Over the next few days I began a little rumour about some blonde woman coming to see Fergus on the night he disappeared and the men in the still took to the thought of it like an oil covered rag being set to with a match. They say women can gossip but Jesus, they have nothing on men when there’s the thought of a bit on the side in the air. By the end of the second day of me starting the rumour the men at work had re-invented Fergus O’Casey from the gormless brush headed goon that he was into some kind of rose twirling Casanova. The very idea made me chuckle, but they took to it all the same which made me plans just a little easier.
After a week his missus came to see me and though she claimed she was after his wages there seemed to be more questions about the mysterious woman who had come to see Fergus on the night of his disappearance than anything. The non-existent woman, that is. She seemed disappointed more than anything, but was determined not to show it. I gave her a few shillings more than I should have and she was on her way.
By now the whiskey was ready and the bottling had started, making the men in me factory busier than a cat with two mice, and I set me delivery man the job of shifting it. Eoin O’Toole is the most appropriately named man I have ever met. Not because he was assuredly a definitive Eoin, but because he was very definitely an O’Toole of some sort. He was a cross of delivery and salesman and although he set me teeth on edge whenever I had the misfortune to have to share the air in a room with him he could sell me whiskey for sure, and that was good enough for me.
Usually it takes a month or so for him to get rid of the stuff so on the Friday he left with a cart loaded with three cases of the whiskey to start his onslaught on the pubs and shops about the town. I was more than a little nervous of course as this was me Fergus flavoured batch and although I didn’t want to pour it down the sink I didn't want to poison anyone either.
I worried all weekend though when O’Toole turned up on the Monday he didn’t seem to be telling stories of anyone dying when they tried the whiskey and so I just got on with the task of getting me next batch ready. On the Monday he took three more cases out on the road with him. That left ninety cases to be moved. I was busy with the brewing for a few days and when I looked again on the Thursday there were eighty cases left.
Which set me thinking that the whiskey was selling far quicker than was usually the case. Perhaps O’Toole had a fit on him or the like and the thought occurred to me that maybe O’Toole was on a run with his patter and so I thought no more of it. It was only when I bumped into the bugger loading up his cart with another ten cases on the Friday that I noticed he looked just a little bit flustered.
“Jesus Seamus!” he said as he placed another case on his cart. “You’ve only gone and done a wicked old brew this time round!” he panted as he stood there all sweat and smiles in me still. “The buggers can’t get enough of it!”
“Eh?” was all I managed and the salesman patted me on the back.
“It’s selling like it’s the water of life, Seamus!”
I gulped, realising just how near to the mark O’Toole actually was. It would appear that me Fergus flavoured whiskey was selling rather better than me normal stuff.
“They say it’s like angels dancing on their tongues!” he finished. I’ve put the price up three shillings more than usual and it’s still selling out every day. It’s a miracle!” he finished.
I sat down on a box to get me breath.
He continued packing up and securing his cart as I sat there with me head in me hands, the room spinning. I opened one of the cases and took a bottle out. The very thought of trying it made me feel sick to the stomach but I held it up to the light and I would say that it looked a little more golden than usual. Added to that the fact that O’Toole was getting three shillings more for it than the usual price made me feel just a little bit better but I looked at the still about to run the next batch and sighed. Me heart wasn’t in starting up the next batch and so I persuaded a few of the men to stay on and set the still running while I buggered off.
On me way out I picked up a couple of bottles out of the open case and on me way home dropped them off at Fergus’s missus house. I offered me condolences for the fickle way of men in general and Fergus in particular as I handed the bottles over to her. It wasn’t much and that I know for sure, but it brought a warm rosy glow to me heart to know that if nothing else Fergus was still at home in spirit if in nothing else.
Continuing on me way home I set me mind running through the Fergus flavoured Uisce Beatha. Ha! The water of life and that’s the truth! Poor old Fergus…. Suddenly the thought hit me like a thunderbolt. I had left the lads firing up the still for the next batch and O’Toole loading up his cart. They were working right next door to what passed for me office, and on the table there was the sack with the bits of Fergus in it, or what remained of him anyway. Jesus! The bloody thing was in plain sight!
I shot through the streets running like a bloody lunatic and into the still, finally made me way into the still which was bubbling away, steam issuing from the copper vat, but of the lads there wasn’t a sign. I crept to me office breathing a sigh of relief to stash the sack but as I opened the door there was O’Toole sitting with his feet on me desk, a glass of whiskey in his hand and poor old Fergus’s skull sitting on the table. There was a small lit candle stuck in the top of it and the flame guttered slightly as I opened the door. O’Toole smiled like a cat who had just got sight of the bloody mouse.
“You've always thought you’re better than me, haven’t you Seamus?” he smirked. I felt sick to me stomach. “What with you selling all the shite you pass off for whiskey and all.” He nudged the skull with his foot and the candle swayed ominously. “Poor old Fergus here seems to have improved the flavour slightly. Seems like the town can’t get enough of the bloody stuff. I’m thinking we will be out of stock by this time next week.” He tipped his glass towards the bubbling still. “Which is when we go back to the same old rust cleaner you’ve been peddling for years.”
“It was an accident O’Toole.” I said, moving back towards the door. “I never touched Fergus!”
“Ah well it hardly matters now does it? Good job I sent the lads home before they saw what’s left of poor old Fergus.” he smiled even broader than before and for the first time in me life the bastard surprised me. He shot from behind the table like a rat out of a hole and smashed me in the face with what I thought might have been his fist but felt more like a bloody brick. All went black though I could hear him laughing before I passed out.
I must have fainted because when I came to I’m on the top of the still and O’Toole is holding onto me. I think all the lifting of those cases must have given him more muscles than I credited him for, because he must have carried me up onto the top of the still on his shoulders.
“It seems to me Seamus.” he smiled as I looked down into the boiling water of the still below me, “It seems to me that there is a definite improvement in the whiskey if you give it a little bit of the Fergus treatment.” he said. “Problem is Fergus is all out of steam so to speak. So what’s a poor man to do?”
“O’Toole.” I spat, struggling to try and release the buggers grasp but he was strong and I failed. My head was spinning like a child’s spinning top. “Don’t be a bloody fool man!”
“Oh I have been a fool for years, Seamus.” he snarled. “Peddling yeh shite whiskey about town for little or no reward, working all the hours God sends sometimes for no pay. I think you’re in me way Seamus, and that’s no mistake.”
I gulped and went to say some bloody thing or another but me mind froze, though I knew in me heart that O’Toole wouldn’t be persuaded.
“I think there could be an endless supply of this new recipe if I play me cards right.” He laughed, and he dragged me closer to the hole below me in which I could see the water boiling and bubbling. He must have opened the still while I was away with the fairies. “Goodbye Seamus.” he smiled and he pushed me forward. Just a small nudge. Down I fell and as the boiling w
ater rose to meet me I didn’t even have time to scream before in I went.
***
O’Toole stood on the top of the still smiling as the body began to be boiled to nothing. What a find! No more running carts across the city for him - no, play his cards right and he’d be richer than his dreams could imagine.
He laughed out loud as he closed the lid on the still. Tomorrow it would be barrelling up and then bottling time again, and then after that who knows? The town had plenty of homeless folk and tramps. The opportunities were limitless. “Uisce Beatha.” he whispered. “The water of life. Who would have thought it?”
Interval Four
~ In which a question is posed ~
“Bugger me if I’m no longer a bloody distiller and a brewer but a fecking flavour!” cursed Flanagan as he finished his tale and threw himself into his seat in disgust. I had the same feeling of disquiet as after the tale of butterflies, but I could not get the reason for it straight in my mind somehow. Still, it was a disturbing tale, but as I have said already I am not one for imagining or flights of fancy, and so I managed to quell my feeling of disgust relatively easily. I would however ensure that I would only drink brandy this evening, for the whiskey had suddenly become very unpalatable indeed.
There were loud chuckles from around the room and the clapping of hands in light applause at the conclusion of his tale, but poor Seamus just sat there wrinkling his face in disgust. In truth it was a distasteful tale but it was told with an element of humour that was the trademark of the infrequent Irish men that I crossed paths with during the course of my work. There was no doubt Flanagan had told his tale in a much more palatable way than any other at the table could have done.
“Quite amusing.” Said Jeptha Farrager from the seat to the right of Apollyon, raising his brandy glass to Flanagan who sat across the table from him slightly to his right. Flanagan said nothing, glaring at him almost as if in defiance.
“I fear I may never imbibe a whiskey and soda again my life.” I smiled. “You never know who is going to be in it apparently.” My little joke raised a few chuckles about the table which was an unusual experience for me for I am not a man much given over to a light hearted or humorous approach to pretty much anything really.
I must say that it felt quite good to have made the other gentlemen about the table laugh so.
Feeling unnecessarily pleased with myself I tried to trace the unspoken reason for my disquiet which had been growing on me during several of the stories and for some time now, but as before I could not place the reason for my unease. The engineer, Cornelius Radley had, I had noticed, paid particular attention to the parts of Seamus’s story that referred to the mechanism of the whiskey still. I had noted and I realised at that point that my misgivings about his engineer’s sense of practicality and lack of imagination had been particularly well founded. He remained silent for now however as obviously he had nothing to add to the story at all.
His lordship, Artemis Apollyon, the twenty seventh Earl of Ranleigh however remained particularly quiet for a change, watching the gentleman arrayed about his table as the story was discussed, examining us as if we were ants, or butterflies pinned in a case I thought. Yet he said nothing. Nothing at all.
Dickinson Evans, the ex-military man to my immediate left was swilling brandy about his glass. Following the conversation around the table but not contributing to it.
“Well, O’Toole looks like his fortune is set.” He finally responded glumly but that was it,
“I’ll say. The swindling bastard!” shouted Flanagan and then returned to his mulling over his ruin.
What was it I was trying to place? It was at the tip of my tongue yet I could not locate it. I had made one decision in my mind however, and that was once I was admitted into the club then I would have scarce contact with any of the people that I had encountered at this table so far. They hardly seemed my type to say the least, and it was beginning to prey on my mind that surely these sorts of people were not typical of the other members for surely such distasteful people could not be spread so widely? Still, I put the thought to the back of my mind. Simply just being a member of The Earl of Ranleigh’s Club was enough to lift my social status into the heavens themselves! It was of little consequence to me if I found some of the other members at best distasteful; my elevation was surely assured.
“And yet amidst the humour you took advantage of your employees at every turn.” Said Apollyon suddenly, staring at Flanagan as if he were some strange creature that he had discovered.
“Ah it’s just goodwill. They all had jobs. Nobody starved.” Said Flanagan with an edge of defensiveness in his voice.
“And so the unpaid overtime and the few extra hours here and there Mister Flanagan? What of those?”
“Well they had a job!” spat Flanagan. If it wasn’t for me and me whiskey they’d have nothing!”
“So you admit you ran roughshod over their lives?” enquired Apollyon, raising an eyebrow as if Flanagan was going to try and dodge the issue, which to the general surprise of those gathered about the table he did not.
“I wouldn’t put it that way meself Mister Apollyon.” Said the Irishman, ignoring his Lordship’s title altogether. Frankly I was amazed he didn’t address him by his first name of Artemis, such was his lack of decorum. “But yes I did ask them to work for nothing at all by way of remuneration sometimes. It was all with the aim of keeping the business going, that’s all!”
“I see.” Smiled the Earl. “So you made men work in harsh and shall we say dangerous conditions for little or no pay for your own financial gain?” Again, Flanagan nodded slightly in admission, showing, I thought at least, little or no shame at all. Not that it seemed to matter much to the Earl for he was grinning again I saw. Flanagan nodded his head slowly as if acknowledging that this was indeed the case. The Earl suddenly looked immensely pleased.
“Good man!” exclaimed the Earl as the doors behind him flew open and Apollyon stood and guided Flanagan through them. “Another member joins the club!” exclaimed Apollyon as Flanagan disappeared into the darkness of the room beyond. Once again we all applauded keenly as Apollyon returned to his seat, a large cat-like grin upon his face. There was still a dim illumination of red light from within the other room which was rapidly extinguished as the doors shut tightly closed.
There was a brief silence as we all sat shocked at Apollyon’s apparent approval of Mister Flanagan’s shall we say, “sharp work practices” and then we were off again. I vaguely heard that the next story was to be read by Mister Berkeley who was of course seated to my immediate right, and that the story was to be called, “A spoon filled with sugar” which is a curious title at best. Yet I was not concentrating on the events occurring around the table, though I did register what was happening on a casual basis.
The reason for this was that I had noticed that Gabriel Moon, my manservant, had now turned to face me and in fact was staring at me intently. On his face was an expression of what can only be referenced as fury and perhaps an edge of disgust as well. Nervously I peered back at him but his stare was forceful; piercing, and so I was the first to look away. As the other gentlemen were preparing to hear Berkeley’s tale everything seemed to fall to silence around me. I did notice however that Apollyon too seemed to be distracted, as he was staring at me intently again, a broad grin upon his face.
“You fool!” Moon suddenly spat at me. I noticed the Earl’s ears twitch as Moon shouted at me as if aware that something was occurring in the room but that he was not quite sure what it was. None of the other five men arranged about the table seemed to notice that Moon had spoken either. Yet still Moon’s fierce glare held me.
“Do you really think?” he began but lost his temper and banged his fist on the table loudly in frustration. Again, only Apollyon and I seemed to notice, and the Earl was very much trying to not let me see that he was aware that something he could not place was going on. Slowly, as if trying to keep his temper in abeyance Moon started again,
though his tone was no less vehement or angry.
“Do you really think that these are just stories?” he as good as snarled at me, and as he finished the spell was broken and Moon returned to silence once again, turning his face away from me and staring into space once again.
His words completely baffled me. Of course the tales these men were telling were just stories! What else could they be? I put the question out of my head and concentrated instead on Mister Berkeley to my right who had now risen and was commencing to read his story, “A Spoon Filled with Sugar”.
What on Earth could Moon have meant?
A Spoon Filled with Sugar
If you want to find number eighteen Cherry Hill Lane all you have to do is to ask a policeman when you spot one. He will push his helmet to one side, scratch his head as if considering your request carefully and then he will point his white gloved hand and say, “First to your left, take a second right, sharp right again and you are there. Good morning.” If you press him further however then no doubt he would be more inclined to inform you of the recent terrible deeds that have taken place there. He may even remember to whisper details of the terrible black soot marks on the pavements outside of the house, and the fact that even the heaviest of rain showers (and London has lots of those; thunderstorms too) completely fails to wash the soot marks away.
Unlike the policeman however, I do not tolerate mere conjecture, for this is my story and the events that transpired at this address.
I am the master of that house, my name being Geoffrey Berkeley. I am also the head of the trading department that deals with foreign bonds for the bank of Frobisher and Honeywell in the city. I reside at the above address and it is purely through neglect that I can lay at no other door than my own that I found myself on this Autumn morning in search of a new nanny. The previous nanny had left under something of a cloud without even giving notice, which I can assure you caused me a great deal of inconvenience, inconvenience that I could very well do without being a very busy career minded member of my employer, the bank.
The Waiting Room Page 10