A Hyacinth for His Hideousness

by Tharah Meester

  “Now we have to wait,” Sergei grumbled in a bad mood and took a sip of water.

  The beggar from the police headquarters had reminded Hyacinth of the one who’d informed Vrila about the death of his brother. Under his breath he spoke to his husband: “Mr Wiplay told me, your brother was… badly mangled.”

  ”Hmm…,” came the hesitant reply.

  “How could the beggar who brought you the news recognise him then?”

  Once more, Vrila took his time replying, as though he were asking himself the same question. “Dimitri had a rather prominent tattoo on his neck which he covered with an ascot and collar when in court. The fellow must have recognised it. Dimitri’s shirt was torn, so it was impossible to miss.“

  That sounded plausible. He nodded vaguely and had a bad conscience for making Vrila recall images he likely wanted to forget but couldn’t.

  All three of them became absorbed in their thoughts, and Hyacinth stared contemplating his glass with a nauseating greasy spot on its side. It moved him to refrain from taking a drink, although his throat could have used some fluid.

  “What kind of insanity is this?! Have you all gone crazy, you damn idiots?!”

  Hyacinth was so violently shaken he let out a gasp and clutched Vrila’s thigh tightly enough to hurt him. As he glanced up, he recognised an indignant Detective Howard. The man jerked a chair from another table, squatted on it – the back of the chair against his chest – and glared with hostility at all three.

  Vrila placed a cold hand on Hyacinth’s fingers to calm him. An unexpected, endearing and very welcome gesture. His pulse was racing so fast, he felt like he could have a heart attack at any moment. What was that? And why was there such an intense tingling in his stomach when he looked at their two hands together?

  “Aren’t you interested in Ferdill anymore, Howard?” Vrila asked coolly, but something in his voice quivered almost imperceptibly. He certainly wasn’t afraid of Howard, so why was he nervous?

  “I am, as you can well imagine! Of course you were stupid enough to get yourself arrested. Hathaway is watching me. You can consider yourself lucky he’s away from the city right now and hasn’t heard anything about your glorious stratagem with that beggar scum. Whatever you have, spit it out now, you ugly arsehole.”

  That bastard had no sense of decency, and most of all, Hyacinth would have preferred to sink down to his level and spit in his face.

  “Perhaps you should change your tone,” Sergei warned.

  Howard produced a humourless laugh. “You dare to give me orders, you worthless piece of shit?!”

  “You owe me a favour.” Vrila remained completely calm in face of the detective’s insulting conduct. Except for a slight trembling of his fingers as they ran almost undetected over Hyacinth’s skin.

  The cop bared his teeth and narrowed his glare to Vrila.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Bring me a file. The one on Vincent Fowler. He lost his life at the same time my brother was murdered.“

  “Fowler? That man’s disappearance has absolutely nothing to do with the secret society, Ardenovic; that I can guarantee.”

  “I want it nonetheless.”

  “For all I care, you can have it, but give me what you have now! I can’t stand looking at your ghastly face any longer.”

  Hyacinth wanted to open his mouth and tell the wanker to shut his stupid muzzle, but he didn’t utter a sound – he was a coward and ashamed of it. He gladly let Vrila defend him often but wasn’t man enough himself to intervene on behalf of his husband. It was evidence of inability which he issued against himself.

  He released himself from the ‘embrace’ between Vrila’s muscular thigh and his hand, because now he was the one who deserved no such devotion.

  Vrila gave him a passing glance and coughed.

  “Bring us the file first,” Sergei insisted in a resolute voice.

  The detective growled with animosity and wiped his shiny forehead. “Then so be it. If you want to protect a child fucker just to get hold of your damn information, you accursed bastard!” He shot up off the chair and stomped out the door.

  “Well, that went splendidly.” Sergei smiled, but it was only a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth and betrayed no joy whatsoever.

  Vrila nodded weakly before looking again at Hyacinth who’d bowed his head in embarrassment.

  Half an hour passed during which they didn’t exchange a word. The proprietor came to their table three times to hawk his cheap whiskey which none of them intended to drink.

  At last Howard stormed in again and carelessly threw the file on the table of stained, damaged wood, nearly knocking over one of the glasses.

  Vrila reacted quickly and stabilised the beaker before it could tip over. Without a word, he pulled out the paper with Ferdill’s appointments from an inner pocket of his overcoat and gave it to the cop, who snatched it and departed again without a good-bye – fortunately also without any threats that time.

  “So that’s it,” Sergei muttered and swallowed visibly while he stared at the folder lying between them waiting to be opened.

  “So let’s see what they know about the man,” Vrila mumbled in a gloomy tone and pulled the documents out of the heavy folder to study them. There were only a few pages and Hyacinth already feared they wouldn’t be especially helpful.

  Sergei sat beside them on the edge of the bench to read along. “Obviously they didn’t investigate all that thoroughly.”

  The only witness statement recorded was by Timothy, and they already knew that one. Vincent Fowler apparently had had no enemies and accordingly there were no suspects. The man had worked diligently in one of the horrible slaughter houses beneath the city, saving his wages rather than spending them. He hadn’t left much behind for his brother, but it had been enough to pay for Fortlock.

  “That’s all?” Hyacinth asked discouraged, although he knew the answer.

  “Seems so,” Vrila responded roughly and reached for the small portrait fastened to the reports with a paperclip. Lost in thought, he examined the faded, poor-quality picture.

  “Hair as black as yours,” Hyacinth affirmed calmly and in a fleeting movement brushed his fingers through his husband’s silky strands of hair concealing his left cheek from view.

  Vrila said nothing in reply but seemed to find his touch uncomfortable, causing Hyacinth to become self-conscious once again.

  “Now we’re just as wise as before,” Sergei grumbled and emptied his glass of water. Most likely he wished it contained alcohol but he held to his abstinence.

  Vrila groaned under his breath, threw the documents on the table and rubbed his face. “God only knows what I could have demanded for Ferdill’s appointment dates,” he growled in anger. “Now, this damn evening was for nothing.”

  Chapter 10

  Even before the meal at noon, Hyacinth sneaked away, having told Vrila he wanted to look in on Mr Wiplay. Instead, he was on his way to City Hall. He needed to speak with Stephen Bishop, being plagued by the suspicion that Vrila was keeping something from him. For that reason, he had to go there without his husband’s knowledge. Vrila would have certainly talked him out of it. Therefore he hadn’t uttered a word about his intention, although it weighed on his conscience.

  When he’d walked past Wiplay’s shop, he assured himself Vrila hadn’t trailed him. Gladly his husband was nowhere in sight, likely because he was too fettered by the anger he nourished on account of Vincent Fowler’s file.

  His hands buried deep in the pockets of his new overcoat as he hurried through the city, fearing Vrila might become suspicious and follow him to learn that he’d been lied to. Not worth the effort to imagine what amount of trouble that would cost him.

  He tossed his head back and took a deep breath. Vrila wouldn’t learn a thing about it all, so he shouldn’t get so upset. Period.

  The second he arrived at City Hall, he wished he’d had company with him to provide some moral support. Would they even let him
in to see Stephen Bishop if he simply asked for him?

  He gulped as he looked up at the large, dark stone building. His knees were shaking, but he was determined to discover what his husband was keeping from him. He was absolutely sure there was something. Should his assumption turn out to be wrong, he’d feel like the biggest fool on earth. Nevertheless, he hoped he was mistaken and there was no dark secret about Dimitri that Vrila persisted in keeping to himself.

  He nudged out a path for himself through the mass of talkative, hurried people prattling around and populating the square despite the terrible weather.

  As he climbed the steps to the broad entrance with dark double-wing doors, a few men in black attorney’s robes were walking toward him. The small group in flowing garments talked excitedly, though each chattered over the others’ words, causing Hyacinth to doubt that any of them heard anything other than his own voice.

  He shook his head in disbelief about the strange gentlemen and opened the door to enter the large hall fanning out behind it. The inside was nearly as cold as outside, and the odour there was notable – as in an old church, but without the incense.

  Before him extended an enormous reception area where doormen sat in small individual booths behind thick glass panes and surveyed the area with bored expressions.

  To the left and right of them, stone staircases led up to ostentatious balustrades. The steps were adorned with red carpeting, and everywhere men and women scurried about. Many of them had their noses stuck in books or papers, didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the direction they were going. It was a miracle none of them bumped into anyone, though he assumed that happened often enough.

  With his heart pounding loudly he covered the distance between himself and one of the doormen. The old fellow was reading a daily newspaper and didn’t glance up until Hyacinth faintly cleared his throat.

  “Excuse me, Sir. Where can I find Mr Stephen Bishop?” he nervously asked for the information he might not receive. He was, after all, a total stranger who didn’t even mention why he was here.

  “Room three-hundred sixty-one. On the second upper floor,” the old man replied in an indifferent intonation and waved him on so he could resume concentrating on his papers.

  Hyacinth shrugged his shoulders, surprised at how simple the matter was turning out to be. Surprised and suspicious. Therefore, he glanced around for the fifth time, searching for anyone observing him while he took the numerous steps to the upper floors. No one stopped him. No one paid him any particular attention.

  The signs on the wall showed him the corridor where room 361 must be located. He followed the red carpet runner leading him past innumerable doors.

  Many were open, and he saw men and women standing in them chit-chatting with one another. He wrinkled his brow. Shouldn’t these people be working?

  Behind the next one he saw a man with greying hair and an equally light-coloured goatee seated on a swing studying a couple of papers while he swayed back and forth. He glanced up. “Good day, young man.”

  “Uh, good day, Sir.” Hyacinth hurried on and picked up his pace.

  Had he landed in an asylum? Had he taken a wrong turn and unintentionally walked to Fortlock instead of City Hall?

  At last he arrived at his destination. He stood before a door next to which hung a sign of polished brass. The number 361 was engraved on it.

  Immediately a wild, approaching barking of dogs reverberated. A moment later a kitten scurried past him. He pinched it by its neck, lifting it up to save it from the unruly beasts. The animals nearly knocked him over as they stormed past, not appearing to notice him holding their quarry in his arms. What good luck.

  Hyacinth heaved a sigh of relief and scrutinised the raven-black animal who thanked him with a soft meow and purred when he stroked its small head. Its profoundly black fur undeniably caused him to think of Vrila, and he couldn’t resist a smile.

  Two men, both out of breath, appeared at the end of the corridor.

  “Yes, so where are the dogs?!” the older of the two asked and looked to be rather unconcerned about the kitten – more likely amused by the matter.

  The delicate young man at his side, who appeared to be Hyacinth’s age, was by contrast completely beside himself. His cheeks were damp and his voice broke as he reproached the other man: “How could you just let them loose?! You saw I had Billy with me! You did that on purpose!”

  “As if I’d care about your stupid tomcat, Merriweather!” The middle-aged man emitted an acerbic laugh then sneered.

  The dark-haired Merriweather balled his hands into fists. “You set your dogs on him intentionally, you damn pig!”

  The clerk suddenly stopped laughing, and his eyes squinted so narrowly, surely he couldn’t still see out of them. “Hold your tongue, otherwise I’ll cut it out of you, you little son-of-a-bitch!”

  Merriweather, apparently only a scribe, started to respond when the argument was abruptly interrupted. A very tall, very broad-shouldered man stepped out of the room on whose door Hyacinth was about to knock and demanded with a thundering voice: “What in Hell is going on here?!”

  “Gavenish let his dogs loose on Billy! I’m afraid they’ve already caught him!” Merriweather quickly held his hands to his face, and his shoulders, somewhat narrow for a man, were quaking.

  “I haven’t done a damn thing!” Gavenish spat out, but the twitching at the corners of his mouth betrayed a lie.

  He had let the dogs loose on purpose. A sudden surge of indignation welled up in Hyacinth. How could someone wish such a gruesome fate on an innocent, defenceless being?

  The fellow who’d just appeared, whose size had a somewhat intimidating effect, glimpsed around and discovered the tomcat on Hyacinth’s arm. The hard, seemingly peculiar features of the muscular man became soft for a moment – he appeared to be relieved to see the kitten in good condition. With a sigh and unexpected carefulness, he took it from him, though with an equal degree of clumsiness, promptly receiving a hiss and a scratch on the hand since Billy had nothing good to say – to meow – to the dark-haired man.

  A miniscule amount of blood oozed from the small wound, but the full-bearded man didn’t wince. “Here’s your tomcat, Gregory. Now back to work with you.”

  “Billy!” Merriweather exclaimed with relief, took his animal and hugged it. Then the smile disappeared from his lips, and he flung a bitterly hostile glare at his tall associate whom he seemed not intimidated by in the least. “You are not my employer and have no right to be giving me orders, Harsh!” With those words he forced his way past the fellow from room number 361.

  Gavenish grinned with satisfaction. Without a word he turned away and disappeared. Where his dogs might be was apparently of no particular interest to him. Hyacinth felt sorry for the animals and wished he could free them from the hands of that bastard who didn’t give a crap about them.

  “Can someone be of service to you?” Harsh accosted him after he brushed nervously through his beard with his rangy fingers. Apparently he wanted to vent his anger concerning Merriweather on someone, and Hyacinth was the closest target.

  “Stephen Bishop?” he uttered hesitantly and pointed at the sign with the large 361 on it.

  “Bishop works in room three-hundred six,” came the gruff reply.

  “But at the reception I was told that…”

  “He’s not in here! Do you think I’ve shoved him into a trouser pocket?” With that statement he slammed the door in Hyacinth’s face.

  Good Heavens, how friendly and obliging those people were.

  Indeed, more and more he harboured the perception of having landed in a house filled with fools as he made his way to search for room 306.

  *

  Pensively Vrila stared at the picture of Vincent Fowler then returned it to the folder and threw it into the crate containing the newspaper clippings.

  A while ago, Hyacinth had felt ashamed in his presence. Who could blame him? And whom would that surprise? In any event, not him. He was
much more irritated that they had held hands during Howard’s stupid remarks.

  He experienced palpitations whenever he thought about how tenderly Hyacinth’s fingers had rested on his thigh. That made him jittery and his temperature rise. That – and exchanging such tenderness in public, no less – was a new, unaccustomed experience for him. A very beautiful one which he would gladly repeat. However, his hope for the same encounter seemed inappropriate. Undoubtedly it had become clear to Hyacinth that he didn’t want to repeat it, and in that regard, Vrila was not courageous enough to take such a step on his own. What right would he even have to humiliate the lad and harass him in front of other people? Bad enough that he didn’t know how to contain his urges when they were alone with one another – so he shouldn’t also be intrusive when they where in public.

  Although on that day, it had been Hyacinth who’d sought to get close to him. Vrila was well aware that the boy did it out of fear. From time to time, he was a bit shy though seldom actually skittish. It had to be terrible memories of his father haunting him at such moments.

  Vrila could understand that all too well because all of his life he had lived under someone else’s callous thumb. Until he’d found the courage and the power to free himself from his brother.

  Dimitri had hated him for constantly trying to gain his independence instead of allowing himself to be continually oppressed.

  People’s vilifications were hard enough to bear, then one day, those of his brother had overwhelmed him so much that he’d forced himself to run away.

  Now he was plagued by a bad conscience. If he hadn’t been so self-serving, perhaps Dimitri would still be alive. Perhaps he could have prevented his murder. Perhaps he could have saved him.

  Instead, he’d left him in the lurch and… and prayed all night long that Dimitri might leave him in peace and stop…

  He couldn’t complete the thought. With a tremulous groan, he wiped his eyes. Quickly, he rejected the guilt just as he had known so superbly how to reject the pain caused by people’s mockery.