I've got one week's grace to decide whether or not I can accept these terms. That's basically one week to come up with a huge amount of money. Just let me think, Charley. I'm good at getting us out of tight spots. We've still got a chance here.”

  I want to tell him that everything'll be alright, but somehow I can't get the words out. Last night, after the cheese quiz, I actually thought that things were going in the right direction. Then came the brick, and now this bombshell from the brewery. I don't want to be pessimistic, but it's as if the world is pushing back against us and actively trying to keep us down. It's as if some kind of external force is determined to make sure that we fail here at The King's Head. But if that's the case, then why let us even try? Why would the brewery go to all the trouble of installing us at the pub, only to then go out of their way to shut us down?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Muriel Hyde

  1910...

  Stopping at the end of the street, I see the brewery's large, imposing office building rising up ahead. I rarely venture to this part of town, partly because I have no real business here but partly, I think, because I subconsciously wish to keep far away. Even now, I feel fear and dread stirring in my chest, and I struggle to keep from turning and hurrying away.

  The Hayes and Storford building is a large, gray-bricked structure that used, I believe, to be a convent school. It is from here that the great Randolph Hayes directs his growing business empire; it is from here, too, that illicit orders are sent out to the smugglers who keep the business afloat. Everyone knows that the brewery is involved in such things, but I suppose it's true that there's nothing small men can do to stand up to great power. Hayes and Storford imposes its presence upon the entire town, offering certain gains and protections, and the people of Malmeston are happy to accept that arrangement.

  I can see the windows of Randolph Hayes's office. I am quite sure that he is in there, working at his desk. I am equally sure that my visit here today will be a failure, that it might even make matters worse. Yet the brick through my window has made me understand that I can delay no longer, and Jack has been gone for almost a day now. One way or another, I can no longer hide away in the pub and hope for the best. I must face matters directly.

  I can only hope that Randolph Hayes will show some mercy.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Charley Lucas

  Today...

  It's 2am. The square is dark, but there are a couple of streetlights, one at either end. I can just about make out the bench that runs in a ring around a large, sprawling tree. Rain is falling steadily but weakly, tapping against the window, and the pub's sign is creaking in a gentle breeze, and I don't know why I'm even bothering to watch.

  I guess it must be fear.

  When Dad and I arrived in Malmeston, I told myself to not get attached to the place. After all, I knew Dad was stretching himself thin by taking on the pub, and I knew there was a good chance that we'd end up failing. The hard part is that, for a few tantalizing days, I actually began to think that we had a shot, that Dad would turn out to be some miraculously brilliant landlord who'd succeed where so many other people had failed.

  That's not looking so likely right now.

  So I guess it's not mystery why I can't sleep. Still looking out the window, I feel as if I might never sleep again. I'm not remotely tired, and matters aren't helped by the fact that Dad's long-promised beds still haven't materialized. Actually, no, that's not fair; I know that I'd never be able to sleep on a night like this, not even in the biggest and most comfortable bed that's ever existed. The problem is all in my head.

  And I know there's only one way to clear my thoughts.

  ***

  I gently pull the back door shut, before turning and heading out across the beer garden. Rain is still spitting down, but not enough to bother me. I've never minded a little bad weather, so I simply take care as I slip out onto the street and start making my way to the beach. Already, with the wind on my face, I know that I've made the right choice. I need to get my head straight.

  After a few minutes, I reach the promenade. The first thing I see is that the main board on Dad's sign has come off, probably due to the bad weather, so I head over and start fixing it back into place. I swear, this thing falls apart several times a week, and I think Dad needs to invest in a better board once he's up and running properly. If he ever gets up and running properly, that is. I fiddle with the sign, hoping to make it more secure, and then I get to my feet and stand back.

  The wind is really howling up here, and I can hear waves crashing in the darkness. I turn and look out to sea. All I see at first is darkness, but after a few seconds a red light blinks briefly on and then off; a few seconds after that, there's another light a little to the north. It's crazy to think of cargo boats out there in the night, passing each other in the English Channel. I have an app on my phone that tells me the names of boats and where they're going, but unfortunately I left my phone at home tonight.

  I watch the lights for a moment longer, before stepping forward and making my way down onto the shingle. The pebbles crunch loudly beneath my feet, but I guess that's no problem. Who am I going to bother, out here in the middle of the night? A few ghosts?

  I walk toward the sound of crashing waves, daring myself to get closer in the darkness and only slowing my pace when I finally feel fresh spray against my face. Looking down, I don't see anything, but my feet don't feel wet so far. Still, I don't actually want to go into the water, so I simply stand for a few minutes and listen to the awesome sound of the sea crashing against the shore. There's something so insane about the idea of the sea crashing and rolling as it's rocked by the tides of the moon. Or something like that. I'm not entirely sure how it works.

  Crouching down, I put my hand against the pebbles. They're cold and wet, but I like that. I move my hand to the right, in the darkness, and feel some seaweed, and for a moment I'm able to put all my worries out of my mind. Dad, the pub, that Gary Hayes asshole, the brick, Judith Sinclair's crazy ideas and the dead body in her shed... I just let it all go for a few minutes and instead I take long, deep breaths as I tell myself that somehow Dad and I will muddle through. We have to muddle through. We have nowhere else to go.

  Getting to my feet, I head back up the beach. I glance around, half hoping that I might hear the voices that I heard the other night, that maybe I can spook myself into believing in ghosts. No such luck, sadly, and by the time I get back up onto the promenade I'm actually feeling a little sad. I think I'd like ghosts to be real, even if I can't fool myself into believing that they are. I wouldn't be scared by ghosts, I'd be comforted, but as I turn and look back toward the beach, I hear only the sound of howling wind.

  No ghosts.

&nbs
p; ***

  I push the pub's back door open and listen for a moment, and then I slip inside. Dad must still be asleep. I don't even know why I'm sneaking around, it's not as if I'm doing anything wrong, but I guess Dad might not like me going out alone. He'd fuss about the dangers and the risks, like Malmeston's some kind of crime hot-spot. I don't fancy hearing any of that, so I very carefully shut the door and slide the bolt across.

  Suddenly I feel a hand fall upon my left shoulder, and I turn in the darkness.

  ***

  “Charley? Charley, what are you doing?”

  My eyes blink open, and I find myself standing in a completely different room. A moment later Dad switches on a light, and I realize that I'm in his bedroom, standing over his makeshift bed of duvets.

  “Charley? Were you sleepwalking?”

  I turn and see him staring at me, bleary-eyed and clearly not quite awake.

  “What?” I ask, still not quite understanding what's happening.

  “I woke up and you were right there,” he continues, “towering over me. I've got to admit, for a moment I was a little freaked out, but then I saw it was just you. What's wrong? Did something scare you?”

  Before I can answer him, I realize that there's a pretty nasty smell in here. Looking down, I see brown marks on the floor, and then I check the sole of my left shoe.

  “Nice,” Dad says with a sigh, “you stepped in dog poo. Wait, why have you got your shoes on? Have you been outside?”

  “I went for a walk,” I tell him, as I slip my shoes off. I still feel pretty flustered, but I know I need to at least pretend to have my head in the right gear. “I couldn't sleep, that's all.”