Forecast: Snow

One night it started snowing...

Chapter 1

 

“A little bit of snow and the country falls apart.”

               Harry lifted his head away from his pint and scanned the bar of The Trumpet’s beer lounge. 

               Old Graham, The Trumpet’s most elderly regular, stared at him intently, then pointed to the TV suspended precariously above the bar.  “More nonsense on the news about how a bit of white powder is gonna bring Britain to a standstill.  This country is full of pansies.”

               Harry glanced up at the pub’s TV.  “People have died haven’t they?”

               The old man huffed, the sound wheezy and wet.  “People die every day, no matter the weather.  You think places like Norway and Switzerland panic every time there’s snowfall?”

               Harry thought for a moment, but didn’t reply.  He was eager to get back to his drinking and so didn’t feel a strong desire to argue.  If he paid Old Graham too much attention he’d be stuck with him all night - it had happened enough times in the past to learn that lesson fully.  Harry took another deep swallow of lager and kept his attention on the television, uncomfortably aware of the old man’s pestering stare.

               On the television the news program switched to a female reporter.  She was enveloped by an over-sized, pink ski-jacket and was standing on a bridge overlooking a motorway.

               “Hello there, Rob, in the studio.”  The female reporter spoke into a handheld microphone.  “I’m here overlooking the M1 and as you can clearly see it’s total gridlock.  Nine inches of snow in just two days has left the nation’s transportation network in disarray.  All major roads are now in the process of being closed off and all train services have been terminated till further notice.  Schools have obviously been closed along with most businesses.  Hospitals are doing their best to remain open as the recent death toll has now risen to fourteen weather related deaths.  Emergency services have set up a help line in order to assist anyone in serious need and also to offer advice on how best to survive the current freezing temperatures.  That number is being displayed on screen right now I’m being told.”

               Old Graham threw his hands up dismissively.  “They don’t half cause some bloody worry.  Scare mongers, that’s what they are.”

               Harry looked up again from his half-empty glass.  He knew the only way out of this conversation was to appease the old man.  He agreed, “Bet everything will be back to normal this time next week.”

               “You bet your balls it will.”  Old Graham slid down the bar towards him, arthritic knees clicking with every step.  “I’ve lived through worse times than this lad!”

               “Really,” said Harry, rolling his tired green eyes.  “Like what?”

               “I used to be married.”  With that, the old codger hooted and howled in laughter, before his worn vocal cords seized up, causing him to cough and hack yellow-green phlegm bubbles across the bar.  He put a liver-spotted hand against his chapped lips until the fit subsided.  “Best go shift the crap off me chest,” were his parting words before he tottered off toward the toilets.

               Harry shook his head and turned to face the opposite side of the bar.  Steph �" the Trumpet’s only barmaid �" was smiling at him.  She clutched a cardboard box full of MALT N SALT crisps against her chest.  She placed it down on the bar and pulled an old rag from the waistband of her jeans.  She wiped down the area where Old Graham had coughed.  “He bothering you again, Harry?”

               Harry ran a hand through his scruffy brown hair that was long overdue a cut.  “He’s fine,” he said.  “Just had too much to drink.”

               Steph snorted.  “You’re one to talk.  What time did you get here today?”

               “Noon.”

               “Exactly, and it’s now…” She glanced at her watch.  “Nine in the evening.”

               Harry smirked.  “Yeah, but at least I have the decency to pass out when I’m drunk, instead of talking people’s heads off like Old Graham.”

               “I’ll give you that.  Although I’d like to remind you that you puked all over me last Sunday.  I had to throw my shoes out �" and they were damn pretty!”

               Harry looked down at the foamy liquid in his glass and for a split-second felt embarrassed enough that he contemplated not drinking it and going home.  The embarrassment didn’t last though and a second later he downed the last of the beer.  “I must have been a pathetic sight.”

               Steph frowned, although the warming glow of compassion never left her delicate blue eyes.  “You’re not pathetic, Harry.  You’re just a sad story.  Things will look up for you one day.  You’ll get back on your feet.”

               Harry huffed.  “You reckon?”

               “You better hope so because I’m not putting up with you puking on me every week.”

               The two of them chuckled together and Harry felt his mood lighten.  Usually when he drank all day, he would get tipsy, feeling merry and confident at first, but then becoming tired and withdrawn for the rest of the night.  Occasionally he’d get a second wind and wake up.  Other times he would pass out.  Tonight he would last the distance. 

               Harry pushed his empty glass towards Steph and she refilled it diligently, the overflow from the glass sliding down over the black heart tattoo on her wrist.  Suddenly he was overrun with the strange desire to lick the beer from her arm, but quickly felt ashamed.  He was married.

               Harry took his fresh pint and turned away from the bar.  The tattered, worn padding of the bar stool he’d occupied for the last three hours had sent his backside numb.  He wanted the relief of a cushion.  As he headed towards his regular bench by the pub’s large front window, he saw Old Graham return from the toilet.  There was a small urine stain on the crotch of his grey, cotton trousers and Harry was glad when the old man returned to the bar instead of coming over to join him at the window bench.  Thank God for small mercies.

               Harry eased down onto the faded bench cushions and the feeling of blood returning to his butt muscles was almost orgasmic.  He placed his pint down on the circular table in front of him and picked up a beer mat.  Without pause, he began peeling its printed face away from the cardboard.  It was a habit Steph was always on at him about, but as a habit it was �" by its very nature �" hard to stop.  For some reason the act seemed to halt his thoughts and give him a brief moment of focused concentration.  He thought of nothing and was able to hold that thought.

               Relaxing back into the bench’s backrest, Harry scanned the room.  The lounge area of The Trumpet was narrow and long, with the toilet and exit corridor at one end and a stone fireplace with a sofa at the other.  In the middle was the dilapidated dark-wood bar along with several rickety tables and chairs nearby.  It was a quiet yet busy little pub in a quiet yet busy little council estate �" both welcoming and threatening at the same time.

               Tonight the pub was low on drinkers �" it usually was on Tuesdays.  The only member of staff on duty was Steph, holding down the fort on her own.  She’d worked there for just over a year now and was more than capable of maintaining control.  The girl could handle herself as well as any man.  Even Damien behaved under her watch.

               Damien Johnson was a local scumbag that pushed his drugs on the local estate.  In fact he was the local scumbag.  No one in the pub liked him, not even his so called friends (or entourage as Old Graham would often call them in secret), but the bald-headed thug was a wild card and prone to flying off the handle at any time.  Rumour had it he’d stabbed a teenager to death a year previous and taunted the family afterwards, revelling in the grief he’d caused.  Needless to say, the Police had found no evidence to stick (when did they ever?) and whoever did it �" Damien or otherwise �" got away with it.  Tuesdays, however, were usually free of Damien’s presence.  Tonight was an unfortunate exception.

               The lad was taking up the sofa by the fire; hogging its natural warmth for himself whilst others in the pub shivered.  He’d ushered Old Graham away when he’d entered the pub at about seven that evening, leaving the pensioner little choice but to move into the cold.  Now Damien sat with his Rockport boots up on the long sofa and a flashy phone to his ear.  No doubt controlling his illicit little empire, Harry thought.  At least he’s alone.  Last thing this place needs is the whole gang of scumbags. 

               Also in the bar that night was a greasy-haired, leather-faced chap named Nigel.  Harry had never spoken to him much, but saw the man in the pub a couple nights a month.  He was pretty sure he was a lorry driver and spent a lot of time on the road.  Other than that and the fact that the guy obviously had severe acne as a kid, Harry knew nothing else.  Nigel pretty much kept to himself.

               After that, there was Old Graham and himself.  That was the full set.  Just the five of them.  Tuesday was a lonely night.

               Harry swivelled round on the window bench, pulling his right knee sideways onto the cushion, and looked out the window behind him.  The snow fell in fat sparkling wisps that passed through the black-sheet background of the night and made it seem like the gloom itself were alive with movement.  Harry shivered as a brief chill sent a tickle up his spine.  It seemed to be getting progressively colder and even the warmth of the pub’s fireplace was fading.  The snow outside was knee-high and still rising.  God only knew how he’d manage the journey home to his house that night without the taxis running.  Old Graham would be ok as he had the flat above the pub, and Damien only lived a couple roads away.  Maybe if he was lucky Steph would let him bed down till the morning.

               The Trumpet public house was one of Birmingham’s oldest surviving pubs, built upon a hill overlooking a small row of shops and a mini supermarket that served the local borough.  Usually, Harry could see the shops across the pathway from the pub’s window, but tonight his vision faltered after only a few feet.  For all he knew right then the darkness could have stretched on for an eternity.  The thought unsettled him.

               Harry reached out for his pint and pulled it close, resting it on his thigh as he remained sideways on the bench.  The wedding ring on his finger caught his attention, along with the thick, jagged scar that ran across the back of his hand.  It sent his mind back to the previous year when it had snowed heavily too (though nowhere near as heavily as tonight).  His world had been a lot different then.  In a way it was unbelievable that he’d gotten from then to now, how’d he’d managed to wake up every morning and go to bed every night for one whole year.  In the weeks and months following the accident he’d been unable to look forward even one minute, too embroiled in the misery and blinding grief of each moment to ever consider the notion of a future.  Things hadn’t really changed for him since that time �" the pain still encased his chest like a stone cardigan �" but at least the feeling had become muted and dulled by the detachment that only time was able to provide.  The accusing voices in his head were still there, but quieter, like they’d finally started to lose their breath after months of screaming inside his skull.  He swigged his beer and chuckled about the fact that this time last year he had hated the taste of lager.  White wine had been his favoured drink, but The Trumpet wasn’t really the type of place where a thirty-year old man could order a nice bottle of Chardonnay without being looked at like a poofter.

               How times change.

               He was down to the last dregs of his drink when the lights went out.  It happened at the exact moment a stranger entered the pub.

Author's Note

All advice welcome

Reviews

[Jas Alejandrino Ramos]

good story and good chapter....seriously i only read this chapter and it's good

[Political Punk ~~ CBD]

looks good, I got about good ways in and I noticed a few things.

1- Every once in a while you looks like you accidentally would add an extra mark like this

“I’ll give you that. Although I’d like to remind you that you puked all over me last Sunday. I had to throw my shoes out " and they were damn pretty!”

simple, just something I noticed.

But over all it was good read looking forward to the rest of it