Chapter 9Fizz sipped his drink. Ryan had given it to him; a pint of blackcurrant soda, with a straw. Fizz had tried to pay for it, but Ryan told him mixers on tap were free to staff. Fizz had put his fifty pence into the charity box instead. He sat on a rickety bar stool, hiding away in the back bar. Ryan had brought the stool for him too, when he guessed that Fizz didn't want to hang out in the brighter front bar with them. Fizz liked it back here. It was dark and quiet; no one would notice him. He was next to the dumbwaiter. Its hatch was closed, with a hastily-scribbled "out of order" note stuck over the top.
That hatch gave Fizz a bad feeling, so he didn't look at it. He stared at the floor, vaguely watching Ryan's and Pete's legs in his peripheral. Odd snatches of their conversation
