The Haunted Pub

Chapter 1-2

The boy looked 'round, about to smile. Fizz saw that the boy had a silver ring through his nose and a smattering of freckles over his cheeks. His hair was buzzed short on the sides, and the flop of rainbow-coloured hair on top was likely an off-duty mohawk.

"Ryan," Ginger addressed the boy. "This is my cousin, Fizz." Ginger nudged Fizz into the room, and bid him sit down at the kitchen table. "Wait here, Fizz. Ryan, would you... um, look after Fizz a minute while I go talk to Pete?"

The boy, Ryan, gave Ginger his undivided attention. "Sure thing," he said brightly. "No problem."

Ginger thanked him, laid Fizz's bags on the floor, then left the kitchen. Fizz noticed that Ryan watched Ginger leave, like he was unable to tear his eyes away. Only once Ginger had disappeared did he turn to Fizz. Ryan smiled and said, "Do you want something to eat?"

Fizz wished he could return the smile. Framed by the golden light of the window, this boy was the picture of warmth and welcome. Unfortunately, short-lived acts of kindness like this only made Fizz feel even more useless and undeserving of it. It was a wretched cycle: receive kindness, feel guilty. He couldn't escape his own stupid feelings. Fizz realised whilst he'd been silently panicking, he hadn't answered. He wished he could've smiled back, or at least apologised for being so useless, but he was afraid if he spoke now, he'd end up bawling again.

So he shook his head, averted his eyes, he stared at the floor. A couple of beats passed where Ryan was obviously unsure what to do, then he turned around and switched the kettle on. The blithe pop song on the radio kept the silence from being too awkward.

Fizz zoned out, staring at nothing, wishing he could melt away, where he wouldn't be a burden to anyone. He was jolted out of his thoughts when a mug of steaming hot tea was placed in front of him.

"Do you take sugar?"

Fizz looked up into Ryan's sweet, smiling face. This small act of kindness made Fizz feel so guilty and awful, and coupled with the events of that morning, he couldn't stop the emotions from overwhelming him. In an instant, he was crying again.

Ryan stared at him, confused. Fizz couldn't bear to be looked at. He covered his face with his hands as he sobbed. "Hey, what's up?" Ryan asked, rubbing his shoulder. "Don't worry, it's okay."

Fizz wished it was okay. He would give anything for okay. He didn't care about happy; he only wanted to be normal, like everyone else. Okay would be amazing. Ryan probably didn't realise he was only making things worse by being nice. Fizz couldn't stand being comforted. It made him feel worse for inconveniencing someone else.

So pathetic.

As he tried to curb the sobs, he wished he could curl in on himself and disappear. But not being in his own home—not that he had one anymore—he didn't have his own space to hide away. He considered running to the bathroom and locking himself in there, but that just seemed rude. So he sat there, stifling his sobs, cringing every time Ryan touched him.

Eventually, Ginger returned. "I don't know what to do," Ryan told him quietly. "He just started crying."

"Don't worry," Ginger said. He took hold of Fizz's upper arm, urging him to stand. Fizz tried to blink away the tears and let Ginger guide him. Ginger wasn't one for emotional displays. He'd always been a quiet, reserved sort of man. He was at least a decade older than Fizz, too. He wasn't judgemental like Fizz's parents; he was simply quiet, and thankfully, he never made a fuss. Fizz found himself in Ginger's room and offered his bed.

"Hang out here for a bit," Ginger said. "I'm gonna sort you out a room."

Nodding his head, Fizz tried to say thank you, but it was all choked sobs. He kicked off his shoes, and crawled onto the unmade bed. A musky smell of cologne rose from the sheets when he disturbed them. Burying his face in a pillow, Fizz worked hard to stop his crying. He heard Ginger move around the room, and a rustle of what sounded like clothing.

"I'll be along the hall if you want me," Ginger said. The door shut, and he was gone.

* * * *

Ryan tipped his plate at the bin, chucking away his now stone-cold toast. Today was going to be one of those days. First, he'd been woken up in the night by Sammy, who clearly thought that three in the morning was a perfectly acceptable time to blast out Lady Gaga at full volume. As soon as the quiet returned, Ryan had heard those heavy footsteps again, stomping down the hall. He'd actually got out of bed to tell Sammy, or whoever it was, to shut the hell up.

Except no one had been there.

More than a little bit spooked, Ryan had run back to bed and bundled himself under his duvet until it was time to get up. Now, with the sun shining in through the greasy kitchen windows, Ryan didn't feel quite so scared, just slightly creeped out. On top of that, it was a chore to be awake. He didn't have a choice. It was his turn to open the pub.

The entire building was silent. Mid-morning was about the only time it ever was, with all the live-in staff having gone to bed or passed out drunk by now. Ryan had been the only one awake, fixing his breakfast, trying not to make too much noise. It was then Ryan had heard footsteps on the stairs, and seen Ginger fly past the doorway, half dressed, which was always a sight worth noticing, Ryan thought. And just as he'd been about to eat his breakfast, Ginger had returned with a young, gothy-looking kid in tow.

As soon as Ryan had spotted the kid's sorrowful expression and the bundle of bags Ginger was carrying, he knew something was up. Looked like whoever this kid was, he was coming to stay. Ryan had a hard time biting back his initial jealousy. When Ginger had introduced the kid as his cousin, he relaxed slightly.

Ryan's deep-seated fantasy of Ginger actually dating guys was at odds with the panic that if he did, there was no guarantee Ginger would fancy him. Ryan wasn't sure if he could take rejection like that. He'd been in love with Ginger for years, ever since the older man had arrived in Brighton. Everyone loved fresh meat, especially in a small town, but Ginger didn't date anyone. He wasn't short of admirers, though. The guy looked like a rock star: he was tall and lean, with beautifully-tattooed arms, and quite possibly the best hair Ryan had ever seen on a man.

The joke was that Ginger wasn't actually ginger. His name was Daniel, and his natural hair colour was pale blonde. He dyed his long hair all shades of red and magenta. The constant mess he left in their bathroom was evidence of that. The shower looked like a bloody scene out of Psycho. Ryan didn't mind. The end result was worth the mess. He loved Ginger's hair. When Ginger styled it, he looked like he should be starring in some glam-rock video. Sometimes he braided small sections and threaded in beads shaped like little skulls.

Ryan sighed to himself. He knew he spent far too much time obsessing over Ginger. There were times when he worried that moving into the pub to live and work with Ginger would possibly tip their friendship over the edge. Ryan knew he was close to saying something. He felt like he might blow at any moment and blurt out his feelings.

God.

That incident last week, with the late-night Sambuca shots and the almost confession, had Ryan in a panic. He didn't know what he'd do if Ginger turned him down. He'd have to move out. The awkwardness would be unbearable otherwise. Then he'd need a new job, and those weren't easy to come by, especially in Brighton.

Ryan gazed out of the window at the only visible section of the beer garden way down below. This pub wasn't just a job. This was his home now. His colleagues—as irritating as some of them could be—were his family. He couldn't bear to leave. No, Ryan told himself for the hundredth time. Best keep quiet. Don't ruin a good thing. Just stay friends, and keep your mouth shut.

He absently cleared up plates, lost in his thoughts, when Ginger returned. He was still in his wife beater, but the pyjamas were gone. Now he wore snug, faded jeans and his leopard-print Converse shoes. Ginger looked amazing—as always—and Ryan tried not to stare too much.

"So, er... how's it going?"

"Hn." Ginger shrugged. "I've had better mornings." He spotted the untouched mug of tea Ryan was about to clear away. "I'll have that, if it's going spare."

"Oh, sure!" Ryan was only too pleased to hand the tea over. His fingers brushed against Ginger's, accidentally-on-purpose. "Is your cousin okay?"

Ginger sipped his tea. "He's fine. Well, he's not fine. He's depressed, but aside from that, he's fine."

"Ah." Ryan nodded. "Like the Aerosmith song, right?"

"Huh? Oh, ‘F.I.N.E.’" Ginger smiled. "Yeah, that about sums it up."

His golden-brown eyes sparkled when he smiled. At least, that was what Ryan thought. As Ginger turned away, Ryan tried not to watch him too closely. The lean figure on display, clad in tight jeans, was too irresistible. Holding his mug in one hand, Ginger used his other to run through his long hair, flicking it over his shoulder. Ryan loved it when he did that. He loved tracing his eyes over the lines of Ginger's body. From the curves of his toned upper arms, down to the sweeping line of his back.

It was enough to give Ryan the beginnings of a hard-on if he stared too long. He followed Ginger down the hall, drawn like a magnet. Ginger stepped down the short staircase of three steps and opened the once-barricaded door on the landing that led to another section of the pub.

Almost an entire floor that hadn't been in use for years.

Ryan raised an eyebrow. Ginger wasn't thinking of putting the kid in there, was he? The rooms in that hall were a dump. They'd dubbed it "the pigeon loft", as a couple of the windows 'round the back had been broken and, typically, pigeons had gotten in. The whole place was covered in bird crap. There was even an abandoned nest with two eggs in it, and in the tiny bathroom was an entire pigeon skeleton, perfectly preserved.

Gross.

Ginger and Pete had gone in there a few months ago, to do something about the howling draught that they thought was coming from in there. They'd had to shoo lots of pigeons out, then boarded up the broken windows with ply. After surveying the area, they'd grabbed some cardboard boxes from the pub, flattened them, and laid the cardboard along the floor, which was an easier solution than attempting to scrape away the years and years of pigeon s**t. Ryan and the rest of the staff had been nosey, wanting to peep inside. They'd all piled in there together to gawp at the pigeon skeleton, taking pictures on their camera phones. Then they went around the empty rooms, inspecting them one by one, but the pigeon skeleton was the most exciting thing in there.

That part of the pub didn't have electricity. The comparatively large brass light switches on the walls were pre-National Grid, or so Ginger had speculated. Each room was bare, and the wall paper looked ancient. Once decorative and floral, now the paper on the walls was faded and miserable. The grime on the windows was inches thick.

Pete, The Queen Anne's manager, declared that if everyone pitched in to tidy up the rooms, they could use them for what they liked. The pub's management company were so far unaware that the rooms existed; no one had ever thought to open the pigeon loft before, and the area manager only visited every few months, mostly to have a drink with Pete in the beer garden.

Of course, suggesting cleaning of any sort to a bunch of young men didn't go down too well. No one had bothered as yet. Ryan wouldn't have minded cleaning; he'd even offered his help to Ginger if he wanted it, but their work schedule hadn't allowed them a chance so far. The only thing he'd managed to do one night was burst in, with Sammy and Matt, all of them roaring drunk, brandishing cans of spray paint, and using their mobile phone screens for light.

Sammy had acquired the spray paint from an art student, and he wanted to have a go at graffiti. Rather than risk getting arrested for vandalizing public property, he, Ryan, and Matt had gone to the pigeon loft to spray drunken works of "art" all over the walls. Sammy had drawn c***s of varying shapes and sizes. Matt tried to spray song lyrics on the walls, but Sammy kept changing them into rude words. It had all seemed very funny at the time.

Then something strange had happened. The lights had flashed on, which should have been impossible, seeing as there was no electricity. There was a strange noise, a creaking, and something groaning over the top of that. Ryan swore he'd heard footsteps coming along the hall. He'd gripped onto Sammy, and Sammy had gripped onto him, and they'd both poked their heads out to look, but nothing was there.

Or at least, nothing that Ryan could see. There had been a cold chill in the air that night, and he didn't like it one bit. In the dark, they'd dropped their cans of spray paint and sprinted out of the pigeon loft and back downstairs. Matt, not wanting to be left on his own, wasn't far behind them.

No one had been in the pigeon loft since. Ryan's band mates had their eye on the space. They said it would make a great practise room. Ryan kept putting them off, as he wasn't keen on spending time in there. Apart from being creepy, it was still a dump. If his band wanted to practise there, he knew what would happen: he'd end up being the only one gullible enough to clean the damn place.

As he cautiously stepped over the threshold once again, following Ginger, Ryan found himself offering, "I'll um, help you clear up... if you like."

Ginger looked round at him and smiled, melting Ryan's heart. "Nah, don't worry," he said. "Won't take me long."

"I don't mind."

Ginger waved him away. "It's cool. Aren't you opening up in a minute?"

"Er, yeah, but... I can help you after?"

"Nah, it's fine." Ginger sipped his tea, then set the mug down on a grimy window sill. "This'll be more like Sixty-Minute Makeover."

Ryan laughed. "Or we could pimp it out Cribs style?"

To his delight, Ginger chuckled. "Fat chance," he said. "Fizz'll be lucky if I can find him a mattress."

"There's one in Matt's room," Ryan suggested helpfully.

"Is there?"

"Yeah, he nicked it from the spare room ages ago and put it in his. It's leaning up on the wall."

Ginger frowned. "What for?"

"For his so-called—" Ryan hooked his fingers in the air, "—killer Kung Fu moves."

Shaking his head, Ginger chuckled again. "Ah, right. That's where all that thumping and banging's coming from, then."

Ryan was silent. He didn't point out that the strange thumps and bumps in the night had been going on before Matt decided to practise some made-up form of Kung Fu in his room.

"Maybe you can help me shift it in here later?" Ginger asked.

"Sure," Ryan said. "Just give me a shout. Um..." He looked around at the bare, old walls. It was so quiet, and stuffy. "Guess I'd better go open up then. Sure you're gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, no worries." Ginger was unconcerned, peering into the first room. "Oh, and thanks for looking after Fizz. I know he can be a little..." His voice trailed away as he disappeared into the gloom.

"No probs," Ryan said. With Ginger gone, the pigeon loft seemed even more oppressive. Ryan gave one last glance around, then quickly turned his back, and left.