ASBO: A Novel of Extreme Terror(89)

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.