Calamity

Chapter 1

Damn, it's such a shame that we've built a wreck out of me

Oh, calamity

It was a dull Sunday afternoon, and Harry was situated alone at some random local bar with soft, country music playing in the background, as a dozen voices of conversation swirled around him, none of them he’s interested in. The air is unclean and murky, filled with harmful toxin’s blown from the mouths that consume the smoke of a cigarette.

His drowsy eyes concentrate on the fizzy alcoholic drink in front of him, the small droplets of water sliding down the glass, colliding with one another, and soon landing on the coaster, forming a damp circle around the base. The cup sitting in front of him was probably his sixth or seventh, and with each sip he takes, he can hear her voice drowning out of his mind. Her sweet, innocent, fluid, cinnamon tasting voice… she’s making you weak, his brain shouts at him, she’s making you sensitive, she’s dragging you down.

He brought his hand to the watery cup, lifting it to his chapped lips, and swallowing the tasteless beverage that numbs his body and silences his thoughts. Don’t let her get to you, his mind hisses, she’s nothing but trouble and you know that. Don’t be a cunt.

He lifts his hand in the air, “An-Another.”

Like magic, another glass is placed where his previous one once was. He thinks it's his eighth now – or maybe his ninth. Drown your sorrows until there’s nothing left. It’s what you do so well, dick.

Drink so much that there’s no room left to feel. Consume so there’s no feeling remaining – replace them with the sweet taste of nothing.

You’re better off alone.

“I thought I’d find you here, Harold.”

He grunted in reply.

“Quite a downfall from the exquisite pubs in London, this place has certainly lost its reputation.”

Harry looked up from his pint, glaring at his father who had aged greatly the last time they conversed. His dark hair had streaks of silver shinning from his roots, covering almost all of his midnight locks that were once thick and wavy. He had deep frown lines upon his forehead even as he graced his son with a somewhat genuine smile. His skin had lost its usual colour – alike his hair – and he seemed somewhat paler.

Harry wasn’t surprised to see his father. He knew he was in town, and he held no desire to see the man or ‘catch up’, since he had been a pathetic excuse for a dad.

“And what reputation would this pub hold, father?” he laughed bitterly, quickly finishing his chilled pint. Harry knew he wasn’t drunk enough to converse with his distant father; the man was about as cold as London’s crisp, midnight air during the season of winter. Harry thought the next time they’d be chatting was when they’d both be rotting in hell.

“This was your mother’s favourite pub to dance at,” his father chuckled warmly, smiling at the fond memory of his wife twirling around in her white sundress, the rays of sunlight dancing upon her tanned skin as the wind took her hair. “Especially on a Sunday afternoon.”

“Hmm,” Harry murmured in reply. Today was his mother’s 5th anniversary of her death, and he did this each year; sitting down on the same stool, ordering the same tasteless beverage, conversing with no one, and thinking about his beautiful mother. The only woman who held a place in his cold, lifeless heart – well, he thinks she’s the only one.

But today wasn’t the only day Harry had sat in this exact place, in the exact seat. Since the unknown and mysterious departure of Faye Stevens, and many failed attempts to locate her destination, or at least figuring out if she were alive, he came to this place to numb his body and silence his mind.

He felt weak and absolutely pathetic, not only for just sitting here at the local pub day after day and punishing himself for somewhat having genuine feelings for a girl, but for not being able to protect her from the unknown men who broke into the safe house. Harry was thrown completely off guard, not knowing about the surprise attack or the masked men following Niall to their whereabouts.

He blames himself for not being able to keep Faye safe, which is what he promised if she stayed, but he’s been taking his frustration and anger out on whoever is close enough to receive his wrath.

He’s lost count with how many men he’s put in hospital this past week from meaningless fights, varying from spilt pints to next week’s winner in football. He never felt guilty though, including how only three days ago he put a man in a wheelchair – Harry pushed the man over and he fell on shards of glass, digging into his tailbone.

When the whole pub gasped at the gory event, Harry barely even battered an eyelid – he was too engrossed in alcohol and anger to feel sympathy for the man, not that he would’ve felt remorse for him sober. That’s not how a gang leaders mind should work.

“You know I’ve seen you here a few times, Harold.” His father pointed, turning on his stool, providing his son with his most undivided attention, which Harry wasn’t giving in return. “And have a feeling it isn’t just about your mother.”

Harry didn’t utter anything in response. The whole reason he attends this pub is to forget and numb the pain; talking about it wasn’t going to help. He’s copped enough shit from Eleanor this past week about Faye, and he doesn’t need another lecture or remark from his father.

“Word flies fast around the streets of London,” he continued, “And I heard about that girl disappearing, I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”

“She’s not dead,” he snarled, tightening his hold on his drink. Harry knew it deep, deep inside him that Faye wasn’t dead, and he was sure of it.

“Well I just heard –”

“You heard wrong.” He growled, his hard gaze flickering to his father for a brief moment.

“I’ve also had a chat or two with a few locals, and we discussed your numerous outbursts in the area. Is this all because –”

Harry could feel his forearm shaking in pure rage at his father’s words. He hated how he spoke about him that way, like he was concerned or trying to decode his sons’ actions and how his mind worked.

So, Harry simple chose to ignore his father.

He was just about to take another sip of his pint, when he felt something vibrate on his left thigh. With his free hand he reached into his pocket and pulled out the device, not bothering to glance at the caller ID before answering, “What?”

“Harry,” Louis snarled, “You need to get home now.”

Harry groaned lowly, curling his fist, “Louis I’m not –”

“Get your ass out of that fucking pub, call a cab and get here right this –”

“Are you telling me what to do?” he barked, standing from his stool as his blood began pumping. “What gives you the fucking right to give me instructions on –”

“We fucking found her, Harry! We know where she is!”

Harry froze.

“She’s over in America –”

“Is she safe?” Harry intervened, “Has she been taken? Is –”

“We don’t know.” Louis replied, his voice settling.

Harry stepped away from the bar, ignoring his father’s words of protests, “Well, we better find out then.”