by Neil Jackson
“I’ve already got one,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows. “A garden?”
“No, a gin sling,” I said, but by this time I had already finished it and needed the other one. So I took it and drank it. It was cool. Outside it was hot. I frowned. I knew my prose style could keep going like this forever, earning praise, though my odium for critics would never slacken. I looked at the fish, at the hole in its body. It wasn’t really anything. It was just to let the air in. Same as any wound.
“What are you writing about now?” the barman said.
“One day,” I said, “I’ll write about the war and the soldiers marching, marching, marching. One day I’ll write about peace and the bohemians dancing, dancing, dancing. One day.”
“What about today?” he said.
“Today I plan to write about you asking me what I’m writing about today,” I said, “but maybe later.”
“Can I get you anything?” he said.
“A gin sling,” I said.
“A gin sling?” he said.
“A gin sling,” I said.
“That garden,” he said, “is a sun trap.”
“A sun trap,” I said.
“That’s what I said,” he said.
“Yes, that’s what you said,” I said, “and now I’m saying it too, so it’ll soon also be what I said.”
“It already is,” he said.
“I won’t go out there if it’s a sun trap,” I said. He made me a gin sling. I drank it. Then it was gone.
“Do you know what a sun trap is?” he said. “It’s a place that collects the warmth of the sun. I bet that’s what you were thinking. A place like a place somewhere without shade that collects the warmth of the sun. Well, my suntrap isn’t like that. Nope.”
“What’s it like?” I said.
“You’ll see,” he said, “or maybe you won’t see, maybe it’ll be too dark to see. One or the other.”
“I’ll have a gin sling,” I said.
“Why is your prose style so annoying?” he said.
“So annoying?” I said.
“So annoying,” he said.
“Because I’m a creep,” I said.
“A creep?” he said.
“A creep,” I said.
“What kind of creep?” he said.
“A misogynistic one,” I said. “I’ll have a gin sling.”
“A gin sling?” he said.
“A gin sling. Do you like to see bulls dying?” I said.
“Not particularly,” he said.
“I do. I like to see bulls dying. I like to see horses dying too. I like to see elephants dying. I like to see leopards dying. I like to see fish dying. I like to see men dying, men with beards, men without beards, men with women, men without women too. I like to drive ambulances in the war. I like to pretend to be tough,” I said.
“You really are full of macho bullshit,” he said.
“Indeed I am,” I said.
“Pathetic,” he said.
“Ernest Hummingbird’s the name,” I said.
“No, it’s Humblebee,” he said.
“We’re on the second draft now,” I said. “Get me a gin sling.”
“The second draft of what?”
“Of this story, the story we’re standing in,” I said.
“You’re not standing,” he said.
“I’m sitting instead,” I said.
“And it’s a bar, not a story,” he said.
That wasn’t true, but he made me a gin sling. Outside it was hot, but not as hot as before. I drank my gin sling. My beard helped me do that. “The bar’s inside the story,” I said.
“That’s crazy,” he said.
“Ernest Humdrum’s the name now. Third draft already. All my life I’ve looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time. Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut. I’ll have a gin sling.”
“What kind of story is it exactly?” he said.
“A sort of parody,” I said.
“I thought as much,” he said, “but I think it’s wrong.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“It’s clearly a parody of a writer you don’t know well enough to parody properly but only superficially and unfairly. A true parody should be done with love, not like this,” he said.
“Maybe,” I said. “What’s it to you anyway?”
“Nothing much,” he said.
“Are you waiting for assassins or something?” I said.
“You misunderstand me. What I meant was that you’ve obviously read one or two short pieces by the writer in question and they angered you so much you didn’t try to read more of his work, so you actually don’t know much about his aims, beliefs, passions, strengths, dreams and everything else that helped make him tick.”
“I know enough,” I said. “Get me a gin sling.”
He made me a gin sling. I drank it. Outside it was hot, maybe, maybe not. Inside he was right, maybe, maybe not. I began thinking about the time I bullfought a fish. Bullfought is the past tense of the verb bullfight. I bullfought a fish and I won. A bigger fish than the fish on the wall. The biggest fish in the sea. I fought it with a shotgun. Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death. Apart from painting ceilings while suspended from a cotton thread. Apart from sculpting butter with a grenade. Apart from lava dancing.
“Can’t you think more quietly than that?” he said.
“I’ll have a gin sling,” I said.
Suddenly it went dark.
“What the hell?” I said. “I can’t see my own memories.”
“The trap has sprung,” he said.
“Sprung is the past tense of the verb spring,” I said. “Same way that simmer is the present tense of the verb summer. I was taught that by the soldiers marching, marching, marching. And by the bohemians dancing, dancing, dancing. And by all the other irritating understated things in all my irritating understated books.”
“Please shut up,” he said. “You blithering idiot.”
“Get me a gin sling,” I said.
“I refuse,” he said.
A stranger in the corner spoke up. I hadn’t noticed him before. “This has to be one of the worst parodies I’ve ever been in,” he said, “and I’ve been in a few. It’s not funny.”
“Shut up,” I said. “You’re not actually in this one.”
“Yes he is,” said the barman.
“Yes I am,” said the stranger.
“No, you’re not. A cameo role doesn’t count and you don’t get named in any of the paragraphs,” I said.
“He’s got a point,” said the barman.
“Who has?” I said.
“Both of you,” said the barman.
“I want a gin sling. I need a gin sling, damn it,” I said.
The barman leaned closer. I felt his breath on my understatement. My beard bristled. “The writer you are trying to mock has more depth than you think he does,” he said.
“I doubt it. Where’s my gin sling?” I said.
“Yes, he does,” the barman said, “and so you’re being unjust to him. I happen to have read the writer in question and he wasn’t a racist drunk, a hater of women and a posturing bully all the time, just some of the time. If his work didn’t have genuine merit it wouldn’t have lasted as long as it has. Doesn’t mean I approve of everything he did, the way he used words, his outlook, but all the same…”
I shook my head. “You’ve got it wrong. The writer I’m trying to mock is none other than myself,” I said.
The barman sighed. But he made me a gin sling anyway.
“Why has it gone dark?” I said.
“Because of the sun trap, like I said before,” he said.
“I forgot you said that,” I said.
“That’s why I said it again,” he said.
“So you did,” I said.
“The sun trap has caught the sun,” he said.
“A
re you serious?” I said.
“Deadly serious,” he said.
“In the garden? The sun trap out there?” I said.
“That’s the one,” he said.
“Show me now,” I said. “I need to see it. I need to see the trapped sun. I need to see its blood pulsing, pulsing, pulsing. I need to watch its dying moments, moments, moments.”
The barman shook his head. “It’s not like that.”
But I was already up and staggering in the direction of the back door, my nostrils flared, my trousers also, trying to inhale the hot blood of the sun, trying to taste its death. Suns deserve to die, just like bulls. All bulls deserve to die. Fish deserve to die. Living things deserve to die. Just so I can strut around them. My beard agrees with that. Death in the afternoon, death in the morning, death at teatime. Don’t care when, just so long as it makes me look tough, virile, hard.
“Better than a gin sling,” I said, as I pushed open the door.
“What is?” said the barman.
He was behind me. I felt his breath on my macho nape. “The blood of a living thing that’s dying,” I said.
Then I stumbled over something. It was like a pillow. A pillow for one of those soft creatures called women. It was shaped like the sun. Actually it was the sun. The sun caught in the sun trap. There was no blood. Where was the blood? The sun was unharmed. It was just caught in a trap, netted in a web that snagged its rays, stopped them radiating. That’s why it had gone dark. My beard was furious.
“What’s the big idea?” I said.
“It’s one of those humane sun traps,” the barman said.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“There are no spikes or blades, nothing to hurt the sun. I trap it every evening because I like a bit of night around here, then I release it safely back into the wild before dawn.”
“Where’s the manly cruelty in that?” I said.
“Ain’t any, not a jot,” he said.
“You sissy,” I said.
“Get the hell out of my bar,” he said.
I picked up my hat. I picked up my shotgun. I picked up my fishing rod. I picked up my matador’s sword. I picked up my beard. I picked up my prejudices. I picked up my understatement. I picked up my wineskin. I picked up my ambulance drivers’ licence. I picked up my misogyny. I picked up my homophobia. I picked up my tequila. I picked up my short sentences. I picked up my repetition. I picked up my egotism. Then I left the bar and picked up my pace.
I walked off into an ending no more clever or satisfying than the rest of this story. But I’ll still get praise for it.
CELESTE - Neil Jackson
Scotland 1895.
The blue March sky cast almost no reflection on the still calm of Loch Muick as the waters sparkled and shimmered in the sunlight. Across the expanse, the sound of distant gulls mingled with the squeaky cries of the nesting whinchats and the gentle chugging of a small motor that powered the fishing-smack of the estate manager, as it bobbed gently on the slight swell toward the jetty.
Three well-dressed gentlemen stood on one of the banks as another stood looking; watching the three and the surrounding area for anything untoward.
A large fishing rod was drawn back and then whipped forward at pace.
‘Plip.’
A small, orange coloured float disturbed the surface.
“A fine cast, Your Royal Highness.”
“You can dispense with the formality, Dr. Watson, George will be fine. We are well out of earshot of the staff...and my parents.”
Watson tried his best to appear unflustered but struggled to find a suitable retort.
“Thank you...Your...sir.”
“George.”
“George...yes.”
Prince George smiled at the man’s mild discomfort. It was not the first time that his almost juvenile prank had been used, and away from the prying eyes of his father’s staff, not the last. He turned toward the one among them who remained silent, with eyes fixed on the float, Sherlock Holmes.
“Mr. Holmes, is this to your liking?”
“The view is something to behold. The gentle sound of the water breaking on the bank and the wind murmuring through the tall reeds are things to be wondered at and grateful for.”
“Very poetic, but I sense that fishing is not a pastime of yours. I cannot tempt you one last time to join me?”
“I saw a bind of salmon being brought in by one of your staff, early this morning. Fish like these are too beautiful to be caught only once and served with a slice of lemon and vegetables of the day.”
“I understand your feeling, but we are the only ones here and there are no thronging masses to drain the loch of your beautiful fish.”
“For now, sir...for now.”
Watson gave a cough to indicate his disapproval. It did not go unnoticed by Prince George who gave another wry smile.
“As you mention food, I noticed that you did not touch your breakfast.”
“Holmes doesn’t eat when he needs to concentrate. Total abstinence. Just iron will to keep him going. Foolish if you ask me.”
“Is this true, Holmes?”
“In part. There are times when one is not hungry and this morning was one of those times. If you could alert your kitchen staff as to no slight.”
“Like you, Mr. Holmes, I’m a watcher of people. In the role that my life has dictated, one has to be. To be aware of the nuances of many peoples and of their customs.”
Prince George handed his rod to Watson.
“Dr. Watson. Would you be so kind? I wish to share something with Mr. Holmes.”
“What, but I...”
Watson was not given any time to refuse or question his royal host.
“My footman, Newman, will attend you, should you need anything,” The prince raised his head toward the large gentleman with the stern look standing about twenty yards away. A reciprocal nod was returned by the former soldier, who was now more bodyguard than footman. Fetching and carrying were more for the serving staff, not for one whose life was now dedicated to protecting an heir to the throne. “Newman is a skilled angler...so he is your man.”
“Thank you...sir.” The look on the physician’s face did not hide his mild annoyance at being kept away from the conversation.
“Mr. Holmes, let us stroll.”
The world’s greatest detective and an heir to the throne, the distinguished and the eminent, walked within the grounds of Balmoral, both wearing the garb of thought in their expression but only one carried with him a mystery everlastingly impenetrable...until now.
“What I’m about to tell you requires your utmost discretion, above and beyond your normal level of professionalism, Mr. Holmes...of course I know you will have to inform the good doctor. There is no record or log of what I’m about to relate and I hope that it can help you to uncovering the truth to a long held mystery.”
“You know my credentials, sir...and I am not one who desires the limelight...just answers to questions.”
“There is a small fishing port on the west coast, Mallaig. I want you to travel there and examine something for me.”
“Examine?”
“A brigantine. A half-brig to be correct.”
“And what is it that you want examined? I am a seasoned traveller, Your Highness...but my knowledge of ships, save for their ability to transport goods and people, is limited. But I do know that to keep a brigantine, 100 feet in length, is not something that can be kept quiet on any level.”
The Prince’s tone changed. More thoughtful. Fearful.
“When I was a lieutenant serving on the Dreadnought, I was the target of many japes and tomfoolery based on an incident that occurred on July 11th, 1881 when I was assigned to the Bacchante. Early that morning, a ship appeared of the port bow, where the Officer-of-the-Watch, myself and a number of other able seamen all saw it. A ship that glowed this strange, red light. A mist shrouded its entire being, yet no weather conditions that would contribute to the formation of a fog
were in evidence.”
“The Flying Dutchman.” Holmes interjected.
“The same. You’re not surprised?”
“As you say, your sighting is a matter of record. The Tourmaline and Cleopatra that sailed to your starboard, if I recall the incident correctly, also logged the sighting.”
“Very good, Holmes. If only it was that incident that needed investigation, though you would be the right man for that task. No, the task I would like you to consider, concerns a much darker piece of naval mystique.”
“I’m intrigued to say the least. The lore surrounding the Dutchman, I feel is based on fable more than anything physical.”
“This one is very physical. The Celeste.”
The name was enough to stop Holmes in his tracks. Instinctively he reached out to the Royal Heir’s forearm.
“You have the Mary Celeste ?”
“I see the name has piqued your interest.”
Both men looked at Holmes’ hand. Holmes loosed his grip.
“My apologies.”
“We can’t put you in the Tower for having passion and an inquiring mind, Mr. Holmes.”
The two men continued their walk. Holmes’ mind now began to formulate a path of questioning, as he recalled every detail that his almost photographic memory could muster.
“I was led to believe that she had been sunk off the island of Haiti by her last owner, one GC Parker, if I recall my details correctly.”
“Mr. Parker was arrested and sent to prison to await his trial. But ‘died’ before he could come to court.”
“But the brigantine was set alight and sunk as part of the fraud. How can you be sure that you have the Celeste?”
“Because it was a group of my own people that arranged for a sleight of hand.”
“A fraud of your own, so to speak?”
“I prefer to call it ‘a wilful campaign of misinformation.’ The insurance companies were covered financially. The legal documents filed to withstand any and all scrutiny.”
“The burning wreck?”
“Mr. Holmes, a brigantine is easy to come by. Many owners are willing to scupper a boat with only few months left of its life and no commercial value.”
“GC Parker?”
“Alive and well. A new identity...and a small business to keep him occupied. But he is being watched closely. I had a hand-picked group of men, trustworthy fellows all, deliver her to her present resting place. Took them the best part of two months.”