“Hey, who is that?” asked Steph from behind the bar. “Anyone we know?”
A hearty chuckle floated over from the doorway as the stranger spoke once more. “No Lass, I do not believe we’ve had the pleasure. The name’s Lucas Fergus and I am on a vital quest to get some beer down me neck.”
Steph laughed and Harry found himself amused too. It wasn’t often the pub was graced with such colour beyond old men and their tall tales of the past.
“Well,” said Steph, “I can only offer you bottles and shots at the moment. As you can see the power is off, and that means the pumps are dry. Cash only, too, if that’s alright?”
“Cash is the only way an honourable man pays for anything in my mind so there be no worries there, and I don’t care whether the beer comes from bottle or tap either. It all ends up in the same place.”
“No arguments here,” said a voice Harry recognised as Old Graham’s.
Over by the fireplace the flickering silhouette of Damien shifted and stirred at the presence of the stranger. Harry had learned from past occasions that Damien didn’t like people he didn’t know. People he didn’t know were usually unaware of his reputation; he did not like that at all. Once, Harry had witnessed Damien carve his initials into some poor lad’s forehead with a nasty-looking blade, just so people would know he was to be respected. The young man had screamed the entire time. The police never came; no one called them.
And Harry knew that the police wouldn’t come tonight either. No matter what happened.
Thankfully, Damien had been uncharacteristically quiet all night; but Harry couldn’t help but worry that meant something bad. When a venomous snake stopped acting like a snake, what did it mean?
Does it mean they’re more dangerous?
“Can we bear some light in here, you reckon?” Lucas asked them all, flicking open a glinting zippo lighter and illuminating his face in flame. He looked about Harry’s age – early-thirties – boyishly handsome with a cheeky grin to match. The man’s head was tangled with wild tussles of mousy brown hair that crept below his ears. Harry thought he looked like a handsome traveller from the front cover of one of the trashy Mills and Boon novels his wife used to collect.
“In weather like this I’m surprised you’re not all around that lovely fireplace.” Lucas moved toward the bar, his flame-lit face a disembodied ghost as it crossed the room. “Or does that wee bald fella on the sofa not play well with others?”
“The less said about that the better,” warned Steph in a hushed voice.
Harry cringed, worried about the response the newcomer’s comment could possibly elicit from Damien, and was thankful, if a little surprised, when the young thug merely turned away and returned to whatever he was doing. It really wasn’t like Damien to be so reserved.
He’s preoccupied with something. But what?
Confident that no trouble was going to occur – at least for the time-being – Harry decided he would join the newcomer at the bar. Sitting alone in the dark wasn’t awfully appealing and he needed a refill anyway. His current beer smelt like bad eggs.
“So Lucas,” Harry said, arriving at the bar and propping his elbows against its gnarled surface. “Where have you come in from?”
Lucas turned to Harry, the zippo still lighting his face. His striking blue eyes flickered in the shimmering glow of the flame. “I’ve come in from the bloody cold fella, but before that I came from down south.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “South?”
“That’s what I said now, isn’t it? Been here-there-and-everywhere in my time – up and down, upside down – but originally I hail from the North. Been spending a lot of time in the South more recently though, after a falling out with me father. Suits me just fine; warmer climate, you know?”
Harry nodded; the gesture pointless in the dark. “I take it you’re talking about Northern and Southern Ireland, or do you mean since you’ve been in England?”
“Now, where is that drink I heard a rumour about,” said Lucas, single-mindedly. “This is a pub, is it not?”
Steph shouted from the backroom behind the bar. “Hold your horses! For a complete stranger you’re pretty demanding.”
“I’m a growing lad, and if ye make me wait I may just fade away. Or, worse than that, I may sober up.”
Steph came back through to the bar holding a wooden tray full of mismatched candles. The flames danced around her breasts and Harry tried not to stare at them. Carefully, she placed the candles evenly along the bar and the heady smell of burning wax wafted into the air. The first candle she had placed in front of Old Graham, whilst the last went in front of Nigel. In between, Harry and Lucas got candles too.
“That’s better,” said Steph. “Now, who wants a beer besides our new friend here?”
“I’m ready for one,” said Harry. “This one has gone bad.”
“Mine too,” said Old Graham, pushing his own pint forward. “I’m going to have to have a dozen more just to make up for it.”
Steph scrunched up her face. “Strange…Maybe there’s a problem with the taps. Not surprised, the amount you lot drink. They probably couldn’t take the strain.”
Lucas chuckled. “Looks like I’ve come to the right place. You’re men after me own heart, and now that I can see a little bit better, I can also admire what a fine young wench we have ourselves behind the bar.”
“Hey, less of the wench!” Steph objected. They all laughed and she got to work handing them their bottled beers, each of them swigging deeply as though it was their first of the night. Perhaps for Lucas it was.
The Irishman pointed a finger. “So who’s the beefy fella down the end of the bar that doesn’t talk?”
“My name is Nigel and I can hear you.”
“Well, Big Man, come and suck ale with the rest of us.”
“Maybe later.”
“What’s wrong with you, man? There a gal down there with ya?”