#implied ghoap

Chapter 1

Glasses collect on the bar top in front of Simon. The bartender stopped catering to him a while ago, letting him sit with a shameful reminder of just how much he’s drunk tonight. They didn’t actually say anything, just let the awkwardness speak for their discomfort instead. Frankly ruining Simon’s attempts to stay in that haze of almost drunk but not quite. Just enough to make him feel he has a control of the situation. His pocket buzzes. The damned thing hasn’t stopped buzzing since his leave of absence. Not sure why he kept his phone on him. Habitual he supposes. Ignoring it to watch the ice melt just enough to get those bare remnants of booze left in the glass. Tongue darting out to collect the cool smoky taste as it spilled into his gullet. Desperate for that bitterness. For that pleasant burn that warms his belly.

Simon could tell from the looks he was getting from patrons and bartender alike, they were going to eventually ask him leave. Just need to work up the nerve to actually do it. Tell it to the big hulking masked drunks face to “pretty pretty please leave”. Simon thinks of himself as merciful, saving them the embarrassment slapping down a few quid for his tab and slips out into the snowy streets. The cold hitting him like a brick wall. Nearly shocks the pleasant buzz he has going for him out of his system.

Nearly.

He stumbles down the cobble streets, towering over other pedestrians as he lazily watches fat flakes flutter down from the sky. They shimmer in the artificial streetlights as they meet their end on the dirt and grime of the earth. He wanders down random alleyways and neighborhoods he’s never ventured before. Anywhere but home. Anywhere but back to that prison of a flat. He didn’t want to go back to that emptiness. To just sit and fester on all the wrongs in his life, old wounds thought long scarred over ripped open again with the loss of… His feet have stopped walking, settled firmly in front of a festively painted shop window, a jolly snowman waving at him with the promise of a good deal on muenster cheese. His eyes wander to the people inside, a mum with little knee biters all nestled in puffy coats and wooly caps begging her for sweets. Some teenagers with armfuls of snacks and a box of condoms not so well hidden in the mass of crisps and fizzy drinks. One of them has a shitty mohawk and it makes his stomach sink.

“Do you need anything from inside?” Simon’s pulled away from the dread by a pleasant trill. His eyes wander to the woman peering up at him, kind eyes looking on with honest concern. A bright red coat draped over her form, a matching poppy pin over her right breast.

“Hm?” He hums. The woman tilts her head and points with a pretty finger to the corner shop he’d been peering into.

“Anything you need or want? Food, drinks-” she gives a sweet smile, but her eyes gleam with pity-”maybe some new clothes?” Simon blinks at her for a moment before he nearly lets out a scoff.

She thinks he’s homeless.

His long silence makes her fidget, eyes darting to and fro, her posture switching from confident to uncomfortable. He nearly turns her offer down, but something holds his tongue.

“A beer.” His voice rumbles. He smirks under his balaclava at the way she jumps at the sound. Her eyes look at him bewildered for a moment before that little sweet smile returns.

“Alright. I’ll be right back.” She twirls around and disappears through the automatic doors. Another glimpse of her through the glass, losing her again down an aisle. He can feel the buzz of his phone in his pocket again, though this time only once. A text. He waits a few seconds longer in search of that red coat before finally pulling out his phone.

missed call (2)

missed call

missed call (3)

missed call

At least let us know your still breathing -Price

He ignores it like the others. Slipping the object back into his pocket. Peering back into the window, eyes zone in onto the red coat at the till. She has far more than just a beer. She seems to be chatting up the cashier, a toothy smile and a laugh shared between the two as she retrieves her id. Friendly little thing. With a little wave she collects her full bags. He follows her the entirety of the way, meeting her as she finally exits. He can see the slight unease she carries in her shoulders as she presents him her haul.

“I got you a couple of extra things. Hope you don’t mind.” He peers into the bags to find a thoughtful amount of care products anyone on the street would greatly appreciate. A couple toothbrushes and tubes of toothpaste, a hairbrush, tissues and towelettes, soaps and shampoo, deodorant, a pair of extra large wooly socks (although he doubts they’ll actually fit), a bag or two of crisps, and of course his requested beer.

“Mighty generous.” His large gloved fingers slip into the loops of the plastic bags, grazing her bare ones as he retrieved his offering.

She smiles up at him brightly. “Of course! And um-” she fiddles in her purse for a moment before presenting a card to him. “In case you need a place to stay or anything else.” He glances over the text to find the address of a shelter and resource line. “I work there a few times a week so I can personally vouch for the place.” His eyes find the distinct lack of a name anywhere on the card. “Take care.” She begins her departure, red coat shining brightly against the snowy ground. The color nearly as warm as the feeling she’d left behind. He feels that warmth cut around the corner of a building and the world descends back into cold and gray.

Simon digs out his phone again, flipping open Price’s text, fiddling with the card between his fingers sending a thumbs up emoji.

_________________________________________________________

“How are things sweetie? Can’t imagine how dreary and grey it is over there.”

“It’s been alright, I’d say winters pretty much the same as back home. It dumped a foot on us the other day. Though I wish the snow had held off for another weak, really messed up October for me.” You step off the bus, having to swerve around the old woman who held up the line out for at least 10 extra minutes. “That and I was bummed to find out they don’t really party as hard for Halloween over here.”

“Well I’m sure you made it fun for your coworkers! The photos of your costume were so cute!” She preens, a little chuckle in her voice.

You grimace slightly at the memory, plainly dressed public transport passengers, ogling you struggle to sit properly in your bluey costume, or your arms failing to reach the overhead support bars. Even worse, it was the same day of an important administrative meeting you just so happened to miss the memo on. All those eyes on you, thank God the suit hid your face.

“I wouldn’t say that exactly. But the kids sure did! I was popular for once in my life.” You shake off the embarrassment with a laugh, “In fact that was probably the only reason I wasn’t fired…” you mutter. There’s a string of food stops along your route, the smell of rancid grease that always seems to seep into your clothes no matter how much you try to wash it off. It’s the very reason you now own a obnoxiously large dog costume.

“Oh please! Who would fire someone for a costume, really?!” Your mom scoffs.

“Mom, social work isn’t like any other office job. They expect a certain level of professionalism.”

“But where’s the fun! Those kids need fun in there lives more than anyone else.” You bite your lip, guilt in your chest. You haven’t told her yet.

“Yeah, they really do.” You barely hold back the waver in your voice. “Well I’m almost to the office mom. I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for staying up so late to chat.”

“It’s no bother sweetie, I love you!”

“Love you too.”

You spot the line of people gathering outside already. Many your grateful to see bundled in coats and blankets, awaiting there first meal of the day. You slip to the back of the church, key fob out and ready only to find the door already unlocked.

“I’m here! I’m here!” you holler, throwing your coat and purse into a corner of the back room, quick to throw on an apron and meet your coworkers scrounging to fill the trays with food.

“Thank God! It’s a mad house today!” Jen’s hair is a mess, her bun barely held back by a flowery scrunchy, food all over her front and her cheeks are flushed. “Gary’s a no show, so we’re down another pair of hands.” She shoves a ladle into your hand, gripping your shoulders and twirling you around to the serving area.

“What!? Why?” You find yourself parked next to Mrs. Hassani, an old widow who always found time to volunteer.

“Don’t know, never showed up, didn’t answer my calls either, the prick.” She waves you off. You face forward to the matter at hand, finding your first hungry guest for the day.

“Morning, you want some corn chowder today?”

Your about 30 bowls in before you make a double take at your next guest.

“Hey! I know you!” you perk up at the sight of giant gloomy man from a few nights before. Mask still in place over pale skin, deep brown eyes staring into you. “You want some corn chowder?” You make it a point to scoop up a ladle and let the contents spill back into the pot. “It’s nice and hot!” He tilts his head curiously at you.

“Give it to someone who needs it.” He states, “Just came by to see you.” You ogle him, a bit confused and the slightest bit offput.

“Do you want something else? We have eggs and ba-”

“Just you.” He blanks. His eyes boring into yours, unblinking.

“Alright um…” your eyes flit to the person behind him, peeking through the gap between his elbow and torso, giving Mr. gloomy the stink eye. “After breakfast, we can talk. Ok?” You give him a smile, hoping that satisfies for the time being. He just hums before stepping out of line, walking back outside and parking himself just outside the door. Leaning against the frame, giving him the perfect vantage point to peer in and watch you.

“Hi, corn chowder?”

You try not to look at him, but God is it hard not to. He’s just a big shadow in the corner of your eye, making the paranoid side of your brain vibrate in your skull. When you can’t help but glance up at him, he’s staring right back. Ignoring the inflow of people who also can’t help gaping at the human gargoyle guarding the doorway. You’d think he’d get a crick in his neck holding that position for so long. When the last few straggles enter, he follows at the rear.

“So,” you begin, lifting the pot up and out of the warmer. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m not homeless.” You freeze half way in the fridge, door swung open and cutting him off from view. Staring at the chunks of corn past the cling wrap.

“Oh.” You mutter. Pushing the pot to the back of the fridge, swinging the door shut to address this new revelation. “So the other night-”

“Never said thank you.” He cuts you off, “And felt like a bit of a prick about it.”

You rest your fist on your hip, “Oh, well your the one going to hell not me.” You chuckle, finding he isn’t laughing along. “That was- I don’t mean I actually think your going to hell- um-” you stumble over your words, playing with your hair and failing to keep solid eye contact. “I’m not religious.”

“Neither am I.” You’re relieved to catch the playfulness in his voice, “But I do believe in righting my wrongs.” He looks past you to the kitchen, sweeping his eyes across the skeleton crew cleaning their stations. “Need a hand?”

“It’s funny you ask, Misterrrr?”

“Simon.”

Bellies don’t stay full for long, coming back for lunch and dinner. Mr. Simon’s help makes the day go by faster and the labor much easier. Hauling the heavy boxes filled with shelf stable foods places neither you or the other girls could manage. Three times the trays you can carry are placed in the wash, sanitized, and dried before you can say “thank you”. And when some stubborn stragglers refuse to leave, it only takes him one look to get them up and out the door.

“Thought you said this was a shelter.” Mr. Simon pipes up, two tables over each shoulder as you gather the garbage and Mrs. Hassani mops the floors.

“The actual shelter is next door, the church serves as a food kitchen and office space.” You tie off the end of a garbage bag, wheeling it off toward the back. “So while it’s not one building, they are apart of the same shelter so to speak.”

“Hm.” he hums, trailing behind you out into the evening cold. His big hands swooping in to throw the heavier bags into the dumpster. Your eyes wander to the tattoos that trail his arm, black and ominous, littered with skulls, guns, and fire. “Why’d you buy the beer?” His question snaps you out of your daze.

“Huh?” You peer up at him.

“Why’d you buy me the beer?” He folds his arms over his chest, causing the images on his arm to bulge and distort. “Think feeding an addiction would be frowned upon.”

“They’re not all addicts.” You defend, throwing the lighter trash over your shoulder. “And if I was homeless, I’d hope people would grant me the respect to let me decide to have a God damn drink if I wanted one.” Pushing the large wheeled bin back toward the church. “Besides, it was one beer you light weight.” A stream of condensation escapes his mask, one you think means you earned some sort of silent laugh out of him.

“I can respect that.” He mumbles. Inside you find the others alongside Mrs. Hassani and Jen gathering their things to leave. Jen calls your name.

“Do you mind locking up? I’ve got an evening class to catch.”

“Oh yeah sure, I can do that. Oh!” a thought comes into your head, “Is the back door still being weird? I noticed it was unlocked this morning.”

“Ugh!” Jen rolls her eyes. “Yes! The bloody security system is being fickle again. I called in a maintenance order weeks ago and have yet to hear from the higher ups about anything being done.” She swings her purse over her shoulder. “In the mean time, there’s a bike lock in the cupboard near the lavatory. Next to the sponges.”

“How innovative.” You smirk, turning to your gracious volunteer. “Thank you so much for your help today. You saved us big time.”

“Course.” Mr. Simon bluntly replies.

You gather his apron and yours, wandering to the laundry room. Flickering light overhead to illuminate the small washer and dryer in the corner. A pile of soiled and clean clothes, each in their designated baskets. The last batch having finished its wash cycle some time ago. You start the transfer from washer to dryer, nearly jumping out of your skin at the shadowy figure in the corner of your eye.

Mr. Simon is standing in the doorway. Peering in at you silently.

“You can head out, Mr. Simon. Nothing left for you to do.” You close the dryer, twisting the knob to set the cycle time.

“I still never thanked you.” He speaks.

Waltzing up to him. You eye him up, seeing he has to tilt forward just the slightest to fit under the doorway. In a way it felt like he was leaning into you. “Well?” you ask.

“Just Simon. Not Mr. Simon.” And with that he finally backs out of the doorway. Shoving his hands in his pockets before wandering down the hallway and out the back door. You peek around the corner, watching as his dark form melts into the shadows.