hoped Sammy didn’t keep him waiting too long to read the note. The orders were already taking long

enough, thanks to everything else either not working properly, or hiding from him.

He tapped his foot on the floor impatiently.

After a couple of minutes, Matt finally heard the dumb waiter coming back up. He hoped this time

there was a more legible order in it. As the wooden unit appeared in his hatch, Matt reached in for the

note. He frowned as he read it. Written in curly script, Sammy had replied, “Sorry, Matthew, I can’t

read your crappy hand writing!”

And he’d drawn a heart, with a smiley face.

Matt scrunched the note in his hands as his rage threatened to boil over. If only he had his phone, or

the damn intercom was working. To think in this age of technology and communication he was

reduced to swapping paper notes with that brat downstairs.

Taking up his pen, Matt wrote out another note. In block capitals, as large as he could fit in, he

wrote, “WHAT WAS TABLE THREE’S ORDER.”

Resisting the temptation to add a P.S. on the back, Matt threw the second note in the dumb waiter.

“Coming down!” he growled, pulling the ropes.

Laughter filtered up through the shaft. Matt frowned. That was odd. Sammy had more of a bubbly,

care free laugh. The low, echoey chuckle that rose up now sounded more...dirty? Shaking his head,

Matt ignored it. He waited again for Sammy’s reply.

After what seemed like an age, the dumb waiter began its return. Matt waited by the hatch. Just as

the top of the unit appeared, he reached out his hand to grab the moving rope. Before his fingers even

touched it, he heard a sharp snap. The ropes stopped, then swiftly unravelled backwards as the unit

dropped. Matt’s stomach free-falled just as quickly, and his heart leapt into his throat. “Sammy!” he

shouted. “MOVE!”

Laughter echoed through the shaft, and as the unit landed in the bottom hatch, Matt definitely heard

someone yelp.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Matt charged out of the kitchen, almost wrenching the door off its hinges. Not

caring if he was over reacting, he sprinted out into the hall and down the stairs. He stumbled on the

last step, but kept going. Bursting into the downstairs bar, he spared a quick glance around for anyone

else, but it was empty. No one was in the pub. Likely the only customers were in the garden. Matt

rushed around the corner, into the dingy back bar where the dumb waiter was.

His heart beat double time at the sight of Sammy, slumped against the wall just under the hatch.

“Sammy!” Matt was at his side in a second, gently turning his face up. “Sammy?”

There was a cut on his forehead, and a bright trickle of blood traced the outer edge of his eyebrow.

Matt absently wiped it away with his thumb, before it went in Sammy’s eye. Those eyelids fluttered

open, as Matt breathed a sigh of relief. “Jesus, Sammy, Jesus. Are you okay?”

Sammy stared at him placidly, a breath sighing out of his mouth. He must be in shock, Matt

thought. Funny, he’d never noticed Sammy’s eyes before. They were pale green, except for the starburst

of dark blue around the pupils. He’d never seen eyes of two colours before. But then, he’d never

spent much time looking into anyone’s eyes.

“What’s going on?” Ryan’s voice startled him. Matt glanced over his shoulder, then back at

Sammy. He suddenly realised he was cradling Sammy’s body against him, and felt his face flush. Matt

tried to prop Sammy against the wall, and pulled his hands back. “It...it was an accident.”

Ryan stood over them, eyes wide as he took in the scene. The dumb waiter, hanging loose and

broken. Sammy, dazed on the floor, with a bleeding head. And Matt, crouched over him, looking

guilty.

Matt winced. If he were Ryan, he’d be jumping to the same conclusions.

* * *

Ryan just couldn’t believe today. It was one drama after another. First, Sammy and Matt had some

kind of mishap with the dumb waiter, which resulted in Sammy getting knocked out. Ryan had called

upstairs to Ginger, who was their resident first aider. The look Ginger had given Matt when he’d

arrived on the scene had Ryan start to feel sorry for Matt, who surely couldn’t be to blame. Once

Sammy came around, he’d insisted he was fine, but after a woozy stumble, Ginger decided they’d

better go to casualty, to be on the safe side. He’d borrowed Pete’s car, and Ryan had helped him load

Sammy into the passenger seat.

They’d left around one in the afternoon, and there were still customers in the garden, awaiting their

orders. Matt had turned into a nervous wreck, and proceeded to get every lunch order after that

completely wrong. Pete came down to help Ryan out at the bar, especially when more than a few

disgruntled customers had made their feelings known about their messed up lunches.

Time was getting on. Ginger had sent a couple of texts on his phone, updating Ryan on their

progress. Of course, casualty had been busy, and they’d waited a long time. It was almost four o’clock

before Ginger texted to say that Sammy had been seen, but there were delays on the tests he needed.

Ginger wasn’t sure what time they’d be back. He added at the end of his last text that there were a

couple of grizzly drunks in the waiting room that kept trying to engage him in conversation.

Why me, Ginger said.

Ryan pressed his lips together and tried not to smile. Poor Ginger.

Well, poor Sammy.

Then the real ale lines stopped working for apparently no reason. Pete had to go down to the cellar

to fix them, and it wasn’t a quick job. Two of the regulars were at the bar; they were proper ale fans,

and weren’t impressed with having to wait. Ryan tried to keep them occupied with friendly chat, while

Pete worked his magic downstairs.

Rachel was due in at six to start the evening shift. When the phone rang at quarter to six, Ryan

winced in anticipation. To add to the crap of the day, Rachel told him she was calling in sick. “Rachel,

please,” Ryan pleaded with her. “You can’t be that ill. Just work until ten, and I’ll close for you.”

“I can’t,” she wheezed down the phone. “It came on last night, Ry, I’ve got this terrible fever. I’m

all shivery.”

Ryan sighed. “All right, don’t worry. Get better soon. As in, tomorrow, please.”

“I’ll try, hun,” she said.

Hanging up the phone, Ryan felt like banging his head on the wall. With three members of staff

down, it looked like he’d be pulling a double shift today. As if he wasn’t tired enough. There was the

option of calling round some of the part timers, but on a Friday night, Ryan knew it was unlikely any

of them would want to work at such short notice. At six o’ clock, most of them would already be out

on the lash by now.

Suddenly, a spark of inspiration lit in his mind. Ryan ducked out back, through the door, and raced

up the stairs two at a time. By the time he reached the pigeon loft, he was only a little out of breath.

He paused on the threshold. What was it about this part of the building that made him uneasy? The air

was stifling, yet all the windows were open. The day had been sunny, but not that hot.

Taking a breath, Ryan stepped into the hall and took the three small steps to Fizz’s bedroom. Or

“grief hole,” as Sammy had called it. Ryan peered in the open doorway. He saw what he expected to

see, the figure of Fizz laying on the mattress, with music blaring in his ears.

Then Ryan blinked.

Was that someone else standing by the window? A figure? He squinted against the gloom. The

window had a faded lilac throw draped over it, partially blocking out the last of the day’s bright sun.