9 Tales From Elsewhere 8

by 9 Tales From Elsewhere

  I knew him and Mrs Wright well, in fact I’d only seen them about two weeks before, but not a flicker of recognition showed on either of their faces. So I started with the proactive stuff.

  I waved at them. “Hello, I’m Amy. From the dentists’?”

  They stared at me. I tried to think of things that a “provider” should say, to demarginalise the clients, or whatever it was Nat had said. Hairdressers talk about holidays, but I couldn’t really do that as the nearest most of them got to one of those was when they came to the surgery. So I resorted to that British standby conversation topic.

  “Nice drop of rain we’re having just now,” I said, nodding towards the window. On the other side was the car park, and I could see that Nat hadn’t closed the window on her side of the car properly. If the rain didn’t stop soon, she’d have a wet bum by the time we got back to the surgery.

  “But not so cold.” Stanley wheeled himself towards me. “Nice to meet you, lovey. Call me Stan.”

  Poor soul, he didn’t remember me. He stretched out his hand and I shook it. One of the bridges was his and I passed it to him. I took his record card out of my bag and scanned the chart on the front. He had all his own teeth apart from the missing two premolars we’d built the bridge to replace.

  He put the bridge in and it clicked into place. “Lovely like,” he said, with a smile.

  “Are you sure? Try biting down on it for a bit. Go on, get angry with it.”

  “I’ve got nothing to be angry about. It’s great.”

  Nat came in and I handed her Mrs Wright’s bridge. She’d drawn the short straw there, serve her right for taking so long gassing to the boss.

  “You going on holiday this year?” Stanley said.

  “I’m meant to be asking you that,” I said. “But yes – I’m off to Malia next week.”

  “Crete.”

  “Yes. Know it?” I felt like kicking myself then, because Stanley wasn’t the sort who could just pop on a plane. And I somehow couldn’t see him on the floor all night in the disco.

  “Sure thing.” He nodded. “My job took me round the world. Went there lots of times. Very white teeth, the Cretans.”

  “Yes, well, I’m looking forward to ten days of sun, sea and...er, sightseeing. My friend’s getting the tickets first thing tomorrow morning, I cleaned out my savings account at lunchtime. I’m going round to hers after work to give her the money.” Karen had wanted payment in cash. I stashed the bag under my chair.

  Nat asked Mrs Wright to try her bridge. She shook her head. “Aren’t you going to screw the teeth into me gums?”

  “No, you’re not suitable for implants,” Nat said. “I’ve made you a bridge, remember?”

  Mrs Wright snatched the bridge and shoved it into her mouth.

  “They’re lovely!” Nat said. “Here, take a look.” She got a mirror out of her overall pocket.

  “Lovely? They’re a man’s teeth. All big and square. And they’re yellow.”

  Nat’s voice got a bit high pitched and fast and she spoke in plain English. “But they look just like the rest of yours and you chose them to match the ones you’ve got left. You chose them before I took those bad ones out. Remember?”

  “Remember? I’m still having nightmares. Drilled on the nerve, you did. Dragged me round the room.”

  Stanley rolled his eyes upwards. “Drilled on the nerve. Dragged her round. Bet hers came out as easy as that.” He snapped his fingers. “She’s just like everyone, they all want little white teeth with round corners, never mind what their own upper laterals look like.”

  It was true. Sometimes I don’t know why we bother with the colour and shape charts.

  “You know a lot about dentistry, Stan,” I said. “Were you in the business?” Maybe he’d been with the forces, or an international dental supplies rep.

  “Not me. I used to be a tooth fairy.”

  Poor old Stan. It wasn’t that long ago that we were chatting about politics, or rather he did the talking and I listened. “Oh? Er…tell me about it.”

  “Well, didn’t you wonder why I’ve got most of me own teeth? Wouldn’t do to have a fairy with falsies. It was simple enough work. Kids used to leave a tooth under their pillow, I’d leave them a shilling, that’s five pence to you.”

  “You meanie, I used to get more than that for mine.”

  “Yes well, it’d gone up to half a crown by the time I retired, that’s twelve and a half pence. Get a pound or more now, talk about spoilt.”

  “I can’t see you in a fairy ballet dress.”

  “No, it wouldn’t have suited me. I didn’t have the legs for it.”

  I apologized.

  “No matter. But less of your sexism, you can have male fairies. I used to wear a sort of all-in-one catsuit thing, mustard colour it was, with little holes in the back for my wings…” His voice tailed off, his eyelids closed and his head drooped forward. He began to snore, but it didn’t dislodge the bridge.

  I heard a thud on the carpet in the corridor and a scream. Nat rushed outside. “Amy!” she shouted “Quick!”

  I ran out. Nat supported the head and shoulders of an old lady, lying next to a walking frame on its side. There were no nurses to be seen. “Pull the alarm, Amy.”

  As I tugged at the red cord dangling from the ceiling in front of the doorway I heard Stanley shout “Oi!” from the lounge. The man in overalls charged out, knocking me to the floor. He ran down the corridor away from us and through the door at the far end that led into the car park.

  Stanley wheeled himself out into the corridor. My bag, where I’d stashed the holiday money, was on his lap. It was open, and the purse was missing. “What a shame. Sorry I was asleep or I’d have caught the sod. Or at least, I’d have run him over, stop him having it away on his toes like that.”

  I sat and sobbed. One of the decorators came in, followed by the nurse. Nat explained what had happened. “And you’re going nowhere,” she said to the decorator. ‘We’re going to call the police and you’re going to tell them where they can find him.”

  “How do I know?” the decorator said. “He wasn’t one of ours. You should know us, nurse, we’ve been here often enough. Didn’t come in with us, did he? Thought you’d asked someone else to see if they could do it cheaper.”

  The nurse gasped. “No, Bert. He rang the bell and told Reception he was working with you.”

  “And then went into another room and waited for his chance.” My voice thickened. Nat put her arm round me. “Can I go home?” I said. “The police aren’t going to do anything, anyway. Just fill in a few forms and offer me counselling. That won’t get me to Malia.”

  “Now look,” Nat said. “You have to step up to the plate. We have to be proactive about challenges like this, that man won’t just hand himself in. We’ll all be able to give them a description.”

  “You might be able to, but I can’t – all I can remember is one of his teeth, the lairy sod. Yellow metal with a lump of bling.” I looked round at the mismatched chairs and the dismal pictures. I’d been left with as much chance of a holiday as Stanley and Mrs Wright.

  About two weeks later, I sat by my bedroom window. That morning the sun had woken me with its brightness, but now it was afternoon and the sky was solid grey. I thought of Karen and all the others, sunning themselves in Malia. Drops of rain splashed against the glass. Running down like tears. Even the sheets on my bed were grey, slate with charcoal edges, the colour of an amalgam filling. Really classy, of course at least on a bed, but just then I found them even more miserable than the weather. I got a yellow set out of the cupboard. Maybe they’d help me feel a bit happier.

  When I moved my pillow, something underneath it skittered across the bed and landed on the floor. I knelt down. It was a tooth, capped with yellow metal and inset with a lump of bling. The root was still attached. I stared at it: a left upper central. I swear it hadn’t been there the night before.

  I sneaked the tooth into work and drilled the cap off while Nat
was out at lunch. The metal dented a bit as I gripped it in the forceps, but the stone didn’t scratch when my hand slipped and I touched it with the drill. I held it on my outstretched palm. The metal looked warm somehow, and the stone sparkled. So I took it to the jeweller.

  *

  Nat and I had to go back to Star Lodge a week later. Stanley was in the lounge, watching Peter Andre’s 60 Minute Makeover.

  “What are you doing here?” he said. “I thought you was going on your hols.”

  “The money got stolen, remember?”

  He leaned forward. “And?”

  “Well, funny you should ask but I got it back.” I decided to spare him the details. I had a feeling it wasn’t entirely legit.

  “So why are you here?”

  “It all happened too late to buy the ticket. Never mind, maybe next year.”

  He rolled his eyes. “There’s no helping some people. If you changed your bed linen more often you’d have been in time. Grey sheets!” He tutted. “You kids. Reckon they don’t show the dirt, or something?”

  It had to be a lucky guess, but I felt a fluttering in my stomach. “You cheeky so and so. My laundry’s my own business.”

  Stanley put his hands up. “OK, don’t get off yer bike.” He wheeled himself forward and turned the volume up on the television. Returning to me, he whispered in my ear. “But look, love. The fairy code is to wait for the teeth to fall out. But I’m like your dentist bint, I say sometimes you have to be proactive.”

  So I gave him a pound. Well, It was the least I could do, wasn’t it?

  THE END.

  HAFGAN’S HORN by Kenneth O’Brien

  The band of riders was around thirty strong. Eoin jerked the reins and brought Greymare to a halt as he watched their passage. The plough lay idle in the furrow, as he stood mesmerised by the sight of the Moss Reivers following the trail that ran next to the stream.

  ‘Look!’ he called across to the man digging a drainage ditch at the edge of the field. Eoin pointed to the horsemen. ‘Aren’t they a sight, father?’

  Torin Nok looked up from his toil and watched the warriors transit the dale. ‘Aye, son!’ He replied. ‘They are indeed. They’re moving north. They’ll be headed back for the Red Keep. But they’re fighters and we’re feeders, boy. Without our grain, they wouldn’t have the strength to protect the borders, so get back to work. That field won’t plough itself.’

  With a heavy sigh, Eoin shook the reins. ‘Pull, Greymare,’ he commanded.

  The old horse flicked her tail, swatting a few flies at her back end and then continued her journey across the field. The plough slid easily through the wet, heavy soil and Eoin laughed as he was almost jerked from his feet. ‘With your strength, you should have been a warhorse, Greymare.’

  ‘She was, boy! A long time ago,’ a gruff, unfamiliar voice answered.

  Startled, Eoin turned to see a Moss Reiver with red hair and heavy beard seated on his stationary mount. The leather armour he wore squeaked slightly as he pointed towards Eoin’s father who had dropped his spade and was making his way across the half-ploughed field. ‘See that man heading this way?’

  ‘My father,’ Eoin replied.

  The warrior gave a startled laugh. ‘Your father, eh? Well, he was my captain for many a year. Korey’s my name and Torin Nok was the best commander I could ever wish for.’

  ‘Him?’ Eoin asked incredulously, glancing back at the approaching man, ‘a Moss Reiver?’

  The bearded warrior laughed and slapped his riding breeches with a large hand. ‘Torin? Never! He was an officer in the King’s Guard. Back when we had a king that is. The Moss Reivers are mostly crooks, cutthroats and blaggards. The only thing that keeps them from the gallows is their riding and fighting ability. They get to guard the borders and loot any invaders that we kill.’ He pointed a thick, grimy finger at Eoin. ‘And let me tell you this, boy: the only thing that keeps them from cutting my throat is the profit I bring them. Your father is a man of principle, more’s the pity. He would never lower himself to ride with such scum, I can tell you that for a fact!’

  ‘The King’s Guard? My father?’ Eoin gaped with increasing amazement.

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised, boy. He wasn’t always a farmer. It was only after your mother…well...’ Korey gave a cough and spat a lump of phlegm into the soil. ‘You’ve heard of Bloody Taeburn?’

  ‘I have,’ Eoin replied.

  ‘Aye,’ said the Reiver. ‘But not from your father I’d wager.’

  ‘Sometimes, on feast and festival days, I get to spend some hours with other farm boys. They’ve talked about Taeburn.’

  Korey’s shoulders slumped and he looked down. ‘I lost count of the numbers that fell under your father’s sword that day. Best killer of men that I ever did see. But your father alone couldn’t prevent our greatest loss on the battlefield.’

  The warrior raised his head, his features tight with anguish. Eoin could see that the memory still haunted the Reiver. ‘Defeat changes men far more than a victory does. You’d do well to remember that boy.’

  ‘Korey!’ Eoin’s father called and held out his arm as he neared the rider. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  The warrior leaned down from his mount and grasped hands with Eoin’s father. ‘It’s Captain Korey now and it’s been far too long, Torin.’

  ‘A captain, eh? Are they so desperate?’

  Korey frowned. ‘Don’t jest. Things are indeed bad.’

  ‘Are they now?’ The remnants of Torin’s smile fell away.

  ‘Aye. We need to talk.’

  ‘I think I know what you want to speak about but not here. Not when I have some ale in the house. We’ll drink and then we’ll talk, eh?’

  Korey gave a nod and dismounted. ‘Aye. I could do with a tankard or two.’

  Torin turned to his son. ‘Take Captain Korey’s horse to the stable and make sure it gets plenty of feed and then you can carry on with the ploughing.’

  ‘But…’ Eoin protested. He wanted to join the men and hear what was said. He was desperate to learn how Captain Korey and his father had once been comrades in arms, suddenly realising that there was so much about his father that he didn’t know.

  ‘No buts,’ Torin Nok replied firmly. ‘Our conversation is not for young ears.’

  Eoin knew better than to argue with his father. He was never going to win and he watched the two men head to the small farmhouse as he led Korey’s horse across the muddy yard towards the stable. Once the mount was settled and given some food and water, Eoin crept along the narrow gap between the building and outhouses. Reaching his destination, he crouched below an open window in the farmhouse. From this point, he hoped to watch and listen in on the older men.

  ‘That’s good ale,’ he heard Captain Korey say.

  Eoin raised his head slightly and peered through the gap between the frame and wall.

  Torin Nok was in his favourite chair with the leader of the Moss Reivers firmly ensconced in the seat opposite.

  ‘I know why you’re here,’ said Nok.

  Korey held out a placatory hand. ‘Before you answer, just hear me out. I know that, when the battle of Taeburn was lost and our king captured, you took Hafgan’s Horn.’

  Torin Nok didn’t reply but gave his old friend a look of suspicion.

  Captain Korey drank heavily from his tankard and cradled the vessel in his large hands. He shook his head. ‘These last years have been hard. The men that we’ve lost…now with our hostaged king reported dead and no rightful heir, the country is in chaos. The lords vie for power, fighting amongst themselves, or turning their eyes south, hoping to catch the attention and support of our neighbours. Only the Moss Reivers hold the integrity of our borders intact, but we are becoming fewer and our nobility turns into treacherous swine. They act like beggars scrambling for scraps and would pay homage to the southern king if it met with their own selfish aims. In arms, we are reduced to sword, dirk and latch. We cannot stand against a force of heavier weapons
for long. Even the Red Keep itself may be vulnerable to these new cannon that we hear about. The constant skirmishing is costing us dear and our recruitment is down because the lords now keep those that they once would send to us for their own private armies.’

  ‘And you think the horn is the answer?’

  Korey gave a sharp look to his friend, green eyes burning through red hair and beard. ‘Aye. I do. And if truth be told, it should have been blown at Taeburn.’

  Torin Nok shook his head and took a small sip of his ale. ‘It’s a weapon for gods, not for men.’

  ‘I’ll make it a weapon of men,’ the Reiver captain growled.

  ‘You would kill us all. Don’t you see that? The horn is a demolisher of land. It doesn’t care who stands upon it. It is a weapon that was never meant to be used. It was given to the first king to act as a reminder of the ultimate price of all conflict. In truth, it’s a message and we’d do well to take heed. The price is just too high.’

  Captain Korey beat his fist against his knee. ‘I’ll gladly pay the price and damn all the Gods in the process!’

  ‘And what of the people that won’t have a say in your choice? What of all the men, women and children you may sentence to death with your action?’

  ‘At least they would die while free and not subservient to our neighbours,’ he huffed.

  ‘No’ Nok replied firmly. ‘You don’t have that right.’

  ‘Only a traitor would watch his nation lose its independence and do nothing,’ the Reiver captain countered.

  ‘Am I a traitor for wanting folk to live in peace without struggle? Does it matter what flag flies above the ramparts if the people are free from danger and live a happy life?’

  ‘By the Gods, man!’ Korey cried, ‘Your own Gweneth fell before the scum from the south!’