Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
“No, not barely. That was a punch. In the face. How’s your hand? Did you break it?”
“Did I…no.” He sounds amused now, like I’m the ridiculous person here, when he’s the one fighting like he’s in an action movie. I take his wrist as gently as I can, making sure no fingers are sticking out at weird angles.
“I can’t believe you hit him,” I say, as the rest of our merry group hurry over following the commotion.
“He’ll get over it.”
“What happened?” Gemma asks. “We heard yelling.”
“Callum punched Jack.”
“ Nice ,” Nush says, and I glare at her.
“Not nice. No to violence, Nush.”
But now Noah is staring up at Callum with something akin to awe. “In the face or the stomach?”
“The fa—”
“Okay.” Gemma slaps her hands over his ears. “Come on, we’ll miss the show.”
“But—”
“No.”
She takes him by the shoulders and pushes him back toward the pub. Nush lingers.
“Did he cry?”
“I’ll see you inside, Anushka,” I say, and she looks disappointed, but takes the hint.
“I’m getting the feeling the macho thing doesn’t really work for you,” Callum says, when I turn back to him.
“I didn’t say that ,” I mutter, and he grins. “I just don’t want you to hurt yourself. Or your brother.”
“He had it coming,” he says calmly. “And when he wants to apologize to you, we can talk about it. But not until then.”
“Well.” I finish my inspection of his hand, satisfied he hasn’t damaged it, but not exactly sure what it would look like if he did. “Thank you for protecting my honor.”
“Anytime, Katie Collins.”
“We ready to go?” Nush makes a show of pointing to an imaginary watch and gestures toward the pub. Right. Procession. Fireworks.
“I’m going to have champagne,” I say decidedly, and Callum nods like that is a great idea (which it is) and leads me back inside.
Thankfully, not many people noticed our absence.
Another viral argument probably wouldn’t go my way this time and I slip through the crowd as Bridget starts checking off people on the list. But no sooner have the first people left the pub than the lights flicker above us, sending us briefly into darkness.
Confusion reigns for an instant and then the crowd gasps as one (some of the more overdramatic among us let out a little scream) as the music cuts out and the lights flicker off for good.
Blackout.
A goddamn blackout .
I freeze as nervous laughter gives way to panicked murmurings. I hadn’t prepared for this. A resident of Ennisbawn all of my life and I hadn’t prepared for a blackout.
I suppose we’ve been lucky really to have escaped them for so long and I glance around, waiting for someone to say something and tell us what to do, only to belatedly realize that I’m the person that’s meant to do it.
“Get up there,” Gemma hisses, her phone to her ear, hopefully on the line to the electricity company, and I turn with a gulp toward the stage, climbing the steps before I can lose my nerve.
“Um…excuse me? Hello?” My voice grows surer as more people than I’d expected turn to me, seeking guidance.
Project , Nush mouths to me, and I straighten my shoulders like she’s always told me to, calling to be heard with no microphone.
“My name is Katie Collins, and I’m the organizer of this festival.
We get these. I’d love to say that this was planned or that we should think of it as romantic, but it’s not.
It’s annoying and also a health and safety risk to have people stumble around in the dark.
I’m sure you can understand why we have to cut short this evening’s festivities for these reasons.
” I pause, using the disappointed grumbles to take a breath.
“If everyone could just stay here for the time being, I’d like to do a headcount and then we’ll make sure to get you back to your hotels and accommodation safely. Thank you for bearing with us.”
I quickly climb down while the going is good.
I thought I’d be swarmed with people asking questions, but I must have been pretty clear because everyone just kind of lingers in clumps.
A few of them even seem to be enjoying themselves, but I can’t shake my worry.
The last thing we need is for someone to trip and break their ankle in the dark and sue us for all it’s worth.
“I read a thriller about this happening,” one woman near me mutters, which does not help things.
I jump when someone touches my elbow, but it’s only Callum.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Just…” I gesture around me, and he nods.
“We need to make sure everyone gets home safe,” I say.
“Let’s contact the hotels and a taxi service and explain what’s going on.
Get them to send any cars they have to collect people.
We need staff out in hi-vis jackets on the roads and we need to cordon off the paths so we don’t have anyone wandering off and getting lost. Shut the bar and food service down unless anyone needs water.
And then we’ll see where we go from there. ”
“On it,” he says.
We get to work.
It takes an hour before we manage to get everyone where they need to go. The hotels are quick to react and, in no time at all, we’re out on the street directing cars and minibuses and trying to keep track of everyone as best we can so we know who’s getting home okay.
I thought people would be mad, but, for the most part, they’re pretty understanding and know that it’s out of our control. A few even ask if we can put on the fireworks for tomorrow, treating this as just part of the experience, and I go along with it.
I’m exhausted by the time we’re done clearing up the pub with the few others who stayed behind so we’re not walking into a giant mess in the morning.
I offer to lock up the pub while Adam walks Gemma and a hyper Noah home and am halfway across the parking lot before I spot Callum lingering by his van.
“Where are you going?” he calls.
“Home.”
“I’m not letting you walk home in the pitch-black.”
“I’ve walked home a million zillion times before.”
“In those heels?”
Well. No. I glance down at my stupid stilettos and scowl. Why do things so pretty have to hurt so much?
“Give me a ride then. Is Granny still here?”
“She’s already left with Susan,” he says, and I pause. Susan lives by herself at the other end of the village and hates the blackouts. She sometimes comes to stay with us during them if they go on long enough. Which means I’ll be on the couch tonight.
“Just come home with me,” Callum says, not even waiting for a response as he strides toward his van. “I’ll make you French toast in the morning.”
I huff a laugh, sorely tempted. Our couch is not a sleeping couch. Does Callum even have a sleeping couch? Would he take the couch? Would neither of us take the couch? Would he—
“Stop thinking and get in the van, Katie.”
“Says the murderer .” But I do as I’m told, climbing into the pristine vehicle, and putting my seatbelt on.