Maw
by Cordelia Harrison
Patrick Carlyle crept into the building. His eyes were darting around the area like a blue bottle fly. The glass visitor booth to his immediate left was empty, the porcelain counter housing an old-fashioned telephone with a rotary dial. The floor was tiled a black and white vinyl and led directly to a gloomy stairwell. Atop the high ceiling a single light bulb gleamed like a polished pearl. Patrick cleared his throat, coughing dryly and uneasily adjusting his cheap striped tie. His allergies were acting up. No doubt because the area was covered in a thick layer of dust. The cold air smelt vaguely of old mothballs. The telephone message had provided detailed directions. He had expected a formal establishment. Nothing this deserted.
“Hello?” Patrick called uneasily his voice echoing emptily around the high walls. No response and his anxiety about the entire situation trebled. Perhaps this was a bad idea. However, the telephone at the reception immediately let out a high-pitched ring. Haltingly Patrick lifted the receiver carefully holding it against his ear like a child with a seashell.
“Mr. Carlyle.” A tinny voice issued from the ancient speaker. “Please come up.” How odd. Patrick inhaled nervously. Stepping forward as timidly as a young deer on a pavement, he moved through the room, making his way up the winding stairs. The whitewashed walls were murky as candle wax, free from any kind of paintings or decoration. The area was unnaturally silent too, there was no hint of the bustle and background noise so commonly found in a normal working environment.
Patrick had made the appointment behind his wife’s back and as far as she knew he was working late. No reason for Jenny to have any suspicions about what he was really doing. Didn’t stop him feeling guilty though. They had a good marriage. He adored his wife. They told each other everything. Creeping around was an entirely new experience and it wasn’t pleasant.
Pete Ford, a lawyer at the advertising agency, had given Patrick the number after the younger man had drunkenly blurted out his woes at the firm’s anniversary dinner. The solicitor had simply commented that the young clerk looked tired. Bleary eyed and halfway through his second bottle of red, Patrick had stupidly told the old man what the trouble was. The constant threat of violence, the verbal abuse, how there was only so much more he could take before cracking up completely…The silver-haired solicitor had a craggy face and prominent nose like a jutting tree branch. He listened sympathetically to Patrick rant then reached into his wallet with deliberation.
“Here. They are quick and very discrete.” Ford had leaned over and slick as oil, slipped the card into Patrick’s top pocket, touching his nose confidentially.
“She’ll never know. Mark my words.”
Patrick found Ford’s little gift when he sobered up the following morning. Through a raging hangover he began to piece together the events of the night before. Patrick remembered with horror that he had revealed all his troubles to Ford, some sleazy corporate lawyer who was practically a stranger. Wincing at the memory and trying to ignore the excruciating throb behind his eye sockets Patrick slumped downstairs before queasily settling at the breakfast table in his work clothes. Jenny was delicately nibbling at a piece of watermelon, her small white teeth biting into the fleshy core of the fruit. She seemed dryly amused at the delicate state her husband was in and raised a single eyebrow. In the pale morning light, her hair glinted copper. Penny red. Like a vixen’s coat. It was the first thing he ever noticed about her. Jenny had been standing in front of him in the queue for some modern art exhibition a few years ago. She smelt lush, like sweet amber and sandalwood. When she eventually turned about to face him, he thought she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“You were in one hell of a state last night. Was it worth it?” Massaging his temple Patrick made a rueful face in response. Jenny snorted delicately but didn’t press the matter, velvet brown eyes distant. They had dated for a while before she told him the truth about her home life. She lived with her grandparents and had never known her real mother. Nothing wrong with that. Patrick thought they were nice old couple, kindly, generous. But then Nana Shaw died suddenly, and Grandpa Shaw hadn’t been able to process the loss. That’s when all the trouble started.
At the other end of the breakfast table Grandpa was in a docile mood reading the morning newspaper in silence. Patrick felt ashamed when he thought how he had been railing against the old man the previous night and busied himself with the marmalade. Unfortunately, the gentle domestic scene didn’t last longer than a few minutes. Grandpa picked up his bowl of porridge and without warning, viciously cast it onto the stone floor with relish. Patrick jumped, violently choking on his orange juice and his wife hung her head with a slow shuddering breath.
Grandpa began to roar incoherently flailing his arms around like a turtle on its back. He turned a malicious eye on Jenny and began to spew out foul obscenities. She was so used to his behaviour by now that her face was deliberately blank, but Patrick could see her slender shoulders stiffening. He helped restrain the old man, forcibly pulling his arms down and bundling him into the wheelchair. Grandpa still managed to pummel him thoroughly in the process and managed to land a particularly malicious blow whilst Jenny ran for a sedative. As the old man bellowed, piping foul smelling breath into his face like a chimney Patrick felt a sudden overpowering hatred. Another shocked caregiver had walked out only a few days ago, and none of the local nursing homes felt equipped to take him in. As if either of them had the money for that anyway...
By the time Grandpa had finally settled down, the kitchen looked as though a bomb had hit it. Jenny was tentatively picking broken glass off the floor and Patrick had a bruise ripening above his eyelid. Late for work, he hurriedly changed into a new shirt and with a certain brutal defiance retrieved the card he had tossed into the waste basket earlier.
Settling into his reserved seat on the train sometime later, Patrick resolutely dialed the number on Ford’s card. An automated messaged played requesting he leave his name and details. A few nights after, someone left a voice mail on his phone with instructions. And now here he was, at the address the stranger had described.
There was a short corridor at the top of the staircase leading to a single door. The ceiling was high, and the area was very dark. The streetlights outside were the only source of illumination. Patrick touched the windowsill and some of the paint flaked off into his hand. He flicked it away with a single fingernail.
“In here,” a voice called out. Patrick turned the splintered wooden handle of the door ahead, surprised to find that it opened easily. The rest of the building had been draughty and bitterly cold, creaking against the wind. But this room was warm, pleasantly so. A small fire burned in an old-fashioned grate and dusty oil lamps faintly luminated the chamber. A single painting, a print of Waterhouse’s “The Magic Circle” was positioned high on the wall above a bookcase filled with tomes, most of them beautifully bound classics. The room was painted crimson red.
There was a long oak wood table, shiny as a new penny. A tall figure sat at the very end in a high-backed armchair his arms crossed. The light was dim, and Patrick couldn’t quite see the other’s face. The curtains were drawn and most his visage was cast into shadow.
“Patrick Carlyle?” The stranger had deep vocals, they were musical and rather agreeable sounding like a finely tuned cello. Patrick squinted through the gloom at the individual and coughed again at the clouds of dust winding through the air.
“That’s me.” The spokesman stood and smoothly held out a hand. He was middle aged and oddly handsome with prominent cheekbones and a drooping black moustache. His eyes were steel grey and his hair the colour of crushed velvet. And he was insanely, vividly white. As the two politely shook hands, Patrick was surprised at how cold the gentleman’s fingers were. It was if the other had just dipped them in a bucket of ice and held them there, unflinching for five minutes.
Patrick hastily produced the photographs and documents the message had asked him to bring and spread them across the table. The dark-haired man scanned them quickly then nodded apparently satisfied with the prepared articles. He tapped a photograph with a long finger.
“So, this is our client? Theodore Shaw, age seventy-nine?’ He smiled, grey eyes glinting disarmingly. “Shaw is your wife’s maiden name, I suppose?”
“Yes,” Patrick muttered.
“You wouldn’t be the first.” The owner of the agency chuckled wolfishly baring huge white teeth.
“So…how much is it?” Patrick stammered reaching for his wallet. He had stopped at a cash machine earlier and emptied his meagre savings account. The owner of the agency took his hand in restraint. The solid strength of the man was unbelievable. Patrick realised if the stranger had wanted to, he could have snapped his neck like a twig.
“There is no charge. The service is a benefit to me. I do it all for free.” The other smiled then and his smile gleamed like a newly whetted knife. Huh. Patrick found himself considering the incredible, sharp points of his incisors. The young man had a horrid foreboding then and a feeling that he had unearthed some terrible knowledge. The world had changed. Everything he thought he knew was wrong. Unconsciously, Patrick had stepped backwards a few paces. A creeping chill ran up his spine.
“As you have granted me entry, I will come to your house tonight. Your wife will not hear me. You’ll find him in the morning. I work quickly and cleanly. You won’t know I was there. We have a deal?”
“Y…yes!” Patrick blurted, stammering, and starting to tremble like a disintegrating leaf. He felt like he was flailing in deep waters, helpless as a child. The pale man dismissed him with a rather ghoulish grin. The other had evidently noticed he was petrified.
“Good! A pleasure doing business! And please, take my card.” After retrieving the proffered card with numb fingers Patrick turned and hurtled out the room, sprinting as if the very hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. He could hear the stranger laughing softly.
Patrick slammed down the staircase, bolted through the narrow corridor and skidded into the street. Throwing himself into the battered car parked outside, Patrick immediately locked all the windows. His hands were trembling so much he could barely get the keys in to start the ignition. As soon as the motor began running, Patrick shot off, driving as fast as he could, breaking the speed limit to get away from the forbidden office. What had he done?
In the dim room the man behind the agency licked his pale colourless lips. Soon his thirst would be quenched.
“Hello?” Patrick called uneasily his voice echoing emptily around the high walls. No response and his anxiety about the entire situation trebled. Perhaps this was a bad idea. However, the telephone at the reception immediately let out a high-pitched ring. Haltingly Patrick lifted the receiver carefully holding it against his ear like a child with a seashell.
“Mr. Carlyle.” A tinny voice issued from the ancient speaker. “Please come up.” How odd. Patrick inhaled nervously. Stepping forward as timidly as a young deer on a pavement, he moved through the room, making his way up the winding stairs. The whitewashed walls were murky as candle wax, free from any kind of paintings or decoration. The area was unnaturally silent too, there was no hint of the bustle and background noise so commonly found in a normal working environment.
Patrick had made the appointment behind his wife’s back and as far as she knew he was working late. No reason for Jenny to have any suspicions about what he was really doing. Didn’t stop him feeling guilty though. They had a good marriage. He adored his wife. They told each other everything. Creeping around was an entirely new experience and it wasn’t pleasant.
Pete Ford, a lawyer at the advertising agency, had given Patrick the number after the younger man had drunkenly blurted out his woes at the firm’s anniversary dinner. The solicitor had simply commented that the young clerk looked tired. Bleary eyed and halfway through his second bottle of red, Patrick had stupidly told the old man what the trouble was. The constant threat of violence, the verbal abuse, how there was only so much more he could take before cracking up completely…The silver-haired solicitor had a craggy face and prominent nose like a jutting tree branch. He listened sympathetically to Patrick rant then reached into his wallet with deliberation.
“Here. They are quick and very discrete.” Ford had leaned over and slick as oil, slipped the card into Patrick’s top pocket, touching his nose confidentially.
“She’ll never know. Mark my words.”
Patrick found Ford’s little gift when he sobered up the following morning. Through a raging hangover he began to piece together the events of the night before. Patrick remembered with horror that he had revealed all his troubles to Ford, some sleazy corporate lawyer who was practically a stranger. Wincing at the memory and trying to ignore the excruciating throb behind his eye sockets Patrick slumped downstairs before queasily settling at the breakfast table in his work clothes. Jenny was delicately nibbling at a piece of watermelon, her small white teeth biting into the fleshy core of the fruit. She seemed dryly amused at the delicate state her husband was in and raised a single eyebrow. In the pale morning light, her hair glinted copper. Penny red. Like a vixen’s coat. It was the first thing he ever noticed about her. Jenny had been standing in front of him in the queue for some modern art exhibition a few years ago. She smelt lush, like sweet amber and sandalwood. When she eventually turned about to face him, he thought she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“You were in one hell of a state last night. Was it worth it?” Massaging his temple Patrick made a rueful face in response. Jenny snorted delicately but didn’t press the matter, velvet brown eyes distant. They had dated for a while before she told him the truth about her home life. She lived with her grandparents and had never known her real mother. Nothing wrong with that. Patrick thought they were nice old couple, kindly, generous. But then Nana Shaw died suddenly, and Grandpa Shaw hadn’t been able to process the loss. That’s when all the trouble started.
At the other end of the breakfast table Grandpa was in a docile mood reading the morning newspaper in silence. Patrick felt ashamed when he thought how he had been railing against the old man the previous night and busied himself with the marmalade. Unfortunately, the gentle domestic scene didn’t last longer than a few minutes. Grandpa picked up his bowl of porridge and without warning, viciously cast it onto the stone floor with relish. Patrick jumped, violently choking on his orange juice and his wife hung her head with a slow shuddering breath.
Grandpa began to roar incoherently flailing his arms around like a turtle on its back. He turned a malicious eye on Jenny and began to spew out foul obscenities. She was so used to his behaviour by now that her face was deliberately blank, but Patrick could see her slender shoulders stiffening. He helped restrain the old man, forcibly pulling his arms down and bundling him into the wheelchair. Grandpa still managed to pummel him thoroughly in the process and managed to land a particularly malicious blow whilst Jenny ran for a sedative. As the old man bellowed, piping foul smelling breath into his face like a chimney Patrick felt a sudden overpowering hatred. Another shocked caregiver had walked out only a few days ago, and none of the local nursing homes felt equipped to take him in. As if either of them had the money for that anyway...
By the time Grandpa had finally settled down, the kitchen looked as though a bomb had hit it. Jenny was tentatively picking broken glass off the floor and Patrick had a bruise ripening above his eyelid. Late for work, he hurriedly changed into a new shirt and with a certain brutal defiance retrieved the card he had tossed into the waste basket earlier.
Settling into his reserved seat on the train sometime later, Patrick resolutely dialed the number on Ford’s card. An automated messaged played requesting he leave his name and details. A few nights after, someone left a voice mail on his phone with instructions. And now here he was, at the address the stranger had described.
There was a short corridor at the top of the staircase leading to a single door. The ceiling was high, and the area was very dark. The streetlights outside were the only source of illumination. Patrick touched the windowsill and some of the paint flaked off into his hand. He flicked it away with a single fingernail.
“In here,” a voice called out. Patrick turned the splintered wooden handle of the door ahead, surprised to find that it opened easily. The rest of the building had been draughty and bitterly cold, creaking against the wind. But this room was warm, pleasantly so. A small fire burned in an old-fashioned grate and dusty oil lamps faintly luminated the chamber. A single painting, a print of Waterhouse’s “The Magic Circle” was positioned high on the wall above a bookcase filled with tomes, most of them beautifully bound classics. The room was painted crimson red.
There was a long oak wood table, shiny as a new penny. A tall figure sat at the very end in a high-backed armchair his arms crossed. The light was dim, and Patrick couldn’t quite see the other’s face. The curtains were drawn and most his visage was cast into shadow.
“Patrick Carlyle?” The stranger had deep vocals, they were musical and rather agreeable sounding like a finely tuned cello. Patrick squinted through the gloom at the individual and coughed again at the clouds of dust winding through the air.
“That’s me.” The spokesman stood and smoothly held out a hand. He was middle aged and oddly handsome with prominent cheekbones and a drooping black moustache. His eyes were steel grey and his hair the colour of crushed velvet. And he was insanely, vividly white. As the two politely shook hands, Patrick was surprised at how cold the gentleman’s fingers were. It was if the other had just dipped them in a bucket of ice and held them there, unflinching for five minutes.
Patrick hastily produced the photographs and documents the message had asked him to bring and spread them across the table. The dark-haired man scanned them quickly then nodded apparently satisfied with the prepared articles. He tapped a photograph with a long finger.
“So, this is our client? Theodore Shaw, age seventy-nine?’ He smiled, grey eyes glinting disarmingly. “Shaw is your wife’s maiden name, I suppose?”
“Yes,” Patrick muttered.
“You wouldn’t be the first.” The owner of the agency chuckled wolfishly baring huge white teeth.
“So…how much is it?” Patrick stammered reaching for his wallet. He had stopped at a cash machine earlier and emptied his meagre savings account. The owner of the agency took his hand in restraint. The solid strength of the man was unbelievable. Patrick realised if the stranger had wanted to, he could have snapped his neck like a twig.
“There is no charge. The service is a benefit to me. I do it all for free.” The other smiled then and his smile gleamed like a newly whetted knife. Huh. Patrick found himself considering the incredible, sharp points of his incisors. The young man had a horrid foreboding then and a feeling that he had unearthed some terrible knowledge. The world had changed. Everything he thought he knew was wrong. Unconsciously, Patrick had stepped backwards a few paces. A creeping chill ran up his spine.
“As you have granted me entry, I will come to your house tonight. Your wife will not hear me. You’ll find him in the morning. I work quickly and cleanly. You won’t know I was there. We have a deal?”
“Y…yes!” Patrick blurted, stammering, and starting to tremble like a disintegrating leaf. He felt like he was flailing in deep waters, helpless as a child. The pale man dismissed him with a rather ghoulish grin. The other had evidently noticed he was petrified.
“Good! A pleasure doing business! And please, take my card.” After retrieving the proffered card with numb fingers Patrick turned and hurtled out the room, sprinting as if the very hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. He could hear the stranger laughing softly.
Patrick slammed down the staircase, bolted through the narrow corridor and skidded into the street. Throwing himself into the battered car parked outside, Patrick immediately locked all the windows. His hands were trembling so much he could barely get the keys in to start the ignition. As soon as the motor began running, Patrick shot off, driving as fast as he could, breaking the speed limit to get away from the forbidden office. What had he done?
In the dim room the man behind the agency licked his pale colourless lips. Soon his thirst would be quenched.
Cordelia Harrison has been published in Aphotic Realm, Idle Ink Magazine, and Mirror Dance, among others.