still here, and had kept most of its original furnishings, including more figurines inside.
As Fizz gazed up at the silent figurines he noticed a seagull, perched on the king’s arm, cock its
head and stare back at him. Fizz looked away.
At his side, Luke muttered under his breath. “Come on…”
What if Ginger didn’t answer?
Their older cousin, Ginger, was the assistant manager at The Queen Anne. The reason Luke and
Fizz had visited before, and how Fizz was able to find out so much about the unique building. It was
haunted too, if the drunk tales of the regular patron’s was to be believed. Doors slamming, footsteps
stomping up and down stairs, and a sad, eerie crying in the cellar.
Luke had always scoffed at those tales, while Ginger would shrug like he didn’t care. Fizz put it
down to locals trying to entertain the tourists. He hadn’t seen anything there himself.
Glancing up at the figurine, Fizz saw the seagull spread its wings and fly off. On its way, it shot a
white splat of shit at the pavement, hitting a nearby parked car.
“Glad that wasn’t my car,” Luke said, shielding his eyes against the sun. “Bloody seagulls.”
Fizz didn’t know if he should respond. Luke seemed as though he was getting tetchy, and Fizz knew
that was all his fault. He bit his lip and stared down at the pavement. Like he didn’t feel bad enough
already.
Then Luke spun round, chuckling into his phone. “Still in bed, mate? Sorry to wake you.”
Fizz glanced at him. Ginger must have answered, at last.
“Yeah, yeah, all good. Actually…” Luke offered Fizz a smile, trying to be reassuring. “Got a favour
to ask.”
A few minutes later, Ginger opened the door in his pyjama bottoms, bare feet, a classic wife beater
vest that showed off his tattooed arms, and a very bleary look on his face.
“Awright, sleeping beauty,” Luke greeted him.
Ginger glared at them through the iron gate. He rattled his enormous stack of keys, looking for the
right one. Luke picked up Fizz’s bags, and when the door was fully open he guided Fizz inside.
Ginger led them through to the bar, lit up by the morning light that shone through the large
windows. He yawned loudly, reaching for the coffee pot with one hand while running the other
through his long red hair.
Fizz sat at a bar stool while his brother and cousin both spoke in low, muted tones. That was how
people usually spoke around Fizz; like he was some sort of blithering idiot that couldn’t look after
himself.
Well…maybe that’s what they thought of him. Fizz supposed he couldn’t blame them for thinking
that way. The fact was, he could look after himself. Physically, he was fine. Fit and well, perhaps a
little on the scrawny side, but there was nothing wrong with his body. It was like some sick joke, to
give him a perfectly able body, but not the head to go with it.
The world Fizz knew was simply too much to deal with. While other people got on with things, and
had a life, Fizz sometimes wondered if maybe he’d been born without the mental capacity to deal with
every-day life. School? No. He hadn’t been able to cope with it, with seeing so many people all at
once. Fizz had gradually stopped going into school aged fifteen, when some days he really couldn’t
face doing anything except staying under his duvet. Hiding from everyone, hiding from their
expectations, and the sheer misery of knowing he’d never measure up.
His parents hadn’t known what to do, and all the different doctors they’d sent him to simply called
it a “chemical imbalance.” There seemed no other explanation for the crushing depression he suffered
from, and no amount of pills or talking about it could change it, or make it go away.
He’d have loved to simply stop existing, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything so calculated
at suicide, or contemplate hurting the people he’d leave behind. He didn’t want to upset anyone, he
didn’t want to impose on anyone either.
However, now his parents had kicked him out, Fizz supposed that was two less people he had to
worry about. They’d obviously had enough, and who could blame them? Fizz wished he could start
over, do things right, the way his parents had wanted. Before he could hold it in, his face heated up,
and tears rolled down his cheeks.
Ginger broke off talking to Luke, to hand Fizz a wad of coarse blue tissue from behind the bar.
Then he pushed a cup of coffee under Fizz’s nose.
“Can’t change what’s happened,” he said. “Time to suck it up, kid.”
* * *
Luke gave Fizz a hug, and said goodbye. Ginger waved him off at the door, then took hold of Fizz’s
bags. “C’mon.” He motioned with his head and disappeared behind the gloomy bar. Fizz followed
him, round the bar and up the stairs. As his feet dragged on the steps, he turned to look out of the
window at the street; the traffic flew past, and people strolled by. People getting on with their daily
lives, completely unaware of anyone watching them.
Ginger led the way up the wooden staircase, along the hallway and punched in the security code to a
heavy, locked door. Then it was up more stairs, narrower and steeper, into the living quarters of the
pub. This part was where it still looked like a hotel, Fizz thought. He’d been up here once before, when
he and Luke had visited.
Ginger directed Fizz into the communal kitchen. The radio was on, and a young, punky-looking boy
stood at a counter, buttering a slice of toast while gazing out of the window. He had his back to them,
and Fizz noticed the cute curve of his behind in snug-fitting jeans, noticed the slightly ripped t-shirt
on a slim body, and his tangle of multi-coloured hair. This boy was physically just Fizz’s type and yet,
sadly, such a sight did absolutely nothing for him.
The boy looked round, about to smile. Fizz saw that the boy had a silver ring through his nose, and
a smattering of freckles over his cheeks. His hair was buzzed short on the sides, and the flop of
rainbow coloured hair on top was likely an off duty mohawk.
“Ryan,” Ginger addressed the boy. “This is my cousin, Fizz.” Ginger nudged Fizz into the room,
and bid him sit down at the kitchen table. “Wait here, Fizz. Ryan, would you...um, look after Fizz a
minute, while I go talk to Pete?”
The boy, Ryan, gave Ginger his undivided attention. “Sure thing,” he said brightly. “No problem.”
Ginger thanked him, laid Fizz’s bags on the floor, then left the kitchen. Fizz noticed that Ryan
watched Ginger leave, like he was unable to tear his eyes away. Only once Ginger had disappeared did
he turn to Fizz. Ryan smiled and said, “Do you want something to eat?”
Fizz wished he could return the smile. Framed by the golden light of the window, this boy was the
picture of warmth and welcome. Unfortunately, short-lived acts of kindness like this only made Fizz
feel even more useless and undeserving of it. It was a wretched cycle; receive kindness, feel guilty. He
couldn’t escape his own stupid feelings. Fizz realised whilst he’d been silently panicking, he hadn’t
answered the boy. He wished he could’ve smiled back, or at least apologised for being so useless, but
he was afraid if he spoke now he’d end up bawling again.
So he shook his head, averted his eyes, he stared at the floor. A couple of beats passed where Ryan
was obviously unsure what to do, then he turned around and switched the kettle on. The blithe pop
song on the radio kept the silence from being too awkward.
Fizz zoned out, staring at nothing, wishing he could melt away, where he wouldn’t be a burden to
anyone. He was jolted out of his thoughts when a mug of steaming hot tea was placed in front of him.
“Do you take sugar?”
Fizz looked up into Ryan’s sweet, smiling face. This small act of kindness made Fizz feel so guilty