Cautiously I raised my left arm and carefully pushed aside my jacket. I tried to scream as pain engulfed me but no sound at all came this time, and I felt nauseated and chilled at the same time as I saw three bright killing pins lodged in my chest, blood running rapidly from my pierced body, cascading down into my lap. I forced my vision from the sight of my life essence pouring out onto the cliff. The cork caps must have been worked loose as I threw myself through the hedges in what seemed like just moments before, and the fall had forced the pins deep into my chest.
So why three? I had been carrying at least eight pins in my jacket pocket.
At the end of the sill the three butterflies continued to frolic happily, and I could not help but feel that they were again observing my plight. I considered attempting to remove the killing pins but I realised that were I to do so then the flow of blood may increase, and so I turned my face back to them; three bright pins jutting from around my heart and chest, blood falling freely down my clothes from the wounds. I felt my attention drifting, the sun still high in the sky glinting off the metal sticking from my body.
Yet I felt cold. I heard vaguely from somewhere a deep grunting sound that may or may not have been laughter and then after a while I realised it was coming from me. Then despair. Why was I so eager to use such long pins? Why should I have not realised I was by the cliff edge? Yet I am not a man for regrets, though truth be told I was having great difficulty in concentrating on anything at all. It also seemed to be growing dark, even though I could see that the sun was still quite high in the sky. Colder too. One part of me did not relish the thought of spending a night on the cliff, but the other half did not seem to be able to fix on the issue at all. It was if I had imbibed too much liquor, and yet pain racked my limbs and my back too. Yet the pain was now growing dim as darkness fell around me, and I stared slack jawed at the sun riding in the sky high above and as darkness fell and I felt myself growing even more light headed and cold. I looked up as I faded, and in the sky so impossibly high up that they must have seemed to reach the gates of heaven itself, three butterflies flew past fluttering in the breeze and as the darkness took me they seemed to shine briefly in the light of the sun and then they just slowly flew away.
Interval Three
~ In which the practice of cruelty is dissected ~
“Three souls.” Mused Apollyon as if he were relishing the thought almost. As the tale finished brandy glasses were refilled by those seated at the table and Faulkner sat back down again. As he did so I thought I caught a flash of red upon his shirt that looked almost as if it were blood seeping into the cloth. Lots of it too. Yet as I blinked and looked again I could see that I was mistaken, for his shirt looked quite normal once again. None of the other gentlemen there seemed to notice anything either.
“How marvellous.” Finished Apollyon almost breathlessly. “So what do we think gentlemen?” he asked of the remaining nine people including myself who were arranged about the table. Two chairs were now empty and I rather suspected that a third was about to be vacated too.
Of course it was now all too apparent why I had taken a dislike to Mister Zakariah Faulkner so for it seemed to me that he appeared to take just a little bit too much pleasure from his harming of the butterflies. I have never been a man given to the harming of dumb creatures or animals; insects or not, and I hope I never will. I have a strong affection for dogs for example and have several of them at my home in the countryside. When the weather allows you can find me in the fields and meadows around my home with the boys throwing sticks for the dogs and so forth. Only when time allows of course, for I have my own pursuits and correspondence to take care of during the weekends and so the pleas of my children to take them for a walk falls upon deaf ears more often than not, yet when I can, I do.
Nevertheless, I cannot abide cruelty to animals, though it would appear that Mister Faulkner thought and acted otherwise.
“The man in the story seems to enjoy his hobby.” I said to Faulkner plainly, but with an edge of distaste in my voice.
“I do.” Said Faulkner without even an ounce of remorse in his voice.
“So what is the satisfaction gained from pinning a dead insect in a case just to look at it?” I smiled, though my disdain must have been obvious to all at the table there.
“Why are you so concerned?” asked Faulkner, leaning on the table. “Insects do not possess a soul anyway.” He sniffed haughtily, “It is a well-known fact.”
“Really?” smiled Apollyon as if he was learning something new that surprised him greatly. “How sweet.” He smiled again, and suddenly I felt as if I were the butterfly in the case beneath his gaze. I forced my eyes away back to Faulkner.
“It is hardly the point.” I continued. “It seems that there is an element of cruelty involved to me.” There was something else disturbing me now but I could not place my finger upon it. I was concentrating instead on my sudden intense dislike for the small twisted face of the lepidopterist sat across the table from me.
“I also.” Said Jeptha Farrager, the thin, gaunt looking man directly to Apollyon’s right who had up to this point remained silent. I had caught him gazing at Gabriel Moon several times as if in fascination, but this was the first time he had actually spoken. “You have a streak of cruelty about you Mister Faulkner.” He concluded, “It is plain for all to see.”
“Come gentlemen!” shouted Apollyon all of a sudden, clapping his hands loudly. Several of the gentlemen about the table startled as he did so, apparently to his great satisfaction judging by the grin upon his face as he did so. “Let us not fall out over butterflies! Come now!” Still something was nagging at me, attempting to tug at my concentration but I could not place where the feeling of disquiet was coming from as Apollyon once again began a circuit of the table.
“I see no harm in it.” Said Evans from my left as I would probably have expected him to. What with his ex-military bearing and so on. “It’s just a damned butterfly.” He laughed, and Faulkner gave him a grateful glance, which the ex-soldier returned. Seamus Flanagan did not appear to have an opinion on the matter for he just shrugged his shoulders and left the conversation to the rest of us. Gabriel Moon of course sat completely still, as apparently oblivious to all about him as all about him were oblivious to him in return.
Cornelius Radley who had also up to this point remained quiet also shrugged his shoulders. As an engineer I would expect nothing less of course and so ignored him. Yet I felt that the disagreement had run its course and there was nothing to gain from its continuance. My disapproval had been noted and that was more than adequate as far as I was concerned.
As if in agreement the two doors at the end of the room swung open once again just as Apollyon reached the place where Faulkner sat and he helped him out of his seat and towards the doors.
“Welcome to my club.” He said, winking conspiratorially at Faulkner who rose and walked into the darkness within the room. As the doors swung closed behind him however I noted that this time the red lamp inside seemed just a little brighter than they had before. Silence fell about the room as Apollyon returned to his seat.
“Who is next?” said the Earl as he settled himself back down, boots on the table once more. This time it was the turn of Seamus Flanagan who sat next to Gabriel Moon of course. The Irishman placed his ticket into the centre of the table upon which was written a large number four.
“Please feel free to proceed Mister Flanagan.” Said Apollyon, waving his hand for him to start.
“The name of me tale is Uisce Beatha.” Said the Irishman plainly.
“I am sorry?” Byron Rothering spluttered directly across the table from Flanagan.
“Uisce Beatha.” Smiled Seamus. “It is Gaelic for, “The water of life”.” He looked at all around the table as if perhaps we were simple. “It’s where the word, “Whiskey” comes from.” He finished and finally we understood.
“Thank you for the lesson.” Smiled Apollyon. “Let us get on with the matter in hand
shall we, Mister Flanagan?”
Uisce Beatha
Seamus Flanagan is who they call me because it’s the name I write in me hat in case I lose it as God’s me judge. For me work I make the whiskey in me still out at the factory situated in number seventeen Pedlar’s Lane in the town. Copper vats and barley, that’s what it’s all about so say I but not just any barley, oh no! Only the best for a tub of Flanagan’s. Best in the county they say for it is so. Well when I say the best in the county I means of course the best for the price anyway. It’s not yeh classy fermented for years kind of affair. Cheap and cheerful as they say, whether it’s for a Saturday night special or just for cleaning the brasses.
It’s a curious state of affairs I say that a man has a business that is doing better than he thought and yet he still has control of all the day to day to-ings and fro-ings about the bloody place and that’s a fact. It’s the way I likes it though because then I can get me hands dirty and keep me nose to the coal face as they say. Flanagan’s in a jug is the best there is at the price in my opinion and we make a fair old barrel of it.
Now don’t be going and getting me wrong but although me regulars like a drop of Flanagan’s I’m not a millionaire or spending me money on fancy cars and what have you. Not this Seamus Flanagan that’s for sure, you must have mistaken me for another if you’re thinking that that’s the truth. The whiskey makes me money but it takes time to make and sell. A roof above me head and a new copper still from time to time is the best I can expect as God’s me judge. Times can be tough though and I’m neither sure nor certain where me next few sacks of barley are coming from half of the bloody time, yet somehow or another with the Lord’s help I muddle me way through.
Now me head worker, supervisor chief cook and bottle washer is one Fergus O'Casey. A thicker man you’d never meet this side of the River Shannon, and that’s the truth plain and simple. I think the poor fellah had a knock to his head when he was a kid or maybe his mammy dropped him on his bloody head or something when he was tiny. If it isn’t the truth that he goes and wears the same bloody green bobble hat every day and brings his sandwiches wrapped up in the newspaper from the day before as well. It’s a pity all those words he wraps them up in don’t soak into the head though for he’s a man of few words, there’s no doubting that at all. Normally he settles for a grunt or two and that’s good enough for me. As long as his grunts are in the affirmative then him an me are singing from the same hymn sheet as they say in church. This suits me fine for his job normally is loading up the barley into the vats and I’m not there for the craic or chin wagging and that’s the truth as God’s me judge. Get the vats loaded and set them running and I can bugger off back to me fecking bed and that’s all I asks of Fergus O’Casey or any other man that works for me, full time or not.
Been with me for years he has and the other workers I have, though not many reckon on him being a boss or the like, usually do exactly what he tells them to do even if he does only grunt at them from time to time. Still, he lives near to me and knows his stuff with the whiskey and that’s important. I don’t have to act like a nanny to him like I do the others because I can’t afford mistakes when I’m sailing this close to the wind with me sales and costs. Fergus doesn’t make mistakes and that’s good enough for me and that’s the end of it.
Well not mistakes as such. Not until he disappeared anyway, and though I says disappeared I don’t mean that as such, cause I know where he is. Not that I knew this at first of course, but I eventually realised. No, not disappeared, just missing is what I mean and if that doesn’t make sense it’s because I’m not done telling you what happened yet!
Handling the barley, we were. It had been a day of ups and downs and the pair of us were the only ones left in the factory, loading the still with the barley. When yeh work for yourself it’s not really overtime because as far as I have heard overtime is what you get paid for and this particular gaffer’s not taken much of a shine to paying any more than he has to for whatever reason, but I needed to put this batch on because supplies were running lower than a snake’s belly and that’s the truth. It’s a large still we were using. Big copper thing to roast the barley and then distil it into the still to its side. It filled with water when closed and from there we distil the whiskey. Uisce Beatha they calls it, or the water of life in the English, and I was proud that the stuff I made was thought of that way, though I did also wish more buggers would buy a bottle or two or I’d never be able to retire for sure!
Eventually the barley was loaded and the flames lit. I closed the door of the still and heard the water filling the tank. It was time for my bed for we could leave the still running overnight. I’d have a look at it in the morning and make sure it was all running as it should.
“Fergus!” I called to the bugger for he seemed to have sloped off somewhere. Being a man of few words and such he was quite often difficult to locate but this night I was tired all the way down to me socks and so I wasn’t the most patient person in the distillery. “Fergus!” I called again. “Where the feck are you you skiving bastard?” As I say I was tired and if I’d known what was about to come to be I might have been a bit more patient, but I wasn’t to know now, was I?
Well I looked high and low for the silly bugger but I couldn’t find him. Even checked in to the pub on the way home just in case he was there, or that was what I told me wife so I did but he wasn’t there anyway. The truth of the thing is he never turned up for work the next day or the day after that. Me whiskey still was Fergus-less so to speak, and it meant I had to do a fair bit more of the work than I would normally. By the start of the fourth day I thought about going to knock on his door but the daft bugger had disappeared before - usually round St Patrick ’s Day he would be gone for a week or so, and so I thought little about it at the time and didn’t then either.
Early that morning I started earlier than normal as it was going to be a long day, for it was now that I would be opening up the vats and moving the whiskey to the barrels. It’s not a long process for sure, but it’s in the wooden casks that the whiskey matures. Not that I am making a connoisseur whiskey - oh no! As I’ve said already a bottle of Flanagan’s is a cheap Saturday night special or good for cleaning the brasses. Best for the price remember, and of that I’m under no illusion. I started getting ready to barrel up on me own as I couldn’t get any other of the idle bastards that work for me to start at five in the morning and not be paid for it, the ungrateful sods that they were.
First I had to drain the copper still into the tanks to fill the barrels from and when that was done I could start barrelling up. After that was all done it was the scrubbing of the vats ready for another batch in maybe a week or so’s time. So I drained the still into the tank and set about filling the barrels. It was long hard work and by the time me work shy staff turned up I set them to it as I was already flagging. All day it took but the latest six barrels of Flanagan’s were filled and set to rest. By six in the evening they left me to it and by eight in the evening I was dead on me feet.
Yet I knew that I still had to clean out the inside of the still, and that was all there was of it. Me old daddy had put me right on this matter. A dirty still is a still that won’t be lasting long and that’s for sure, and so I was determined to do it that night. It gets dirty as a pig in a sty. The grain is roasted and water poured in, after which it is heated to far beyond boiling point. There’s a bit more to it than that of course, but it’s the boiling that makes a difference and that’s the truth.
So I opened up the still door, sliding the locks open and wrenching it aside. As I did so the usual trickle of liquid flowed over me boots and picking up me bucket I moved forward to step inside and get cleaning. As I did so however I looked down and saw what looked like a small woolly rag at me feet. To say this concerned me was an understatement. If there were foreign objects in me still, then me whiskey might be contaminated too. Stooping down I picked up what looked like a small green rag.
Like a bobble hat in
fact.
Me heart jumped into me mouth and I shot out of the still like a mad bugger. Up the ladder I went and looked down into the hopper from above. Was it meself who closed it when we were doing the whiskey the other night I thought to meself. I was sure it was. It’s quite a dangerous thing is that what with the boiling water below and it being big enough to make jumping across it quite hard. Big enough to fall into in fact.
Jesus.
Back down the ladder I went, into the still and started scrabbling around in the remnants of grain on the floor. There were other rags here too, and feeling around in the dark I felt what might have been a long stick. I dragged it out of the still and into the light and cursed out loud.
It was a bone.
Over the next hour I found all the bits of what was obviously once Fergus O’Casey, skull and all. The daft bugger must have fallen into the still from the hopper above. The boiling water had dissolved most of the meat on him completely leaving just a few rags as well as the bobble hat of course. The bones and the skull too. I could hardly bring meself to touch them but they had to be moved! My head spinning, I looked down at the six large barrels of the latest batch of me whiskey and as I put what was left of Fergus into a sack I had previously kept the grain in the thought suddenly came to me that all me whiskey was now contaminated. Yet the price of the grain alone would be the end of me business if I had to throw the whiskey away. Deciding to keep me bloody mouth shut I locked up the still and went to the pub to get as drunk as I possibly could.
The Waiting Room Page 9