ASBO: A Novel of Extreme Terror (29 page)

Harry glanced at the television again.  The weather was starting to affect the signal and the picture flickered and hissed constantly.  The endless evening-news updates had shown locations from around the globe, half-buried by blankets of slush and snow: The Pyramids of Giza ice-capped like Himalayan Mountains, the canals of Venice frozen over like elaborate ice rinks, and Big Ben rising above a snow-covered Westminster like a giant stalagmite. 

Harry returned his gaze back to Old Graham.  “I agree it’s a bit much, but the fact that it’s snowing everywhere is at least a little odd, don’t you think?”

Old Graham huffed again, the sound wet and wheezy.  “You think Canada or Switzerland are panicking about the weather?  This is a heat wave to an Eskimo!  All this climate-change, ozone-layer hogwash they’re harping on about is just to scare us, you mark my words, lad.”

Harry thought about it for a mument.  According to the news segments throughout the day it had been categorically denied that climate-change could cause such unprecedented weather.  Whatever was causing the snow was something else entirely, said the scientists, if only a random occurrence.  But, whatever the cause, Harry wasn’t about to allow himself to get rattled by media-frenzy and speculation.  The freakish weather didn’t concern him – nothing ever did anymore – and he knew that if he got into a conversation with Old Graham about it he’d be stuck listening to the wrinkled codger’s piss-n-vinegar all night.  It had happened enough times previously for Harry to learn about lonely pensioners and their penchant for long-windedness.

Harry swallowed another mouthful of crisp lager and kept his attention on the flickering television screen, but, when he looked over again, Old Graham was still gawping at him.  Harry sighed and decided to give in and talk to him.  “Bet everything will be back to normal this time next week, huh, Graham?”

“You bet your balls it will.”  The old man sidled along the bar towards Harry, arthritic knees clicking with every step.  “I’ve lived through worse times than this, lad!”

Harry rolled his tired eyes.  “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said.  “I used to be married.”  With that, the old man howled with laughter until his worn vocal cords seized up in complaint, causing him to cough and hack yellow-green phlegm bubbles across the bar.  “Best go shift the crap off me chest, lad,” were Old Graham’s parting words before tottering off toward the pub’s toilets.

Harry shook his head and turned to face the opposite side of the bar.  Steph, the pub’s only barmaid, was smiling at him while clutching a cardboard box full of MALT ‘N’ SALT crisps against her chest.  She placed it down on the bar and pulled an old dishrag from the waistband of her jeans.  She wiped down the area where Old Graham had coughed.  “He bothering you again, Harry?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, threading his fingers through the knots and trying to neaten the scruffiness.  He sighed.  “He’s okay.  Just had too much to drink.”

Steph snorted.  “You’re one to talk.  What time did you get here today?”

“Noon.”

“Exactly, and it’s now…”  She glanced at her watch.  “Nine in the evening.”

Harry smirked.  “Yeah, but at least I have the decency to pass out when I’m drunk, instead of talking people’s heads off like Old Graham.”

“I’ll give you that.  Although, I’d like to remind you that you puked on my knee-highs last Sunday.  I had to throw them out, and they were my favourite pair!”

Harry stared down at the foamy liquid hissing away in his glass and, for a split-second, felt enough shame that he contemplated not drinking it and going home instead.  He quickly let the guilt go and downed the last of the beer, dregs and all.  He had enough regret in his life without adding to it.  “I must have been a pathetic sight,” he admitted.

Steph frowned.  “You’re not pathetic, Harry.  Just unlucky.  Things will look up for you one day.  You only turned thirty a couple months ago, right?  Plenty of time to get back on your feet.”  She stopped and looked over at the plate glass window of the pub.  “As long as this dreadful snow doesn’t freeze us all to death first, you’ll be fine.  Time heals all wounds.”

Harry sighed.  Steph knew about his past and sometimes it made him uncomfortable.  “You really think so?” he asked her.

“You better hope so, matey, because I’m not putting up with you puking on me every week.  Doesn’t matter how handsome you are!”

They both chuckled and Harry felt his mood lighten a little.  It wasn’t often that he heard such things from a young woman nowadays.  Not when he looked about ten years older than his actual age (he hadn’t been able to face a mirror in months so maybe now he looked even worse). 

He pushed his empty pint towards Steph and she refilled it diligently.  The overflow from the glass slid down over the black heart tattoo on her wrist and made her pale skin wet and glistening.  Suddenly, an unprompted desire to lick the beer from her young flesh found its way, unwelcomed, into Harry’s head.  He chased the urge away with thoughts of his wife. 

Julie had been gone a long time now, but Harry never stopped considering himself married.  Never once did he forget his vow to love her forever. 

Until Death Do Us Part...
 

He took his fresh beer, slid off his seat, and moved away from the bar – away from Steph.  The worn, tattered padding of the bar stool he’d occupied for the last three hours had sent his backside numb and he now craved the relief of a cushion.  He headed towards a bench below the pub’s large front window and, at the same time, saw Old Graham returning from the toilets.  There was a small urine stain on the crotch of the old man’s grimy, cotton trousers and Harry was relieved to see the pensioner returning to the bar instead of coming over to join him.

Thank God for small mercies.

Harry eased down onto the faded bench cushion and sighed as the blood rushed back to his ass cheeks.  He placed his pint down on the chipped wooden table in front of him and picked up the nearest beer mat.  There was a picture of a crown on it, along with the slogan: CROWN ALES, FIT FOR A KING.  Without pause, Harry began to peel the printed face away from the cardboard.  It was a habit Steph was always scolding him for but, for some reason, it seemed to halt his thoughts temporarily, keeping back the demons that haunted him.  The brief respite allowed Harry to breathe freely again, if only for a while.

Relaxing further into the creaking backrest, Harry observed the room.  The lounge area of The Trumpet was long and slender, with a grimy pair of piss-soaked toilets stinking up an exit corridor at one end while a stone fireplace crisped the air at the other.  In the middle of the pub was a dilapidated oak-wood bar that was older than he was, along with several rickety tables and faded patterned chairs.  In a backroom was a small, seldom-used dance floor that Harry had only seen once at New Year’s.  It was a quiet, rundown pub in a quiet, rundown housing estate – both welcoming and threatening at the same time.  Much like the people that drank there.

Tonight the pub was low on drinkers.  It usually was on Tuesdays and Harry preferred it that way.  He wasn’t a big fan of company.  Of course it helped that the snowfall had stranded most people to within a hundred yards of their homes and blocked up the main roads with deserted, snowbound vehicles.  With the weather as bad as it was, getting to the pub, for most people at least, was not worth the risk.  For Harry it was, because the alternative was being alone.  And that was something he hadn’t been able to face for a long time.  He wondered if it was something he ever would be able to face again.  So he had braved the snow and made it to the pub in one piece, surrounding himself with people he barely knew. 

But at least I’m not alone. 

Somehow Steph had made it in tonight as well, holding down the fort as she did most evenings.  Harry often wondered why she needed all the overtime.  She seemed to enjoy her work, but it could’ve just been the barmaid’s code: to be bubbly and polite at all times to all people.  Maybe, deep down, she counted each second until she could kick everybody’s drunken-asses out and go home.  Whatever the truth, Steph was a good barmaid and she kept good control of the place. 

Even Damien Banks behaved under her watch.  Weekdays were usually free of his sliming presence, but tonight was an unfortunate exception.  The local thug was sat with his Rockports up on the armrest of the sofa beside the fire, a flashy phone fastened to his ear
. 

No doubt controlling his illicit little empire
, Harry thought.
  Probably refers to himself as ‘the Don’.

From what Harry had heard – from sources he no longer remembered – the degenerate scumbag pushed his gear on the local estate like some want tobe drug lord.  No one in the pub liked Damien, not even his so called friends (or
entourage
as Old Graham would often call them in secret).  There were rumours that the shaven-headed bully had once stomped a rival dealer into a coma, then taunted the family afterwards, revelling in the grief he’d caused.

Harry shook his head.
  He’s the one who deserves to be in a coma, instead of lounging around like he owns the place.
 

There was one other person in the bar tonight.  A greasy-haired, oily-skinned hulk named Nigel.  Harry had not spoken to the over-sized man much, but spotted him in the pub at least a couple of nights each month.  A lorry driver, from what Harry gathered, and spent a lot of time on the road. 
Poor guy will probably have to sleep in his cab tonight.
 

After Nigel, there was just Old Graham and Harry.  Just the five of them, the full set.  Tuesday was a lonely night.

Harry swivelled round on the bench, pulled his right knee sideways onto the cushion, and peered out the pub’s main
window.  The Trumpet sat upon a hill overlooking a small row of dingy shops and a decrepit mini-supermarket that had steel shutters instead of windows.  Steph once told him that the pub was barely surviving on the wafer-thin profits brought in by the lunchtime traffic of the nearby factories and, if it were to rely on its evening drinkers alone, the place would have closed its doors long ago – even before the public smoking ban came in and ruined pubs across the land.

Usually Harry could see the shops and supermarket from the window, but tonight his vision faltered after only a few feet, swallowed up by the swirling snow and impeded by a thick condensation that hugged at the window’s glass.  For all Harry knew, the darkness outside could have stretched on for eternity, engulfing the world in its clammy embrace and leaving the pub a floating limbo of light in an endless abyss.  The image was unsettling. 

Like something out of the
Twilight Zone
.

Snow continued to fall as it had nonstop for the past day and night.  Fat, sparkling wisps that passed through the velvet background of the night, making the gloom itself seem alive with movement.  Harry shivered; the pub’s archaic heating inadequate in defeating the chill.  Even the warmth of the fireplace was losing its battle against the encroaching freeze. 

God only knows how I’ll manage the journey home tonight without any taxis running.  Maybe Steph will let me bed down till morning?  I hope so.

Harry reached for his pint and pulled it close, resting it on his thigh as he remained sideways on the bench.  He traced a finger over his grubby wedding ring and thought about the day he had first put it on.  He smiled and felt the warmness of nostalgia wash over him, but then his eyes fell upon the thick, jagged scar that ran across the back of the same hand and the warmness went away.  The old wound was shaped like a star and brought back memories far darker than his wedding day.  It was something he dared not think about.  He drank his beer.

God bless booze and the oblivion it brings.
 

Harry chuckled about how once he had not cared for the taste of lager – white wine had been his tonic of choice – but The Trumpet
wasn’t really the type of place where a thirty-year old man could order a nice bottle of Chardonnay without being called a
poofter
. 

Funny how a person changes,
Harry considered.
  Just wish I’d changed for the better.

He took another sip of beer and almost spat it out again.  In only two minutes since he’d last tasted it, the beer had gone completely and utterly flat, as if something had literally drained the life from it.  But before Harry could consider what would cause such a thing, a stranger entered the pub. 

A second later, the lights went out.

Published author, Iain Rob Wright, was born in 1984 and lives in Redditch, a small town in the West Midlands, UK, with his loopy cocker spaniel, Oscar, his fat old cat, Jess, his many tropical fish, and the love of his life, Sally. Writing is the passion that fills his life during the small periods of time when he isn't cleaning up after his pets.

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