still high in the sky, and the late afternoon traffic around The Old Steine was starting to ease off at

last. He smoked a cigarette, and only half listened to Dee, rabbiting away next to him.

Across the road, in the middle of Victoria gardens, two slightly gnarled men in ratty old tracksuits

were having a row. Ryan recognised one of them as a regular, and prayed he wasn’t on his way into

The Queen Anne. The pub’s main entrance was about ten yards away, while Ryan and Dee were

waiting by the side door, which was situated in the front courtyard. This was the most direct entrance

from street level, also used as the disabled access, and a handy short cut to upstairs.

Ryan tried not to look at the iron grate, innocently folded back against the wall. This was the same

door that someone kept coming and going from at night. He could still hear the sound of those rusty

keys turning in the lock, the grate being pulled back, and the footsteps clomping up the stairs. Ryan

refused to believe he was the only one who could hear those same footsteps at night, walking around

the hallways upstairs.

What had been a rare occurrence was now becoming far too frequent for his liking. The others

blamed Matt and his heavy footsteps, or even Sammy dancing about to his pop music in his bedroom.

The joking was usually accompanied by uneasy laughter.

No one could deny there was some strange shit going on lately. Noises in the night. Sounds in the

cellar. Things going missing. And a strange stuffiness hanging in the air, no matter how many

windows they kept open.

Rachel and Sammy, ever ones to speculate, had said that there seemed to be a rise of strange shit

happening ever since Fizz had moved in. Ryan didn’t think that explained anything. Fizz was hardly

the one stomping about the halls, was he? The kid barely left his room, and he wasn’t big enough to

make that racket.

No, there was definitely something else going on. But in a way, Fizz was responsible for the one

thing Ryan was most upset about: Ginger had been rather distant this past week. Of course he was

worried about his cousin, Ryan could understand that.

Ryan stubbed out his cigarette, jabbing it into the wall. Okay, he was jealous. He knew it was

selfish but he couldn’t help it. As if it wasn’t difficult enough to get Ginger’s attention, now he had to

contend with Fizz. Not even connecting up that old VCR could get Ginger to spend time with him.

They’d accumulated a stack of vintage VHS tapes, purchased online or at second hand shops over the

last few months, because Ginger had expressed an interest in watching them. Ryan had managed to

track down most of Ginger’s favourites: The Decline of Western Civilisation Part Two: The Metal

Years, Zodiac Mindwarp: Sleazegrinder, Aerosmith: Big Ones You Can Look At, and even bumper

editions of The Fast Show.

Unfortunately, not even good TV could tear Ginger away. So instead, Ryan found himself spending

his free time helping in the bar, or propping it up on the public side, drinking his bad mood away. And

all that accomplished was to pour his wages back into the pub’s till.

Yep, this last week had truly sucked.

Dee still wittered on. Ryan barely heard him, watching the two gnarly men end their row with a

parting curse, then shuffle on their separate ways. Ryan was relieved.

“There they are!” Dee pointed across the Steine. Across the grass area, trapped on the one way

system, was the familiar white Ford van with “Singh & Kour’s Whole Foods” emblazoned on the side.

Ryan braced himself. He wasn’t looking forward to lugging the band’s heavy gear up all those stairs,

but he supposed it gave him something constructive to do on his night off.

A few minutes later, the van had navigated around the Steine, past The Royal Pavilion, and skidded

to a halt in the pub’s loading bay. Glen opened the passenger door and tumbled out, followed by Ash,

who stepped down rather more gracefully. Ryan and Dee waved to Ash’s father, who got out the

driver’s side. “Hello Mr. Singh,” they chimed.

“Hello, boys,” he greeted, sliding the van doors open. “Do you need a hand getting this upstairs?”

Ryan’s heart sank when he saw how much gear was in there, but it was an unspoken rule that any

parent nice enough to lend transport – and it was usually Mr. Singh – wasn’t made to carry heavy

loads. “We’ll be fine, thanks,” Ryan assured him. “Guys, let’s unload it all into the courtyard, then

take it upstairs from there.”

“Sounds good to me.” Mr. Singh grinned, then held out his hand towards his son. “Ash, give me a

cigarette.”

“What?” Ash was annoyed. “You never give me one!”

Mr. Singh barked an order in Indian, his tone firm. Ash muttered to himself, digging in his pockets.

“Come on, then.” Ryan nudged Dee and Glen into action.

Mr. Singh leaned against his van, smoking his pilfered cigarette, while they unloaded their gear as

quickly as possible. Ryan was worn out already, and that was the easy part. “That everything?” he

asked.

Dee poked his head into the now empty van. “Yep!”

“Okay, great. Thanks, Mr. Singh!”

“Yeah, bye, Dad,” Ash said, obviously eager to get rid of his father.

“Bye, boys.” Mr. Singh smiled at them. “Have fun playing with yourselves.”

Ash rolled his eyes. “Dad, go home.”

Mr. Singh chuckled as he got into his van. They waved him off, Ash breathing a sigh of relief. “At

last!”

“It’s good of him to drive us all the time,” Ryan said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ash muttered. “Next time, you sit in the van with him during rush hour. I swear, he

gets instant road rage behind the wheel.”

Ryan chuckled. He had seen Mr. Singh behind the wheel before. It was an intimidating sight.

“Right, let’s get moving,” he sighed, picking up one of Glen’s heavy cymbal bags. “We’ll load two at

a time. Dee, you and Glen stay here and watch the equipment.”

“Why, what’s it gonna do?” Dee quipped.

Ryan didn’t dignify that with a response. He grabbed another bag, and hefted them into the pub.

Ash was behind him, carrying two guitars in their soft cases. As they reached the foot of the stairs,

they saw Rachel stick her head around the corner of the bar. “Oh, hey, Ash!” she called.

“All right, Rach.” Ash bestowed her a smile, and Rachel blushed prettily in response.

Don’t mind me, Ryan thought. Talk about the invisible man. Lugging the bags up the stairs, he

concentrated on trying not to pull a muscle. Those damn cymbals were heavier than they looked.

“So...is Fizz upstairs?” Ash asked.

At the question, Ryan paused and shot a look over his shoulder. “Don’t go there.”

“What?” Ash blinked, trying to act innocent. “I’m just asking.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ryan turned away, and continued climbing.

“He’s Ginger’s cousin, right?”

“Yes.”

“So like, what’s the deal?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is he...I dunno, unwell or something?”

“Don’t ask me,” Ryan said, trying not to sound bitter. “No one tells me anything.”

“Oh.”

Ash sounded disappointed. Suddenly, Ryan had an epiphany. What was he doing warning Ash off

Fizz, when that could potentially be the very thing to help him out? If Fizz was happily occupied, then

Ginger wouldn’t be so busy looking after him. It all made perfect sense.

Turning back to Ash, Ryan smiled. “Now you mention it, I think Ginger said he’s fine, just a

bit...um, down in the dumps, you know?”

Ash raised an eyebrow. “Oh, right? Like how?”

“Well, I don’t know. No one’s been able to get him to talk, but I’m sure all he needs is a friendly

ear.”

“Hm.” Ash smirked back. “Is that so?”