Tales from The Lake 3

by Tales from The Lake

  Ben shuddered with relief and released his grip on his pistol. He held a hand up to the bartender. “There’s no need, it’s all right. Simple misunderstanding, that’s all.”

  Then the short man named Davey Mac strutted into the pub, doling out winks and nods. “Sorry, Mr. Jones. Shouldn’t have all that long hair if you’re a big important businessman, though, should ye?”

  The bartender suddenly slammed the counter, making Ben’s chest lurch. “Right! Davey, honest to God, last warning, do you hear me? You think you’re high and mighty because of all the money, but where do you think it comes from? It comes from people like Mr. Jones.” He pointed to Ben. “If I were you, I’d treat him as if he was your boss, because you could be put in the ground very soon if you don’t, son.”

  Davey’s smirk faltered, but only a little. “Fine.”

  The bartender sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “Look, sorry, Mr. Jones. Go straight up the stairs, it’s the only door up there.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ben stepped toward the staircase, shuddering as the people of Rathdun eyed him closely with their mouths gawped. One of the men, Ben noticed, had a fly scurrying across his cheek.

  “Have fun, lad,” Davey Mac shouted. “See ye in a bit.”

  Ben started up the stairs and did not look back. The chatter in the bar picked up like an agitated wasp’s nest the farther he got. If he’d stumbled over the numbers, he hated to think what might have happened. The man in the Seomra Dearg was sure to have supplied the townsfolk with plenty of weapons, Davey Mac wouldn’t have been so bold and confident otherwise.

  A thick mahogany door presented itself at the top of the stairs, and like the bartender had said, it was the only door up here. Ben crossed the landing and gave three quick knocks.

  Footsteps approached from the other side and the door crept open a sliver, spilling a blade of dim light. A wiry woman with thinning hair peered out. Ben couldn’t help but notice the bags beneath her eyes and the thick bruise that fattened her left cheek. “Mr. Jones, is it?” she asked, her voice raspy and shaking.

  “Yes,” Ben said.

  “Come on in.”

  The wiry woman stood back while opening the door, revealing herself and the room behind. She was completely naked.

  The walls of the Seomra Dearg were painted a strange red, a shade leaning towards orange. Dark and dirty bare wood covered the floor, and fog-like cigar smoke hung thick in the air. Somewhere in the room, a radio played a golden oldie.

  “Come in, Jones, come in!”

  Ben looked to the sound of the voice, and there, sitting in the corner on the only piece of furniture in the room, was a large man slumped in a chair. The chair looked like it’d been pulled from a dumpster a decade before; its stained upholstery fighting to keep in the stuffing. The man didn’t look much better. He was naked, save for red boxer shorts and socks. Curly, black hair covered his meaty stomach, which spilled over his legs and glistened from the dim overhead light. A chubby cigar bud poked from his fishy lips.

  “Close the door behind you, man. Don’t want any of those poor fuckers stumbling up here by mistake, do we?”

  “No.” Ben said, and closed the door.

  “Katherine.” The fat man plucked the cigar from his mouth and clicked his fingers. “Fetch a Cuban for Mr. Jones, make yourself useful.”

  The naked woman quickly nodded and scuttled to the other exit in the room, a hole in the wall covered by beads. The beads swished as she passed through, and Ben gave a quick glance, hoping to catch what lay beyond. He did. More women. All naked.

  “Ah, there’s plenty of time for them, Jones, you can relax.”

  Ben blushed and looked to the fat man, trying to smile but only managing to twitch his lip. He wanted to vomit.

  The fat man scratched at his bloated midsection. “Look, no hard feelings about Evans, okay? We need to get that in the open first.”

  “No,” Ben said. “No hard feelings.”

  “I run a smooth operation here, all right?” The fat man shifted his position with a grunt. “Big men like you come down to the country side, pay me my share, and you have at all the lovely hick girls you could ask for. I still don’t understand why you’d like a country gal when you’ve got all those preppy little things back in the city, but who am I to judge, right? Supply and demand, that’s what I say.”

  Except they’re not product, Ben thought. They’re people, you shithead.

  The fat man seemed to notice Ben’s mood change. His forehead creased. “Hey, if you’re worried that these ladies don’t want to be here, you can chill. Their families get paid handsomely for this. Shit, even their kids have some pocket money. We’re putting this town on the map, baby.”

  And then all the men go and drink those earnings up, Ben thought. Just like you know they do. That’s why you came here. Because it’s an inbred town far away from prying eyes. One you can nest in and remain unnoticed.

  “Ah, Katherine,” the fat man said with a laugh. “Thanks, doll.”

  The naked, wiry woman approached Ben and held out a cigar and a box of matches. Ben noticed the twitch of her smile and the wild look in her eyes. For the first time, he also saw the scattered burns across her upper right thigh. Cigar burns.

  A whooshing noise filled the room, followed by a sharp crack.

  The woman wailed and fell forward as if slammed from behind, dropping the cigar and matches. Ben looked beyond her to the fat man, his heart jackhammering his chest. The man held a whip.

  “Don’t help her up, you moron. She’s meant to light your damn cigar, not hand you the matches. She gets off on shit like this. You know how this works, Mr. Jones, don’t make me think less of you, now.”

  Ben squeezed his shaking hands in and out of fists, hating that he couldn’t help the woman, knowing she didn’t want to be helped. He watched her scramble to her feet and fumble with the cigar, eventually getting a match lit. Ben took the smoking cigar without a word, knowing he had to. His stomach knotted.

  What the hell is this place?

  He couldn’t use the gun in his pocket, not yet. He needed a name first. Names were everything. In his younger days, when he’d been faster and braver, he might have kicked down the door and shot the man between the tits. Asked for a name while the bastard bled out. To hell with the inbreds downstairs, too, he’d have had a ball with them one at a time. These days, though, his draw was slow. He hadn’t noticed the man’s whip, either. He could have any number of things at arm’s reach.

  “Now, how about we get down to business, shall we?”

  “Sure.”

  The fat man clapped his hands, jiggling his fleshy arms, and three women sauntered into the room. They stood between the two men, dumb smiles lifting their faces that mirrored the male counterparts downstairs. The one on the left had matted blonde hair, her face caked in a comical amount of makeup. Her large, sagging breasts spilled over her stomach, her legs covered in scratches and bite marks.

  The second woman, the one in the middle, looked little more than skin stretched over bone. Her thin lips pealed back in a smile, revealing filthy, bucked teeth. Her eyes stared off in opposite directions.

  The third woman was pregnant.

  A neon green wig sat on her head, looking as if it’d come from a cheap child’s costume. Her chubby legs were checked in bruises and Ben put her to be in her mid-thirties, but guessing age was near impossible with any of them. Smoke drifted from a cigarette in her left hand.

  “I love this part,” the first lady said. “Feels like we’re models waiting to be picked for a show or somethin’.”

  The fat man chuckled. “And you like it, don’t you? Tell our client how much you like it.”

  “We love it,” the boney girl answered with a smile. “All those downstairs, did you see them? They’re uglier than piles of shite, and they’re broke, too. We get exec . . . Ex . . . ”

  “Executive,” the fat man corrected.

  “Executive treatment up here. W
e’re posh now. So don’t be shy or anything, pick one.”

  Ben swallowed back the ball of nerves trying to crawl up his throat. “I see you’ve already helped yourself to one?” he asked.

  The fat man smiled. “Oh, yeah. Mrs. Keogh here is one of my favourites, ain’t you, sweetie? She’s a proper sub, if you’re into that kinda thing. Let me shave her head, spit in her peehole, stick it where the sun-don’t-shine, you name it, she does it. And ol’ Willy Keogh downstairs, and little Mercedes back home get a nice pocketful of change each and every day for it. Makes for one big happy family, don’t it?”

  Mrs. Keogh honked a laugh. “Money keeps Will drinkin’, and that keeps him happy, and that makes me happy, and Mercedes got food, so we’re all good. Especially now that we’ve got little Redmond on the way.”

  As she rubbed her bloated stomach, Ben’s chest lurched. She’d said Redmond. Now he had an idea who, or what, the fat man might really be. He should have guessed from the beginning. After encountering tales of the Fear Dearg in other towns, Ben knew that the name translated to English as the Red Man. A giant rat who took human form, one that littered Celtic Mythology but hadn’t made any recent stories. From personal experience, he knew that mythological creatures basked in their legends like rock stars. It’s all they had, after all, and he guessed that if the fat man really was the Fear Dearg, it probably couldn’t help but give the surname Redmond to the unborn child.

  Cheeky sonofabitch.

  Still, Ben couldn’t chance it just yet. He couldn’t risk getting the name wrong and blowing his cover. He’d have to keep playing it cool for the moment and strike first chance.

  He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Keogh, you sound like a lot of fun.” He hoped he sounded sincere, because his stomach roiled at the words. “Mr. Redmond, you don’t mind if that’s my choice, do you?”

  Redmond laughed, scratching at his bloated stomach. “Wouldn’t have brought her out here if I did, Jones. Mrs. Keogh, you going to show our guest here what you can do?”

  The pregnant woman smiled, then began to touch herself. “I’ll take your breath away, Jones.”

  I highly doubt that, Ben thought.

  He looked to Redmond. “Since we’ve had a minor hick-up, Mr. Redmond, one that I’m willing to forget, how about I get a clean room for my time? I can’t stand dirt.”

  A smirk slithered across Redmond’s face. “A clean room for the dirty, I like it. There’s one out back, Jones. Keogh will take you there. I promise, not a speck of dirt or your money back. Speaking of which, being the good man that I am, you can pay me after. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Ben made a point of looking about the room. “But I can’t help but think you might be lying.”

  Redmond’s smile never faltered. “This room might be dirty, but I don’t mind a little filth.”

  “It’s not dirt that I mind. I just can’t get rid of the idea that a building like this might have . . . rats.”

  Now Redmond’s face changed. His cheeks bloomed red and he plucked the cigar from his mouth like a dead slug.

  Good, Ben thought. Keep it going. “I see signs of one being here.”

  The words hit Redmond like a slap to the face. He grunted and shuffled from his chair, his hair covered belly jiggling. He stood to full height, his eyes little more than razor slits. “You want to do this, Mr. Jones? You think you know what you’re up against?”

  Ben pulled the pistol from his pocket. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m up against, Fear Dearg. Do you?”

  Redmond yelled at the mention of his real name, falling to his knees as if he’d been tasered. He clutched at his head, his knuckles turning white. His teeth clacked as if electricity jolted through his body. The three women screamed, pushing each other out of the way as they broke for the beaded doorway, running as much from the sight of the gun as from Redmond, who had begun sprouting clumps of dirty hair all over his glistening body.

  “You dirty little bastard,” Redmond spat. His voice sounded like a drainpipe clogged with soggy leaves. Drool spilled down his beetroot chin. “Who are you?”

  “That’s for me to know.”

  Then it happened. Exactly as Ben had planned. Redmond exploded.

  Chunks of flesh and innards hurled around the room and Ben winced as something hot and wet smacked him in the stomach. He stumbled back and gagged as the stench hit. It reeked of dead fish in a sewer.

  The body of Redmond covered the orange walls, and something sat where he’d been, squirming in a soup of innards.

  A rat. A giant rat.

  The creature looked at least four feet tall, its chunky, fur covered body every bit as disgusting as Redmond’s had been. Its greasy hair glistened from fluids like a newborn baby. Its thick, leathery tail smacked the floor like a whip, and that’s when Ben realised—Redmond had never had a whip.

  Ben raised the pistol and squeezed off two rounds, the gun bucking in his hand.

  The rat squealed. Dark crimson sprayed the floor behind it in a cloud. Then the creature began scuttling towards him.

  Ben backed up, hitting the wall. The rat leaped.

  Weight pressed his chest, cold, wet fur drenching his clothes. The rat squealed, high and sharp, and then bared its fangs. Its claws pierced Ben’s skin as easy as needle points. He gasped.

  The creature brought its face forward, its wet nose coming within inches of his own. This close, Ben could see large tics scuttle within its fur. “Tell me, Mr. Fisherman,” it spoke. “Who are you, really?”

  Blindspots bloomed in Ben’s vision, the pain increasing in his chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he cursed his old age. But there was one thing the creature had overlooked, one thing they always did. Deities or not, they were still ancient, and weapons had come a long way since their time.

  “I’m the man with the gun,” Ben said, and with a shaking hand, he pushed the pistol beneath the creature’s jaw, and pulled the trigger.

  A deafening bang ripped through the room as the rat’s brains splattered the roof. The body fell limp against him, the weight unbearable. Warm liquid gushed from its ruined head and soaked him like a dysfunctional tap. Ben grunted and pushed the beast’s lifeless form to the dusty floorboards as it continued to spew a stinking mess. Ben worked his jaw, trying to pop his ears from the gunshots. Through the beaded doorway came the sound of the woman yelling.

  Ben stepped over the dead rat, stopping to pluck a shred of the ruined red boxer shorts from the floor. A memento, same as always. Pulling a fishhook from his hat, Ben ran it through the red material and then back through the hat, securing it in place. Satisfied, he returned the hat to his head and lurched towards the doorway, wincing at the stinging in his chest. He’d need to disinfect the cuts soon, or risk them going septic.

  “Come on out,” he yelled, leaning against the doorframe for support. “Now.”

  The women filed through, four in total, pale and terrified. They looked to him like frightened children. The wiry woman who’d given him a cigar caught sight of the dead rat and passed out, two others catching her before she hit the floor.

  “See that?” he asked. He pointed to the creature with the barrel of his pistol. “Mrs. Keogh, if I were you, I’d go to England to see a musical, as they say. I can’t imagine what’s growing inside of you right now. Good luck with that.”

  Mrs. Keogh screamed, and Ben left.

  Quietly closing the door to the Seomra Dearg, he took a moment on the landing to catch his breath. His torso stung, his head swam, and the stench of wet rat clogged his nose. But his headache was gone. The creature had been defeated.

  Still, he needed to haul ass before one of his wounds became septic.

  Clutching the pistol in both hands, Ben made his way down the staircase, back to the bar.

  The people of Rathdun stared with wide-eyes, sitting as they had been, not daring to move. The TV over the bar played a football match, the volume turned low. The gunshots might have riled them, but it seemed no one had dared come and protect the new to
wn entrepreneur.

  “What happened?” the bartender asked.

  “Exterminated one hell of a rat,” Ben said. He hoped he sounded confident because he shook with exhaustion. “Go see for yourself. But listen to me. This is your mess, not mine. You clean it up. And in future, don’t make deals with devils, you got that?”

  Some of the folk nodded stupidly, whether they actually understood or were simply agreeing Ben didn’t care. He wanted to get out of there. Besides, one person had drawn his attention, a man with a smug smile on his face. A man named Davey Mac.

  Davey stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the wall with the Rourke brothers flanking him. “Who do ye think ye are?” he asked. “Comin’ here, taking away our way of making money? The ladies love it, we’re fine with it. Why don’t ye feck off and mind yer own business?”

  If he were a movie hero, or a character in a novel, this would be the point he’d explain why he felt the town’s deal with the Fear Dearg was unjust and corrupt. Instead, he was an old man, and he was tired. Besides, he had a low tolerance towards assholes.

  “Shut the fuck up, please.”

  Ben raised the pistol and shot Davey Mac square in the face.

  The people of Rathdun screamed and scampered about, hiding behind chairs and tables while Ben took a deep breath and began towards the front door. He said in a tired voice, “Anybody else got something to say? Because I’m just about out of patience and want to take a long, hot bath. Anybody?” It appeared nobody did. “Good,” he said, and left.

  Outside, the rain continued smacking down. Ben removed his hat and let the water run down his face, washing away some of the stink and mess. He had a clean change of clothes in his rug-sack, and he made his way to the ditch where he’d stashed it.