ASBO: A Novel of Extreme Terror(88)

“Rubbish!” Old Graham, the most elderly regular of The Trumpet pub and lounge, threw his hands up in disgust and shouted in Harry’s direction. “Bloody fear mongers; that’s what they are. A little snow and the country trembles at the knees.”

Harry lifted his head away from his half-finished pint and glanced over at the old man. He was pointing to the ancient, dust-covered television set mounted to the back wall by a pair of rusted brackets. Harry shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, what?”

Old Graham huffed. “More nonsense about a few snowflakes bringing the country to a standstill. Your generation can’t cope with anything unless there’s a video on that yourtube or myface to tell you about it!”

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.