The Final Winter

Chapter Twenty

“I’m so sorry, Graham.” Harry looked down at the old man’s twisted leg and felt the urge to punch himself in the face. How could he be so stupid, getting caught in a testosterone contest with a kid ten years his junior? He was pathetic and for the first time was finally realising it. He put his hand on Old Graham’s shallow chest and could feel the man’s ribs through tissue-paper skin. The scar below Harry’s knuckles reminded him that he had a habit of hurting people.

“Harry,” Old Graham whispered, not to be quiet but because the old man was obviously winded by his sudden ordeal. The pain from his damaged leg was probably sapping the breath from his aged lungs too. “Harry, don’t worry. I’m okay, it’s just me leg. Get it fixed up in the morning, good as new.”

Harry didn’t want to lie to him. “I don’t think tomorrow’s going to be any better. I’m not sure if we can get you help.”

Old Graham snorted. “Then just put me in a bath full of whiskey. By the time I drink meself dry, the snow will have gone and the ambulances will be back on the road.”

Harry smiled. “I’m really so-“

“If you say you’re sorry one more time, son, I’ll break my other leg just to shut you up.”

For reasons he couldn’t quite understand Harry felt like crying, breaking down right there and giving up. All the times that he had labelled Old Graham a nuisance, he’d never taken the time to see what a kind, forgiving man he was. Harry had stopped taking the time to find out anything about anyone after the car crash; now he realised that had been a mistake.

“Can I do anything?” he asked Old Graham.

“No, just get me a beer and a snog off Steph, and we’ll call it quits.

Harry laughed. “Well I’ll do my best, but I’m thinking I’ll only be able to manage one of those.”

Old Graham opened his eyes wide like a startled rabbit. “What? You mean we’re out of beer!”

Harry stood up, wanting to laugh his ass off at the old man’s fighting spirit, but somehow finding it impossible. Laughter was a luxury he’d run out of.

In the hallway above, a sphere of light began an ethereal descent down the dark-shrouded staircase. By the time it got down to the last few steps, it revealed itself. Steph was carrying a bar tray full of candles and nodded at him as soon as she saw him.

“Hey,” said Harry quietly, taking her to one side. “I think he’s going to be okay for now. He’s tough as old boots.”

“Old Graham? Yeah, I could have told you that. Took a bullet in the Falklands and didn’t even realise till he was back on base a day later.”

Harry frowned. “He tell you that?”

“Yeah,” said Steph, keeping her voice down. “That’s one of his stories I like to believe; makes me think of him as a hero.”

Harry thought for a moment then nodded. “Yeah, I think it’s one I’d like to believe too.”

Steph stroked a hand against Harry’s shoulder and rubbed all the way from his elbow to his neck. The feeling made his stomach flutter and filled him with a mixture of excitement and remorse.

“How you holding up, Harry?” she asked him.

He didn’t know what to say and felt sick as he tried to comprehend an answer to the question. After a while, he said, “I really don’t know. With all that’s happened tonight, I’m starting to wonder if I’m losing my mind.”

“Me too. I feel like we’re the only people left in the world and we can’t go outside because we’ll either freeze to death or have some obsessed Clive Barker fan carve words into our chests.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Clive Barker? You read a lot?”

Another thing you never bothered to find out about her, Harry. Nice going.

Steph nodded, the tray of candles bobbing in time with her head. “Yeah, I love to read. Everything from Stephen King to John Grisham; anything I can get my hands on, really.”

“You don’t find that enough nowadays,” said Harry. “People treat reading like a taboo – television’s uncool relation.”

“Totally,” she agreed happily. “I take it you’re a big reader as well then?”

Harry shook his head. “No, not really.”

Steph stared at him for a moment looking confused, but then broke out in hysterical laughter. After a moment, Harry was surprised to find that he was joining her. Maybe laughter wasn’t a luxury he was completely out of just yet.

Or maybe Steph is just a master of getting blood out of a stone.

Or feelings from a torn heart.

“Oh Harry,” Steph patted him on the shoulder. “You do make me laugh! I’m really going to have to get to know you better when this is all over.”

Harry considered that and decided he would like it very much. It was time to start living again, forgetting about the things he could not change.

“Anyway,” he said, starting a new subject, “got a plan on what to do next?”

Steph nodded. “Damien said the barrel is just too heavy to get up the stairs so we should all come down here to start a fire. He said a small windowless room like this would be easier to heat anyway. We just need to leave the door at the top of the stairs open so we can breathe.”

“Good idea,” agreed Harry, immediately wondering why Damien hadn’t cried bloody murder over his earlier mistake. The lad knew it was Harry’s fault; that when the drum had been only one step away from the top he had dropped it. Yet, for some reason, Damien made out as though it had been an impossible task to begin with and nobody’s fault. Tonight had muddled Harry’s entire opinion of the lad. He wasn’t ready to trust Damien just yet, but had at least started to consider it.

“Everyone’s upstairs,” said Steph, “gathering stuff to burn. We’re going to leave Peter in front of the fire. Jess said she’d stay with him.”

Harry nodded. “We’ll have to keep an eye on them both. It may not be safe for her to be alone. I’ll go see if she needs anything and then go help the others.”

“Okay, Harry. I’ll get Old Graham nice and comfy then get this place lit up. See you in a bit. Mind yourself in the dark.”

Harry moved aside to let Steph past with her candles and then he started to climb the stairs. He was taken back to earlier when he’d tried to climb up with the barrel. He had a lot of making up to do to Old Graham that was for sure, but at least Damien had turned the disaster into a sustainable plan B. It would indeed be warmer in the cellar once they got the fire going and Harry started to feel far more hopeful about their situation just thinking about it. Prior to now, he had been scared that they would all freeze to death. It seemed silly now.

The corridor at the top of the stairs was pitch-black, but Harry could make out a dim, flickering light coming from the bar’s candles at the far end of the hallway. He felt his way towards them and found Lucas standing at the bar. The Irishman was busy gathering beers and a big bottle of Famous Grouse whiskey into an empty crisp carton.

“Getting essentials, I see?” said Harry as he entered the bar.

Lucas held up an uncapped beer and swigged from it, letting out a lip-smacking sigh at the end. “Don’t ya know it! I asked the old fella what he needed and all he said was beer and plenty of it. Can’t deny an injured pensioner now, can I? What kind of man would that make me?”

“Never thought of it like that.” Harry fired off a mock salute. “Keep up the good work, private.”

Lucas returned the salute. “Will do, Major Jobson, sir!”

Harry continued on from the bar and walked over to Jess at the fireplace. She flinched, as though he had startled her. It wasn’t surprising really; sounded as if the poor girl had been through worse than anyone tonight.

“You okay?” he asked her.

“Fine,” she replied, stroking Peter’s forehead with a damp cloth she had no doubt warmed in front of the fire. “I can’t leave him here alone, and I don’t think it would be right to move him either. Jerry has gone to find us some snacks. He’ll be back soon to keep me company. Anyway, I have this if I get into any real trouble.” Jess reached down beside the sofa and came up with a great shiny piece of metal.

Harry nodded. “The call bell. Good idea. Not a single man whose ears don’t prick up at that sound. Just ring if you need help, okay?”

Jess seemed proud for a moment, but her sombre expression soon returned when she went back to nursing Peter. When she spoke again, she did so without looking Harry in the eye. “How is Graham doing? His leg seems painful.”

Painful wasn’t a good enough word to describe the result of Harry’s stupidity. He smiled to reassure her. “Luckily, there’s no bleeding. I think it’s broken, but he’s okay for now. Chipper as ever, long as he has us bringing him beer all night.”

“He seems like a nice old man,” she said. “I hope he’s okay.”

Harry nodded. “Me too.”

He thought Jess was going to carry on the conversation a little longer, but instead of replying he caught her looking over his shoulder. Her eyes went wide as if something concerned her.

Harry swallowed a lump in his throat. Why is she staring like that? Is something behind me?

He spun around, and found Damien standing up against him. As usual the lad’s face was a thick, syrupy mixture of frowns and scowls, but there seemed to be something else in his expression too. Harry felt his wariness of the lad return. Had he really been thinking that Damien wasn’t dangerous? That he was a good person deep down?

Idiot, Harry. He’s probably looking to stamp your kneecaps in for dropping the barrel. God knows I deserve it.

Damien’s expression didn’t change as he pointed over his own shoulder with a thumb. “Come with me,” he said, walking off in the opposite direction and leaving Harry wondering what to do.

Should I follow? Or should I grab a weapon and prepare to fight for my freakin’ life? Harry didn’t know and decided that, until he did, it would be best to just play along.

Damien had headed over to the back exit corridor; the one leading outside or off to the toilets. It also led to the seldom-used dance floor at the back of the pub. Harry doubled his pace to catch up; managing to get there a second or two before Damien stopped and turned around.

“Take a look.” Damien pointed to the exit door. “Look through the window at the top.”

For a second Harry had visions of doing as he was told and having his head rammed through the glass. Wasn’t that the kind of thing gangsters do? Made you dig your own grave? Harry sighed. If something was going to happen, it was going to happen. He stepped toward the door, waiting for an attack.

“Look through,” Damien ordered again.

Harry moved up against the door and put his face against the glass. There was no prompting necessary on where to look or what to focus on. It was clear for him to see.

Damien spoke again from behind Harry. “We have big problems.”

Damn right we do!

Harry looked at the growing flames that seemed to rise from the snow in all directions – ten, twenty feet high. The fire formed a wall around the pub like a fiery prison.

But is it meant to keep us all in? Or to drive us out?

The fire was unnatural – Impossible! Ferocious infernos did not rise from the snow in any world that Harry knew of. What he was seeing could not be real.

But it was.

Either that or he was going insane.

What really terrified Harry, though, were the three crucifixes that sat within the flames, each with a struggling victim roasting alive. The screams had no sound, but Harry could see their agony as skin peeled and blackened on their bones, leaving charred husks of flesh that were once arms, legs, and faces. It didn’t take long for them to die.

Harry repeated Damien’s words in his head and then found himself restating them out loud. “Big, big problems…”