The Waiting Room

by Michael White

  “How can I help you cook?” I asked from my chair behind my rather splendid oak desk. I could not remember the damned woman’s name and so her title would have to do.

  “Begging your pardon, Sir.” she said, approaching my desk and almost bobbing and doffing her cook’s hat as she did so. I waved my hand for her to continue. I certainly however did not ask her to sit down. It simply wasn’t done. Besides this would not take long.

  “I have come to request a rise in pay sir.” she said and I chuckled loudly, but she did not seem to be dissuaded.

  “Why on Earth would you deserve a raise?” I blurted out, “there are fewer mouths to feed now my poor wife has gone…”

  “Farewell my love!” she shouted from beside the cook.

  “And what with the maid - what was her name again?”

  “Sally.” said the cook.

  “Yes. Sally. Well it looks like she has gone away without notice too. So it seems to me that you are asking for more pay for doing less work and feeding fewer mouths. What do you have to say about that woman?” I roared as the spectral maid waved her duster at me.

  “Well it’s about Sally really, Sir.” bleated the small round cook. “Not like her to run away without saying.”

  “Well I trust the staff have checked that all of my spoons and belongings are still in order?” I asked, outrage filling me with ire at the prospect of a potential robbery until I suddenly realised that the maid was actually floating up and down in front of me, waving a duster in disgust as she did so, and so was therefore unlikely to be taking any of my spoons anywhere at all.

  “I think they have already checked your valuables Sir.” sniffed the cook before continuing. “Though I suspect that they have not examined the bushes outside as closely as you did this morning Sir.”

  I felt my colour rising as I remembered the kitchen curtain twitching this morning as I had hidden the bodies in the bushes. Exactly how much had the cook seen? She had surely by her manner observed something!

  “Two guineas a week should suffice.” she said moving back to the door to my study before grinning from ear to ear. “To start with anyway.” she said and as she placed her hand on the door knob I gave her my very best smile.

  “Now cook.” I smiled, pulling out a chair by my desk, indicating that she was to take a seat. The smile I was attempting seemed to be almost cracking my face. “I am sure that will be more than manageable. In fact, take a seat whilst I open my safe.” Smiling in return she did so and I rummaged in my draw as if searching for a key to the safe that sat behind the picture on the far wall.

  She must have seen something on my face though; a clue or the like of what I was really looking for and so as I clasped the letter opener from the top draw and lunged at her she had already plucked a wooden spoon from somewhere about her person and raised it to me as if to ward off the blow.

  Yet I was quicker. As she beat about me with the wooden mixing spoon I plunged the letter opener into her chest and with a sound not dissimilar to that of a deflating balloon she expired bleeding onto the carpet, making a complete ruddy mess of the finely woven and just as my luck would have it white coloured floor covering.

  It took quite some time to not only clean it up but also to hide the cook’s body until nightfall when it looked like it was going to be yet another trip to the pig pen. Of course long before this there was a by now familiar popping sound and the spectre of the cook appeared waving a ghostly wooden spoon at me from behind the postman who was waving letters at me. He was equally being ignored by the maid who was flapping a duster about and finally my wife, arms outstretched towards me as if begging for mercy.

  “Farewell my love” she said, and so in disgust I went to bed.

  As I climbed the stairs with my ghostly train of phantoms following close behind I nearly tripped over the cat, which was ironic given that that was the excuse I had given to the police for my wife falling down the stairs in the first place. I was in a vicious mood and lashed out at the troublesome moggie with my foot in anger, catching it neatly up the rear end, sending it flying down to the bottom of the stairs where it landed with a bump. To my great surprise it just lay there unmoving.

  Growling to myself I continued upwards until I stood on the landing. I looked back down as my phantoms caught me up, my wife uttering her usual plea, the maid still dusting, the postman waving letters and the cook attempting to beat me with her ghostly wooden mixing spoon. I stood there my anger rising and there was another familiar pop and a ghostly cat appeared on the cook’s shoulder and gave a silent meow.

  “You jarring tickle brained varlets!” I shouted as I stood on the landing. I was sure yet again not to get any sleep. Were these phantoms going to follow me around forever? I had no answers, and they were certainly not telling. I observed them again as I stood there, my whole body shaking with anger. First there was the flea broiled cat silently meowing at me as if in anger. Then there was the hasty witted puttock of a cook, all wooden spoon and anger, waving her mixing implement at me wildly. Then there was the clay brained pignut of a postman, thrusting his spectral letters almost under my nose that he would never deliver. Next there was the maid, her bedraggled form waving a duster at me almost in anger. My ire rose as I glanced along the line; angrier and angrier I became as I finally examined my wife at the head of the ghostly queue.

  I saw her mouth move and as I heard her begin to speak the words I could take no more. This time however, I was quicker. “Farewell my love.” I shouted before she could say it and then with a roar of complete exasperation I threw myself down the stairs.

  Interlude Eight

  ~ In which the nature of “original sin”

  Is ruminated upon ~

  “Ah.” Said the Earl as Rothering’s tale ended. “I did so enjoy that one.” He ruminated, licking his lips. “One of the original sins I feel.” He seemed lost in thought, the fire blazing behind him. Gabriel Moon still sat unmoving at his side, though Apollyon still continued to be oblivious to his presence.

  “I do not think that original sin concerns murder.” Said Jeptha Farrager to Apollyon’s immediate right. “Original sin is but man’s capacity for evil I was taught at school. Not an actual sin as such, but the capability of it.” The Earl dismissed this with a wave of his hand.

  “It is all just semantics.” He sighed, examining his fingernails as he sat at the table.

  “I see.” Said Farrager and obviously at that point decided to remain quiet, toying with the cigar cutter on the table in front of him.

  “Open to interpretation.” Summarised Rothering, still standing before the table, and realising that he was still doing so hastily sat down again.

  “Yet here we have murder.” Smiled the Earl. “There can be no doubt about it. Several murders in fact. You are indeed a worthy and productive member of my club, Mister Byron Rothering.”

  “It would appear that you hold traits in high regard that any normal man would consider at best to be distasteful.” I said, my disquiet with the Earl’s behaviour now deeply rooted. As well as this I still felt angry at the Earl for his taunting of me earlier and I wished to find a way to rile him, as it were.

  “Indeed.” Said Apollyon. “I do rather, don’t I?” He regarded his fingernails again as silence fell about the room, my taunts shrugged aside as if they were of no concern to him whatsoever. It was clear to me then that he was not willing to comment any further and so I decided to hold my peace. Instead I sat and regarded the room in which all four of us sat; five if you counted Gabriel Moon, which only I seemed to be able to do.

  The fire behind the Earl still roared brightly, filling the room with bright light, the flames sending flickering shadows across the four walls. Tendrils they reminded me of, writhing and broiling across the room as if reaching out to ensnare any who would draw near. I felt a shiver up my spine at the thought, and then regarded the double doors that led into the club at the rear of the room. They were of course currently firmly shut. Candles were still gutteri
ng in the candelabra at my end of the table, and gas lamps lit the walls too, though not as brightly as at the top of the table where Apollyon stood. I then drew my attention to the only other door in the room; the door through which I had entered in what seemed like a very long time ago.

  As I examined the single door I saw Apollyon staring at me, a grin on his face once more almost as if daring me to attempt to leave. The thought had not occurred to me before of course, but now that I had settled my attention upon it then my thoughts seemed to play on it almost. If nothing else, it seemed as if it was but a lifeline; a method of escape should I require it. The Earl glanced at the door too and his smile increased as he did so, but then he shifted his attention back to Rothering, and as he did so the double doors at his end of the room flew open once again.

  “Come, Mister Byron Rothering. Please enter within and become a member of my club!” Rothering stood, a broad smile playing on his face and he shook the Earl’s hand as he led him through the doors and disappeared inside. Apollyon stood on the threshold of the room almost as if watching him go, yet this could not have been the case of course, for the room within the double doors was shrouded in darkness. Then I saw the red lights inside there flicker wildly again, and then the doors slammed shut. The earl turned, a satisfied look upon his face.

  “Just two remain.” He sighed. “Such a busy night!” Apollyon took his seat once again, placing himself back at the head of the table. “Who is to be the penultimate narrator then?” he smiled, and Jeptha Farrager placed the ninth ticket down on the table. “So it is.” Smiled the Earl even broader if that were possible. “Very fitting.”

  As Farrager stood to tell his tale I regarded him more closely than I had done before. The man looked thin and frail. He had an air of illness about him I thought, though I was surprised that I had not noted it before. His dinner suit hung from him loosely, his thin, hatchet-like face speaking of pain and ruin. I ruminated on the fact that this was almost certainly down to the fact that now that the room was more or less empty it had caught my attention; whilst earlier he was such an unassuming figure that I had afforded him scant regard. Yet now I did, and as I have stated, his form and bearing spoke of illness and death. I cannot explain this any more fully; it was simply a feeling I had when I looked upon him.

  “My tale is called, “Almanac” and it concerns those whose wander lost in the dark, seeking light or form or justice.”

  “Or death or darkness.” Added Apollyon, wagging a finger at Farrager as if he had spoken out of turn.

  “Indeed.” Said Farrager, “That too.” but he did not smile; in fact, he seemed to fade almost, to become indistinct. I have never seen anything of the like before. I am sure it was some form of illusion or trickery, for all that remained was the sight of his eyes, and his voice drifting across the table like smoke or a fog; a mist.

  “I drifted for what seemed an age…” he began, and as he did so even his eyes faded to nothing at all. All that remained was his voice, yet I noticed that Gabriel Moon had turned now to face him, and was staring at him in approval, a look on his face that seemed to indicate that it was almost as if he was attempting to will Farrager back into existence…

  Almanac

  I drifted for what seemed like an age but perhaps was just a while, though I had no sense of time nor place. Lost and blown by the breeze I was cast from here to there on a wind that seemed to almost flow through me. Like a mist I was, in pieces and yet whole. There was a land around me but it was indistinct; not of shadow but as if a fog. I tried to gather myself together and as I concentrated trees formed about me; here a hill with a brook flowing down it at the edge of a set of rolling hills. The sun sparkled off the water as I floated through the green fields, and I had the feeling that it was still early; the sun was not high in the sky and the landscape was deserted as far as I could see. Through the trees I passed, though I did not stride or make any effort as I went. It was if I were moving through a dream, though I knew at the same time that this was all too real.

  Here there was a small stone cottage beside which stood a barn crammed with dry hay bales stored from the year before no doubt. Behind it there were lush green fields in which cows nodded and strolled towards a gate in the low stone wall, against which the short grass in the field swayed. Bellies swollen with milk they strolled towards the gate along which was a wide path that led to a low shed, which I imagined would be used to alleviate them of their burden. There was sadness in this cottage; I felt it. It impinged upon my vision as a colour that bled and seeped from the walls, staining the short grass around its walls. It spoke of despair and rage and hate and pain.

  I shrank back from the ferocity of it but I had now some control over my flight and I adjusted the vision before me to protect myself. Having done this, I now realised that I could now drift nearer, approach the cottage itself. It was at this precise moment that I heard from the rear of the house a loud banging as if a stick were being beaten against metal and as if in response the cows increased the speed of their stroll towards the gate. I passed through the walls of the cottage as if they did not exist for me, and as I left them behind me I saw now a young girl standing by the gate beating a stick against a small metal pail. She was pretty I could see, but her face was cast with worry and torment. It radiated from here like a beacon and I flinched as I floated nearer to get a better look.

  I blinked and the milking was done, time rolling forward and then I approached. She was like a lure to me; I could not avoid her. The raw emotion she was radiating dragged me in and I felt myself slip into her skin, to look through her eyes, and I was whole again. She gasped as she lost control and I took my command of her. I gave her a feeling of comfort and then of sleep and she went away for a while.

  I walked her clumsily away from the shed, glad to be able to feel the sun on her skin and look through her eyes. I gasped. She was with child! As a man it caused me conflict at first, but as I pushed away the feeling of the foetus growing in her I was able to concentrate once again, to master the unreasonable panic that had taken me. The reason for this was sadly not just the case that I had found from the depths of me some steely reserve that I had not before encountered. No.

  I understood as I entered her mind the reason for her plight and it filled me with abhorrence. I walked her into the field across from the farm and set her still there. I saw her father before me, the master of the cottage and the reason for her fear. I saw him on her, a leer on his face; the child his. I saw an almanac she kept under her bed, in which a pressed flower sat growing brittle and old; a love lost - no, driven away by her jealous father.

  She noted the days of the year in there: birthdays, the passing of the seasons, all souls days too. Dust covered it where she had hidden it for she no longer had dreams or fancies other than the horror of the thing that she knew grew within her. Thirteen she reckoned herself to be, though she had no point of reference to mark this other than in the almanac itself, though she had no way of comparing one day from the next in all likelihood.

  She filled me with fear and pain and horror until I could take no more. Her father knew of course; this I saw also. It was also not the first. Two twisted tiny little patches of earth at back of the barn already bore testament to the corruption of her existence. This was not to be the third lost to life though, for this one would live. I saw that, and I knew she realised this too. Even though as of yet her frame was slender, her pregnancy was showing hardly at all.

  I kept her walking across the fields. She had to be far away. I saw a shepherd in the field atop the hill and took her there. Then suddenly I left her in confusion and shame. It hurt me to do so yet I had no choice. I watched for a moment and saw the shepherd now held her arm as she shook trying to comprehend what had happened to her and where she was. I was content however for she was far from the cottage by now, to which I drifted across the fields, returning to where I had first seen her. The fields slid below me like a slick of blood as I headed arrow-like to the site of her dread
and horror.

  I walked through the wall of the cottage as if it did not exist and found the father asleep in a chair downstairs by a fire that was not lit. A pair of dirty boots lay discarded by the cold hearth where he sat snoring. I slipped inside his skin and as I stared through his eyes I felt him struggle and panic at my presence as his senses tried to come awake.

  Yet this time I did not give any sense of ease or comfort like I did to his daughter. He was beyond - far beyond - any mercy he would wish to receive from me. If he held any hopes in that direction, then he was to find me wanting. I let him scream silently in outrage and fear and walked him into the kitchen. He rallied against me at every step but I sent his protests away, howling back towards him into the darkness in which I had cast him. I enjoyed his fear and lack of dominance for he was a stranger to it and as he wailed in pain and fear I looked into him and saw that what I was about to do was justified.

  He knew of the child of course, and I saw that to his mind the child’s future was short; a pillow held over its face, the mewing sickly cries slowing fading to silence and a third grave at the rear of the barn. After that he would count the time before he was able to be on her once again. He knew of the almanac too and had often thought of burning it, yet he never had, though more because of laziness than of application. No doubt one day he would get around to it to break her as finally as he possibly could if indeed he had not done so already.

  He nauseated me, the stink of him and his mindless brutality to his daughter and the purpose for which he used her and the only reason he kept her fed. I took him to the kitchen and sifting through his memories I fetched a rusty oil lamp from under the window and with a taper lit it from a fire under the stove upon which bubbled a pan of some foul smelling gruel boiled. Holding the lamp by the handle I walked him out of the cottage and along the path towards the barn.