Untitled Ghost Story

By S. J. Moore

Gav and Steve went to the same school. They weren't friends. Their paths diverged for a few years, but now they're working in the same pub. Gav is assistant manager, while Steve is a barman paying his way through a master's degree.
One night the streetwise Gav takes pity on the pseudo-intellectual Steve, and offers him a tab of ecstasy during their after-work pint. Steve is soon wiped out by the cocktail of booze and drugs, and Gav finds himself under attack from someone – or something – lurking in the cellar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Salt
• Release date: Oct 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781784630225

S. J. Moore

S. J. Moore is a writer from South Tyneside. He has worked as an HE administrator, a copywriter, a barperson and a quizmaster. He helped judge The Guardian’s Not the Booker Prize in 2013, and has published three books in his retelling of the Arthurian legends. The first volume, Children of the May, is available free wherever e-books are sold. He tweets @s_j_moore, and serializes his Arthurian stories on Wattpad, where he is sjmoore4.

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Untitled Ghost Story!

Gav and Steve went to the same school. They weren’t friends. Their paths diverged for a few years, but now they’re working in the same pub. Gav is assistant manager, while Steve is a barman paying his way through a master’s degree.

One night the streetwise Gav takes pity on the pseudo-intellectual Steve, and offers him a tab of ecstasy during their after-work pint. Steve is soon wiped out by the cocktail of booze and drugs, and Gav finds himself under attack from someone – or something – lurking in the cellar.

S. J. MOORE is a writer from South Tyneside. He has worked as an HE administrator, a copywriter, a barperson and a quizmaster. He helped judge The Guardian’s Not the Booker Prize in 2013, and has published three books in his retelling of the Arthurian legends. Children of the May, Balin and Columbine, and Ides of the May are available wherever e-books are sold. He tweets @s_j_moore, and serializes his Arthurian stories on Wattpad, where he is sjmoore4.

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Published by Salt Publishing Ltd

12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX

All rights reserved

Copyright © S.J. Moore, 2014

The right of S.J. Moore to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.

Salt Publishing 2014

Created by Salt Publishing Ltd

This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978-1-78463-022-5 electronic

One

‘Oi Jimmy, ye’re pissed ye auld bastad. It’s time, man. Get yer fucking arse out the door.’

Gav wants a fucking drink.

The auld man stinks.

‘Christ, Jimmy, have yee fucking shite yerself? Christ.’

The twat’s at the glasswash. Watching.

The back of the auld feller’s grey trackie pants are wet. Fucking brown at the edges. Sopping. Gav’s not touching that.

Gav slaps the auld feller’s face, gently like. White whiskers prick Gav’s palm. Gav wipes his hand on his trousers.

‘Jimmy. Jimmy. It’s time. Time to fucking gan hyem.’

The twat’s leaning on the bar now.

‘You want a hand getting him out?’ the twat says. Has he fucking noticed the specks of dandruff on his shirt?

‘Nah, man,’ Gav says. ‘Just finish off, aye.’

The twat nods. Turns back to the glasswash. It clicks open. The jets of water stop a second after. The twat slides out the hot glasses, they clash together in the tray at the bottoms, which are the tops. Glasses reversed, like.

Gav takes Jimmy’s glass. Half a flat Foster’s. The auld bastad spots that soon enough.

‘What yee deein, man?’ says the sad auld fucker. ‘Let us sleep, man.’

‘Nah, Jimmy. Jimmy. It’s time to gan. Ha’way.’

Gav touches the auld feller’s sleeve. The auld feller tries to bat him away.

‘Just let us sleep, man. The auld man, the big man, let us sleep here. There was never owt missing in the morning.’ Gummy fucking lips. His teeth gannen.

‘Aye well, mate, the auld man, whoever he was, in’t here anymore. I am. And I say it’s time to gan hyem, eh.’

Gav heaves. The auld feller bends to his feet.

‘Oh shite,’ the auld feller says, spotting he’s shited himself.

‘Here,’ Gav says, being a soft touch. ‘Gan to the disabled bogs and I’ll get you some spare kecks from the box, aye?’ Gav’s thinking: Jimmy’s a regular, and he could spend his pennies in the Crusaders or the Lion instead if he isn’t barred out of them.

‘Oh shite man,’ says the auld feller. Is he crying?

‘Aye, mate. Yee have. Ye have. But I’ll let ye get yerself cleaned up, alreet? Five minutes, Jimmy. Five minutes.’

‘Ye’re a good lad, lad, ye are. Like the auld feller.’ Jimmy walks like he’s shite himself – which he has – towards the disabled bogs. Fucking hell. The back of his trackie pants sag to the backs of his knees. Looks like a sloppy teabag in his kecks.

Five minutes, ten minutes later Gav’s got the auld fucker out, given him his wet kecks in a bin bag. Gav locks the doors. He doesn’t look again at the spatters of runny, bloody shite on the disabled bog’s floor. He just pulls the door closed. One for the fucking cleaners in the morning.

Speedy fucking twatgalez is in the raised area, spraying and wiping like a mister muscle ad.

‘Ye wanna drink?’ Gav says.

‘You having one?’

‘Aye.’

‘I will, then. Smith’s please.’

‘Aye.’

Nee sparklers on the pump. Beer’s flat as fuck. Gav tiptoes the mopped floor and fingertips the first fridge open. Grabs a bottle for himself. Presses the button on the receipt printer. Tears a strip of paper. Writes down their drinks to pay for in the morning and slaps coin down on the marble-effect counter. Time was you could have a one gratis at the end of yer shift. Christ. Old days, old days, fucking olden days.

Zap. Zoom. Fucking till one. Ah shite.

‘I’m gannen up to count till one, eh,’ Gav says.

‘Cool.’ Twatboy looks around. What’s he forgotten? ‘I’ll have a go at Jimmy’s seat. Poor bloke. You want me to do the disabled bogs and all?’

‘Nah. Fuck it.’

‘Cheers, man. I was hoping you’d say that.’

‘Nee bother.’ He’s alreet is twatboy. Does the job. Better than the boss’ idle missus, anyway. Fucking filing her fucking nails fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. The grey bastad lets her get away with owt.

Jeeeeeeeeeeesus Gav’s got himself radgy for a fucking weeknight.

Gav gans upstairs to count some other fucker’s money in the office. He gets that auld feeling when he swings open the safe. If it’s ever heavy enough for it to be worth his while he will. Where will a grand and a bit get him though? Fucking South Shields for a week. He could b&b it with the big bastad contractors up for the weeks wherever they’re working on the river or whatever. Moaning about the injustices of the trades and their big fuckoff what-goes-on-tour overtime cheques.

Gav locks the safe, everything reconciled and inputted. Tuppence down. Thinks the company can absorb that loss. Though to listen to the fuckers in the last meeting … fucking nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh waste this, waste that, margin of error, tighten wuh belts, profit and loss nyeh nyeh.

Fuckers.

There’s a flush in the pipes, feeding the gents cistern.

When Gav locks the office door