The Final Winter

Chapter Thirteen

Harry’s world felt better from beneath the snug security of a plush blanket. It was still freezing inside the pub but at least the thick quilt prevented the loss of what little body heat he had. Despite the fact he was now able to keep his temperature at a more tolerable level, Harry still eagerly awaited the power to click on. It’d been almost two hours now.

“Come on, old man,” Damien shouted. The lad had declined one of Old Graham’s blankets – it would no doubt ruin his hardman image – but he was closest to the fire and probably just as warm as the rest of them in his padded coat.

“Yeah,” Nigel joined in. “Haven’t you picked anything up on that piece of junk yet?”

Old Graham sat on a footstool by the fire, fiddling with the radio. It hissed and crackled, almost harmonising with the crackling spit of the fireplace. “I’m trying,” he shouted. “Nought’s happening.”

“When was the last time you even used that antique?” Damien asked.

“It’s been a while, but I knows how to work a bloody radio, lad. My generation grew up with the things.”

Lucas reached out a hand from his perch on the armrest of the two-seat sofa (Harry and Steph still occupied the cushions and her thigh was still touching his). “Give it here, old timer. I know my way around a gadget or two.”

Old Graham obliged and handed over the crackling device. Lucas immediately set about twiddling the knobs and pressing buttons. A frown filled his face gradually like liquid filling a beaker. “The thing’s a dud, old man.”

“Nonsense! I’ve used the thing a hundred times.”

“Well it’s gone on strike tonight, fella.”

Harry was curious and scratched at his chin. “I’ve never known a radio to switch on and not pick anything up. They usually get something, even if it’s only faint.”

Lucas shrugged. “Not if the antenna’s faulty; you’d get nothing but static. Let’s say you’re right though. Let’s assume the radio is working and still we’re getting nothing. What does that mean?”

Harry started to think about it, but couldn’t come up with an answer. “Well, I guess it would mean that nobody’s broadcasting, or that the radio waves aren’t getting through.”

“Exactly,” Lucas said, as if he was revealing the most obvious fact in the universe. “So those are two options. The third and final one is that the radio has popped its little electrical clogs. What’s the most likely, Harry Boy?”

Harry felt silly but worried at the same time. “Well I guess it is just the radio, or the weather affecting things.”

Lucas smiled as if he’d successfully explained algebra to a monkey. “There you go! No need to assume the wor-“

Old Graham cried out. “Got something!”

Harry and Lucas broke their discussion and turned to the old man; so did Steph, Nigel, and Damien. Old Graham waved his hand at them all and ushered them closer. His left ear was half an inch from the radio’s speaker. At first, all Harry could make out was more hissing and crackling, but as he got closer…

“What is that?” Harry asked, finally hearing something.

“I don’t know,” said Old Graham without turning his attention away from the radio. “I can’t make it out, but something’s definitely there.”

Everyone gathered round and listened to the radio pop, hiss, and crackle, but behind those noises was something else. At first it sounded like horns blowing – trumpets even – but then there was…

Voices? Garbled, disembodied speech that made sense to Harry for only mere seconds: …Pillars… Salt… Sin…

Nigel straightened his back and stepped away from the radio, which quickly returned to giving out nothing but empty static again. “Did anyone else hear that? Could anyone understand it?”

Old Graham shook his head. “Not really. Something about salt?”

Nigel shook his head. “Pillars. It was pillars.”

“Pillars of salt,” Steph added helpfully.

Damien turned his back on the group, walked back over to the other side of the fire, and then turned back around to face them. “Pillars, Salt, Sin; that’s what it said.” He pulled at his earlobe. “Guess my hearing’s better than you old farts.”

Harry felt like screaming ‘shut up’ at the top of his lungs, but refrained due to the fact that Damien had actually been helpful before his snide remark. “He’s right; it did say that. Pillars. Salt. Sin.”

Lucas sat back down on the perch of the armrest. “What in heaven does that mean then? Sounds downright biblical.”

Harry didn’t disagree and thought about it for a moment, finally wondering: Who’s broadcasting it?

“So does anybody know what Pillars of Salt and Sin actually means?” Harry asked the question earnestly because he had no idea.

Steph was the first to offer an opinion: “Isn’t it from a Coldplay song?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You think we just caught part of a song playing?”

Steph shook her head and seemed to doubt her own answer. “It didn’t sound like singing, and the line in the song goes quite quickly. The words on the radio were drawn out and slow.”

“Plus that song doesn’t contain the word, sin,” Damien added.

“No, it doesn’t.” Steph agreed.

“Okay,” Harry said. “Anybody else got ideas?” He looked around and raised his eyebrows. “What about you, Lucas?”

“Can’t help you there, fella. It’s probably nothing but Prayer Time with Father Bob for all I know. You can find all kinds of religious stations if you fiddle about enough – especially at times like these. Either way, I need to go and visit the latrine again, so I’ll leave you folks to ponder.” Lucas got up from the sofa’s armrest and headed towards the toilets while the rest of them continued their conversation.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Old Graham wrapping a wool blanket around himself and pulling it tight around his shoulders. His words still fluttered slightly as the cold strangled his central nervous system. “No point worrying about it now. I’ll put the radio on the bar if anyone wants to have another go, but my only concern right now is keeping me bones from turning to ice.”

Nigel pulled his own blanket up around his shoulders; it made him look like a floating head beside the fire.

“Yeah, it’s getting a little too nippy for my liking. Do we have any more wood for the fire?”

Steph nodded and headed off towards the bar, but before she got there the sound of screaming made her turn back around.

“What in the blue hell was that?” said Nigel

“Sounded like screaming,” Steph answered.

Harry agreed. He got up from the sofa quickly and placed his beer bottle down on one of the nearby tables. “It was screaming; someone outside.”

Steph stepped away from the bar. “Harry, where are you going?”

“Outside. Someone needs help.”

“I’d advise against that, Harry Boy.” Lucas was returning from the toilets. “You go out in that weather and you might not come back.”

“We can’t just do nothing,” said Harry.

Lucas walked over to him by the pub’s exit and pointed to the frost-covered window. “Look out there, fella. You’ll be blinded the second you step outside, and trying to make it in a straight line for ten steps will leave you a disorientated sot. You’d probably struggle to walk ten steps in a straight line on a normal night.”

Harry scowled. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Damien stood laughing by the fire. “He means you’re a worthless drunk, Harry, and everybody knows it.”

The hackles on Harry’s neck tightened. “What did you just say to me?”

Damien stepped towards Harry, but was still a good nine feet away. “I said that you’re a no-good fucking drunk, and that if someone is hurt out there, screaming for help, the worst person that could turn up to help them would be you. Probably just puke on ‘em and pass out. They’d end up having to get an ambulance for your sorry ass.”

Harry wanted to use words to retaliate – he was a civilised man after all – but none came to mind. The only thing that entered his head was a blind, boiling rage. He leapt at Damien’s smug, laughing face, crossing the nine feet before his heart could even beat once. His first punch landed square and no more blows were required. Damien’s nose scrunched up, spreading across his cheeks, until both nostrils were gushing blood. The young thug didn’t go down though and instead just staggered backwards, holding his nose in stunned bewilderment.

After a few moments of confusion, Damien grabbed a hold of himself, dropping his hands out to his sides and straightening up his body. His nose dripped a viscous meld of blood and mucous; it ran down the light-blue shirt inside his puffer jacket.

“You just shot yourself in the head, mate,” said Damien. “If I were you, I’d go in those toilets, take off that cheap-ass belt around your cock-less waist, tie it round your alcoholic neck, and hang yourself. Cus I’m going to kill you. I’m going to slide a knife in your belly and laugh in your face while you die. I’ll be the last person you see and I’ll be laughing my ass off.”

Harry’s soul deflated as he realised the seriousness of his actions. What had made him act so violently? That wasn’t him at all. Was it? Either way, he’d chosen a course of action and he would stick to it – there was no other choice.

Harry spat defiantly. “Try it, you little fuckweed!”

Damien nodded and started towards him, taking each step casually as if he had all the time in the world. Harry tried to swallow but found a lump of coal blocking his throat. He raised his fists and prepared for his first ever bar fight.

Lucas jumped between the two of them and placed a hand across Damien’s chest. “Calm down there, fellas. Thought we had an agreement? We’re all going to play nice tonight.”

Damien sneered. “Try telling that to your man here; wrecked a perfectly good designer shirt. He’ll pay for it though, so don’t worry.”

Lucas sighed. “You gentlemen can settle up another night. There’s no time for it now. There’s some lass screaming out there and our Harry was about to do the noble thing and go offer assistance. You should do the noble thing and let him.”

Damien shook his head. “You were the one telling him not to go out there two minutes ago.”

“Well,” said Lucas, “that was before he was in as much danger here as he will be out there. Besides, there’s a chance he might freeze to death so you should be all for it.”

Damien backed off slightly, waving an arm towards the door. “We’ll finish this later. That is, if you don’t freeze your tiny balls off out there first. Good luck!”

Harry was unsure what to do, not wanting to lower his fighting stance until he knew the situation was defused. He looked at Lucas who nodded at him reassuringly. Harry lowered his arms and moved back towards the pub’s exit.

“Wait!” It was Steph. She sounded worried. “Let me find you a torch or something.”

“Yeah,” Old Graham agreed from under his blanket by the fire. “At least take a blanket with you.”

Nigel added the final voice of concern. “Or maybe you should try calling out the door before you go trekking off. See if anyone shouts back and gives you directions.”

Harry waved a hand dismissively. “I’m sure someone’s just slipped over. I’ll be straight back.”

Damien sniggered from the back of the room. “Then you and me can pick up where we left off.”

Harry’s stomach churned. He decided to put Damien out of his mind for the moment; there were other things to worry about. Whatever was going to happen would happen. Life had taught him that a long time ago. Harry stepped towards the door…

Clonk!

…before falling to the ground clutching his head. The door had swung inwards, clubbing him in the forehead. The world was cast into darkness as the wind swept in from outside and extinguished all the candles on the bars. Harry moaned in pain.

“Shit! Are you okay?” asked Steph from somewhere in the darkness.

“What’s going on?” asked Nigel, who was just about visible beside the flickering fireplace. The flames fought back against the darkness but failed to light more than a small semi-circle at their base.

Harry ceased his moaning and tried to get up. He could feel the pressure building in his skull as a swelling began to form above his left eye. Reaching forward onto his hands, he planted his knees on the floor and prepared to get back to his feet. It was then that he realised someone stood in front of him in the darkness.

“Who’s there?” he called out.

For a few moments everyone stood still and listened for an answer. Eventually one came: “My name’s Kath. I’m the manageress of the supermarket across the road.”

A collective sigh of relief filled the room, more so from Harry than anyone else. “Try knocking next time. You almost had my head off.”

Kath laughed nervously. “I’m so sorry. I guess the weather has put me in a bit of a panic.”

“Were you the one screaming?” Steph asked as she started relighting the candles on the bar.

Kath moved away from the doorway and towards the light. “Oh, that’s better. I was starting to forget what it was like to be able to see properly.” She offered her hand to Steph.

Steph shook it. “Pleased to meet you, I’m Steph. So, was it you that was screaming?”

“Huh? Screaming? No, that wasn’t me. It would no doubt be that silly girl.”

“Silly girl?” Harry moved over to the bar to join the woman. The others in the bar started moving too. “What silly girl?”

“Jessica. She’s just some ditsy teenager that works for me. She went wondering off into the snow when the power went off.”

“We should go look for her then,” Harry insisted.

Kath sighed. “Don’t bother wasting your time. Peter Pole went after her, so she’ll be fine. I’m sure they bumped into each other out there and that’s what startled her.”

“You sure she’ll be okay?” Steph asked. “We should check to make sure.”

Kath’s response was abrupt. “If she needed help there would have been more than one scream, wouldn’t there?”

“Guess that makes sense,” said Lucas, taking the top off a newly defrosted beer with his back teeth. “I say we top that fire up and get ourselves warm under the blankets. It’s cold enough to freeze beer in here after all.”

“Good idea,” said Old Graham, already making his way back to the fire. The rest of them took suit and gathered around him. They spread their blankets into a line and got under them side by side, tucked in like sardines.

Steph brought over a crate of bottled beer and placed it by the fire to keep it from freezing. Harry passed a recently thawed one to their new arrival, Kath, and she took it gladly. “My saviour,” she said, sipping the beer. “After the day I’ve had I could see myself becoming quite the alcoholic just to cope.” The comment brought a stiff silence and Harry wondered if it was because of the comments that Damien had made about him ten minutes earlier. “Did I say something wrong?” Kath asked. “It was just a joke.”

Despite Harry being certain that Damien would have used the opportunity to revisit their earlier animosity, nobody said anything. For some reason the lad stayed quiet and drank his beer.

“So,” Steph asked, “what exactly have you been through tonight then, Kath?”

“God, if only you knew. The whole world has gone crazy tonight. The electricity went out, my phone stopped working, and at one point I was worried I was going to freeze to death. Thank heavens you’re still open, because I don’t know how on earth I would have gotten home.”

“Your phone isn’t working?” said Damien.

Kath shook her head. “No, it doesn’t work at all. The landline either.”

“Mine stopped working too. Weird.”

“Guess the power affects the towers, or whatever you call ‘em,” said Old Graham.

“Maybe,” said Nigel, “but don’t the landlines work even when the powers out?”

Harry nodded in the dark and rubbed at the smooth lump growing on his forehead. “I think you’re right. Don’t they work off static signals?”

Lucas laughed. “Any telephone technicians in the house? Anybody?”

“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.