Harry raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s great. I’ll come and help you.”
Damien nodded and walked back through the hatch, disappearing through the narrow door behind the bar. Harry followed him into the rear corridor and then down the stairs into the cellar. At the bottom, he found Damien and Old Graham waiting next to a rusty old drum that appeared to have been dragged out of a cluttered corner (if the trail of candle-lit debris was anything to go by). The cellar was a mess, with mounds of rotting wood and cardboard promotion stands for various beer companies making up several piles around the small square space.
“You going to help or not?” Damien asked, tipping the drum onto its edge.
Harry hurried over and grabbed the barrel’s rim, while Old Graham kicked away any obstructions that covered the route to the stairs. Turned out the old man was quite spry for his age.
“After three,” said Harry. “One…two…three…” He and Damien heaved, and began rolling the drum along on its edge, heading for the bottom of the stairs. It was empty but still substantial in weight; Harry felt his hands chafing under the pressure. “How are we going lift it up the stairs?” he asked as they neared the bottom step.
Damien laughed. “Back giving out on you? We’ll just lift it, step by step. Piece of piss.”
The two of them stopped at the stairway and righted the drum back onto its base, dropping it down with a Wong! “Okay,” said Harry. “You ready?”
“Ready for what? A bit of lifting?”
Harry shook his head, unwilling to get into a pissing contest. He turned to look at Old Graham. “Maybe you could gather up some of this cardboard so we can use it for the fire?”
Old Graham nodded and got to work.
Harry signalled to Damien and the two began to lift. They hoisted the drum onto the first step with little effort, and then again onto the second and third. By the fourth, Harry was starting to lose his breath. “Can we stop a sec,” he said.
Damien shook his head. “Can we fuck! Come on, I’m freezing. Maybe if you didn’t drink so much, you’d have more stamina.”
Harry felt his pulse quicken as he fought the urge to slap some respect into the cretinous little shit, but decided to let his actions argue for him. “Right, come on then!” He tried to sound full of vigour, despite the tightness in his chest. “Last thing I want is for your delicate little body to get cold.”
Damien snickered but didn’t rebuke. The two of them continued hoisting the steel drum upwards. They scaled the fifth step and then the sixth. The seventh and eight were hard work but they managed to shift the deadweight up using their feet underneath to kick it upwards. With two more steps left, Harry looked forward to finally releasing the drum at the top. His shoulders burned with fire while his lungs had started to cramp up. Damien was right; a year of constant drinking had left Harry in the physical state of a man twice his age. He felt ashamed.
Just two more steps though and it’s done. You can make it.
They hoisted the drum once more, jarring it upwards with their arms. The barrel rose and Damien began to slide it up onto the next step. As he did so, the bottom edge of the barrel struck against the lip of the step. Harry pushed his side up, trying to clear the two centre-metres needed to get the drum up onto the platform, but found himself unable to move. He strained harder, willed his arms to move, but instead they lowered against his control. Harry’s strength diminished; his grip gave out completely.
Damien cursed as the weight in his hands doubled. Harry watched helplessly as the lad tried to keep the drum under control, attempting to trap it with his leg. Somehow, despite Damien’s best efforts, it twisted sideways and rolled away from them both.
Harry tripped backwards onto the step above as the drum fell past him and began a spiralling journey back down the stairs. His spirits plummeted further as he realised all of the hard work his weakness had just wasted, all the time it would take to try and get the drum back up the stairs again – time the people freezing in the other room did not have.
But Harry felt a hundred times worse when he realised that Old Graham was bent over at the bottom of the stairs, gathering cardboard, oblivious to the danger hurtling towards him.
The barrel picked up speed.
Chapter Nineteen
Jess couldn’t stop worrying about Peter. She also worried about her mum and dad, who would be in turn worrying about her. They were usually still awake now, despite the late hour, finishing off a bottle of wine and arguing. She hoped they were too drunk to notice that she wasn’t home yet, or that the world was slowly being swallowed up by an endless snowstorm. Jess old herself they would be fine, but still she worried about them all the same. Mostly though, right now, she was worried about Peter.
She looked down at her sleeping friend and was surprised to find that his injuries still had the ability to shock her. Peter’s left eye was caked in a thick veneer of canary-yellow, custardy puss. It wasn’t what disturbed her most however; it was the deep carvings sliced into his clammy flesh. Send out the sinner.
Whatever it meant, it was the work of sickos, for sure. Peter never did anything to hurt anyone. He was sweet and gentle, probably the nicest boy she’d ever known. Not like the usual football-obsessed dickheads she usually met online. She looked down at Peter’s gore-crusted face and saw that, despite the blood, she could still make out his gentle features and soft lips. Before tonight, she had sometimes thought about what it would be like to kiss them. She wondered if he’d ever thought about kissing her too.
Bloody Hell, Jess! Peter’s lying here, dying, and you’re thinking about making out with him. Jeez!