Йен Райт: The Final Winter

Harry sipped his latest beer while yet another news update flashed across the pub’s dusty television. A female reporter appeared onscreen, enveloped by an over-sized pink ski-jacket and covered in snow. “Good evening,” she said politely, a slight shiver in her voice. “I’m Jane Hamilton with Midland-UK News. As you can clearly see, the nineteen-inches of snow Britain has witnessed during the previous 24-hours has left the nation’s transportation network in disarray.” The camera panned to overlook a deserted motorway. A sky-blue transit van lay overturned and abandoned in its centre; its mystery cargo strewn across – and half-buried by – the snow.

The reporter let out a breath that steamed the air, and then continued. “Major roads have now been closed off and the nation’s rail links have been terminated until further notice. Schools are closed, along with nonessential businesses, while hospitals are doing their best to remain open. The current death toll of weather-related fatalities is now at twenty-seven and feared to rise. Emergency services have set up a helpline in order to assist anyone in serious need and to offer advice on how best to survive the current freezing temperatures. That number is being displayed at the bottom of the screen now.”

Harry shook his head. How long are they going keep this up? We get it, the weather’s bad!

“Even more concerning,” the television reporter continued, much to Harry’s displeasure, “is the fact that it is currently snowing throughout every nation of the world.” A multi-coloured map of the earth superimposed itself at the top right of the screen, then slowly turned white to represent the recent snowfall. “From barren deserts to areas of dense rainforest, all have been subjected to unprecedented snowfall, some for the first time in centuries. Never before in recorded history has such an event been known to occur. Certain religious leaders are calling this—”

“Rubbish!” Old Graham, the most elderly regular of The Trumpet pub and lounge , threw his hands up in disgust and shouted in Harry’s direction. “Bloody fear-mongers, that’s what they are. A little snow and the country trembles at the knees.”

Harry lifted his head away from his half-finished pint and glanced over at the old man. He was pointing to the television mounted to the back wall by a pair of rusted brackets. Harry shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, what?”

Old Graham huffed. “More nonsense about a few snowflakes bringing the country to a standstill. Your generation can’t cope with anything unless there’s a video on that yourtube or myface to tell you about it!”

Harry glanced at the television again. The weather was starting to affect the signal and the picture flickered and hissed constantly. The endless evening-news updates had shown locations from around the globe, half-buried by blankets of slush and snow: The Pyramids of Giza ice-capped like Himalayan Mountains, the canals of Venice frozen over like elaborate ice rinks, and Big Ben rising above a snow-covered Westminster like a giant stalagmite.

Harry returned his gaze back to Old Graham. “I agree it’s a bit much, but the fact that it’s snowing everywhere is at least a little odd, don’t you think?”

The old man huffed again, the sound wet and wheezy. “You think Canada or Switzerland are panicking about the weather? This is a heat wave to an Eskimo! All this climate-change, ozone-layer hogwash they’re harping on about is just to scare us, you mark my words, lad.”

Harry thought about it for a moment. According to the news segments throughout the day it had been categorically denied that climate-change could cause such unprecedented weather. Whatever was causing the snow was something else entirely, said the scientists, if only a random occurrence. But whatever the cause, Harry wasn’t about to allow himself to get rattled by media-frenzy and speculation. The freakish weather didn’t concern him – nothing much did anymore – and he knew that if he got into a conversation with Old Graham about it he’d be stuck listening to the wrinkled codger’s piss-n-vinegar all night. It had happened enough times previously for Harry to learn his lesson about lonely pensioners and their penchant for long-windedness.

Harry swallowed another mouthful of crisp lager and kept his attention on the flickering television screen, but when he looked over again, Old Graham was still gawping at him. Harry sighed and decided to give in and talk to him. “Bet everything will be back to normal this time next week, huh, Graham?”

“You bet your balls it will.” The old man sidled along the bar towards Harry, arthritic knees clicking with every step. “I’ve lived through worse times than this, lad!”

Harry rolled his tired eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I used to be married.” With that, the old man howled with laughter until his worn vocal cords seized up in complaint, causing him to cough and hack yellow-green phlegm bubbles across the bar. “Best go shift the crap off me chest, lad,” were Old Graham’s parting words before tottering off toward the pub’s toilets.

Harry shook his head and turned to face the opposite side of the bar. Steph, the pub’s only barmaid, was smiling at him while clutching a cardboard box full of MALT ‘N’ SALT crisps against her chest. She placed it down on the bar and pulled an old dishrag 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 hair, threading his fingers through the knots and trying to neaten the scruffiness. He sighed. “He’s okay. 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 on my knee-highs last Sunday. I had to throw them out, and they were my favourite pair!”

Harry stared down at the foamy liquid hissing away in his glass and, for a split-second, felt enough shame that he contemplated not drinking it and going home instead. He quickly let the guilt go and downed the last of the beer, dregs and all. He had enough regret in his life without adding to it. “I must have been a pathetic sight,” he admitted.

Steph frowned. “You’re not pathetic, Harry. Just unlucky. Things will look up for you one day. You only turned thirty a couple months ago, right? Plenty of time to get back on your feet.” She stopped and looked over at the plate-glass window of the pub. “As long as this dreadful snow doesn’t freeze us all to death first, you’ll be fine. Time heals all wounds.”

Harry sighed. Steph knew about his past and sometimes it made him uncomfortable. “You really think so?” he asked her.

“You better hope so, matey, because I’m not putting up with you puking on me every week. Doesn’t matter how handsome you are!”