Maybe if Kath’s father hadn’t been such a deadbeat she could have finished her History degree and actually done something with her life. Instead she ended up supporting him until she hit twenty-eight. The day she found her father lying on the floor, fading from a heart attack had been a turning point for her. The thought of him pleading with her to call for help, while she stood there shaking her head and watching him die, was significant to her. It was the day she decided she would no longer let anyone take advantage of her. She would look out only for herself from then on. Selfish, lazy drunks like Harry could go right to Hell.
All around Kath, the degenerates scuttled around like displaced ants, clutching blankets and bottles of water, carrying them in a line. Something was happening in one of the backrooms of the pub, but Kath couldn’t say she really cared. She was only with these people for safety, and the last thing she wanted was to be involved with them beyond that.
Maybe the thug has finally thrown a punch at the drunk, she thought. Punch drunk!
She laughed out loud, but secretly hoped that harmless bickering was all that was happening in the back, but when she thought again about who had thrown Peter through the window, and why, she started to worry that there was far more danger lurking in the air tonight than a simple punch up.
“Well,” she said out loud. “I’d best go see what those idiots have gotten themselves into.”
Kath stood up and headed for the darkness of the corridor.
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.