The Final Winter: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel(24)

“What’s your point?” Harry asked.

“My point is that none of us really know how the phone lines work and maybe they do rely on power the same way everything else does.”

“That’s right,” said Nigel. “Didn’t they go digital or something a time back?”

From the middle of the group, Steph cracked open another beer. Her words were beginning to slur slightly as she spoke. “Don’t suppose it matters. Stuck here not knowing all the same. This is the worst weather I think this country’s ever had, so it doesn’t surprise me that everything’s gone down the shitter. Not like we have a Government that actually knows its arse from its earlobe, is it?”

Kath chuckled. “Tell me about it!”

“Now, now, Ladies,” Lucas put both hands up. “A pub is no place for politics. You can go to a stuffy wine bar for the likes of that. A good old-fashioned boozer like this is meant for people to forget their troubles in the world, inept Governments included.”

Steph laughed. “Aha! So you think the government is inept as well.”

“Sweetheart,” he said. “I think they’re all inept – and trust me, I’ve seen a few. I always say that Religion and Politics are just clever ways to make un-content people content with their un-contentedness.”

Old Graham snorted. “Good one.”

Kath turned to Lucas, disapproval on her face. “I take it you’re a none-believer of God then, erm…”

“Lucas, my dear woman. You can call me Lucas. To answer your question: yes, absolutely I believe in the Almighty Father. I never condemned Him now did I? I condemned the eejits that try to run things in his name.”

After a moment’s thought, Kath seemed to accept this. “Well, perhaps I can agree with you there.”

“Well,” Harry joined in. “What’s your Almighty Father’s plan for tonight? Besides freezing us all to death that is.”

“Do I detect a heathen?” asked Lucas sarcastically.

Harry swigged his beer. “That would be your opinion. I’d just say I’m realistic.”

“Why don’t you believe?” Steph asked him. She sounded genuinely interested.

“Because if I believed that there was someone responsible for all the things that have happened in my life then I would be so consumed with rage that I don’t think I’d be able to go on living.”

Damien laughed. “Is that because you’re a gay alcoholic?”

Harry wanted to get angry and shut Damien’s smart mouth altogether, but he suddenly felt very tired. Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was something deeper inside of him that was just giving up. His heart felt weary.

“You’ve lost someone, haven’t you?” asked Lucas.

Harry turned in the Irishman’s direction. “What?”

“The only time a man gives up hope like you have is when they’ve lost a lover…or a child.” Lucas started nodding as if he’d found the answer to his own question. “Was it a boy or a girl?”

“It,” Harry spat, “was a boy. Toby.”

There was silence, thick enough that a snow plough would have blunted against it. Harry had never let anyone in The Trumpet know about Toby. It was his place to escape from all the pity and well-wishing that his once-friends and family had become consumed with since the accident. This was his place to come and be alone with his pain, and to remember his son the way he wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” said Damien, before swigging his beer bottle to the end. No one else spoke.

Harry didn’t say anything else either. He had been consumed by a deep sadness. Not just for Toby, or his wife, Julie – he always felt sadness for them – but sadness because he knew that he could never come back here again. The Trumpet’s sanctuary of anonymity was gone now.

“Okay,” said Lucas, raising a beer in the dim light of the fire. “We’ll change the subject, but first: Here’s to Toby, may his soul be somewhere safe and pleasant.”

The group raised their bottles and said Toby’s name. Harry said nothing. He just stared into the fire.

Chapter Fourteen

Peter hadn’t seen Jess, or anybody else, in almost an hour now, not since he’d parted ways with Kath. Earlier, the two of them had heard screaming and he was certain it was Jess. His selfish boss-lady had chosen to head for the nearby pub, caring only about herself, but he had decided to do the right thing and go find his friend. It had not gone as well as he’d hoped.

Peter wasn’t one to lose his cool easily. No one in Poland was after what their grandparents had lived through. It gave them a unique perspective on what really mattered in life. Yet, Peter had to admit to himself that he was starting to get anxious. He concentrated on keeping his breathing steady and emptied his mind of all thoughts. If a person did not think, they could not become afraid. If he just continued walking, he would find someone soon – or at least reach some houses. One thing was for certain: It could not go on like this much longer – pure white nothingness all around and in every direction. If it did…then he would certainly freeze to death. It was an absurd thought, but very real at that moment as the sub-zero temperatures swelled the pads on his fingertips that he could no longer form a fist.

Peter was used to the cold. It was regularly freezing in his hometown, just outside of Warsaw, but since his two year stay in England had begun, he’d not known conditions like this. It reminded him more of the Arctic Circle than Great Britain – the place he had come to follow his dreams and earn the money he could only dream of in Poland. He enjoyed being here to study also, and, despite the odd pockets of racism (you’re taking our jobs!), the local population had been very welcoming. England had become as much a home to him as his own country.