“Yeah,” Nigel joined in. “Haven’t you picked anything up on that piece of junk yet?”
Old Graham sat on a footstool by the fire, fiddling with the radio. It hissed and crackled, almost harmonising with the crackling spit of the fireplace. “I’m trying,” he shouted. “Nought’s happening.”
“When was the last time you even used that antique?” Damien asked.
“It’s been a while, but I knows how to work a bloody radio, lad. My generation grew up with the things.”
Lucas reached out a hand from his perch on the armrest of the two-seat sofa (Harry and Steph still occupied the cushions and her thigh was still touching his). “Give it here, old timer. I know my way around a gadget or two.”
Old Graham obliged and handed over the crackling device. Lucas immediately set about twiddling the knobs and pressing buttons. A frown filled his face gradually like liquid filling a beaker. “The thing’s a dud, old man.”
“Nonsense! I’ve used the thing a hundred times.”
“Well it’s gone on strike tonight, fella.”
Harry was curious and scratched at his chin. “I’ve never known a radio to switch on and not pick anything up. They usually get something, even if it’s only faint.”
Lucas shrugged. ”Not if the antenna’s faulty; you’d get nothing but static. Let’s say you’re right though. Let’s assume the radio is working and still we’re getting nothing. What does that mean?”
Harry started to think about it, but couldn’t come up with an answer. “Well, I guess it would mean that nobody’s broadcasting, or that the radio waves aren’t getting through.”
“Exactly,” Lucas said, as if he was revealing the most obvious fact in the universe. “So those are two options. The third and final one is that the radio has popped its little electrical clogs. What’s the most likely, Harry Boy?”
Harry felt silly but worried at the same time. “Well I guess it is just the radio, or the weather affecting things.”
Lucas smiled as if he’d successfully explained algebra to a monkey. “There you go! No need to assume the wor-”
Old Graham cried out. “Got something!”
Harry and Lucas broke their discussion and turned to the old man; so did Steph, Nigel, and Damien. Old Graham waved his hand at them all and ushered them closer. His left ear was half an inch from the radio’s speaker. At first, all Harry could make out was more hissing and crackling, but as he got closer…
“What is that?” Harry asked, finally hearing something.
“I don’t know,” said Old Graham without turning his attention away from the radio. “I can’t make it out, but something’s definitely there.”
Everyone gathered round and listened to the radio pop, hiss, and crackle, but behind those noises was something else. At first it sounded like horns blowing – trumpets even – but then there was…
Voices? Garbled, disembodied speech that made sense to Harry for only mere seconds: …Pillars…Salt…Sin…
Nigel straightened his back and stepped away from the radio, which quickly returned to giving out nothing but empty static again. “Did anyone else hear that? Could anyone understand it?”
Old Graham shook his head. “Not really. Something about salt?”
Nigel shook his head. “Pillars. It was pillars.”
“Pillars of salt,” Steph added helpfully.
Damien turned his back on the group, walked back over to the other side of the fire, and then turned back around to face them. “Pillars, Salt, Sin; that’s what it said.” He pulled at his earlobe. “Guess my hearing’s better than you old farts.”
Harry felt like screaming ‘shut up’ at the top of his lungs, but refrained due to the fact that Damien had actually been helpful before his snide remark. “He’s right; it did say that. Pillars. Salt. Sin.”
Lucas sat back down on the perch of the armrest. “What in heaven does that mean then? Sounds downright biblical.”
Harry didn’t disagree and thought about it for a moment, finally wondering: Who’s broadcasting it?
”So does anybody know what Pillars of Salt and Sin actually means?” Harry asked the question earnestly because he had no idea.
Steph was the first to offer an opinion: “Isn’t it from a Coldplay song?”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “You think we just caught part of a song playing?”
Steph shook her head and seemed to doubt her own answer. “It didn’t sound like singing, and the line in the song goes quite quickly. The words on the radio were drawn out and slow.”
“Plus that song doesn’t contain the word, sin,” Damien added.
“No, it doesn’t.” Steph agreed.
“Okay,” Harry said. “Anybody else got ideas?” He looked around and raised his eyebrows. “What about you, Lucas?”
“Can’t help you there, fella. It’s probably nothing but Prayer Time with Father Bob for all I know. You can find all kinds of religious stations if you fiddle about enough – especially at times like these. Either way, I need to go and visit the latrine again, so I’ll leave you folks to ponder.” Lucas got up from the sofa’s armrest and headed towards the toilets while the rest of them continued their conversation.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Old Graham wrapping a wool blanket around himself and pulling it tight around his shoulders. His words still fluttered slightly as the cold strangled his central nervous system. “No point worrying about it now. I’ll put the radio on the bar if anyone wants to have another go, but my only concern right now is keeping me bones from turning to ice.”
Nigel pulled his own blanket up around his shoulders; it made him look like a floating head beside the fire.
“Yeah, it’s getting a little too nippy for my liking. Do we have any more wood for the fire?”
Steph nodded and headed off towards the bar, but before she got there the sound of screaming made her turn back around.
”What in the blue hell was that?” said Nigel
“Sounded like screaming,” Steph answered.
Harry agreed. He got up from the sofa quickly and placed his beer bottle down on one of the nearby tables. “It was screaming; someone outside.”
Steph stepped away from the bar. “Harry, where are you going?”
“Outside. Someone needs help.”
“I’d advise against that, Harry Boy.” Lucas was returning from the toilets. “You go out in that weather and you might not come back.”
“We can’t just do nothing,” said Harry.
Lucas walked over to him by the pub’s exit and pointed to the frost-covered window. “Look out there, fella. You’ll be blinded the second you step outside, and trying to make it in a straight line for ten steps will leave you a disorientated sot. You’d probably struggle to walk ten steps in a straight line on a normal night.”
Harry scowled. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Damien stood laughing by the fire. “He means you’re a worthless drunk, Harry, and everybody knows it.”
The hackles on Harry’s neck tightened. “What did you just say to me?”
Damien stepped towards Harry, but was still a good nine feet away. “I said that you’re a no-good, piss-poor drunk, and that if someone is hurt out there, screaming for help, the worst person that could turn up to help them would be you. Probably just puke on ‘em and pass out. They’d end up having to get an ambulance for your sorry ass.”
Harry wanted to use words to retaliate – he was a civilised man after all – but none came to mind. The only thing that entered his head was a blind, boiling rage. He leapt at Damien’s smug, laughing face, crossing the nine feet before his heart could even beat once. His first punch landed square and no more blows were required. Damien’s nose scrunched up, spreading across his cheeks, until both nostrils were gushing blood. The young thug didn’t go down though and instead just staggered backwards, holding his nose in stunned bewilderment.