Oisín McGann - Ancient Appetites

'I know… I know that my father was not always fair,' Nate pleaded with them, to a chorus of snorts and stifled laughs. 'But whatever you think you've endured before, this will be much worse. This man is a fiend, I tell you. An absolute monster. You have to help me!'

'We have to do no such thing.' Duffy shook his head. 'Now if you'll excuse us, sir-'

'I understand that life is hard here,' Nate cut him off. 'But I-'

'You understand nothing! Duffy snapped at him. 'What do you know? You think because you've seen a ruined cottage or two on your rides through the country, or taken a tour through the inside of a factory, that you know what life is like on your estates? You have no idea.' His face twisted in a grimace of hatred. 'You – who takes his sugar in lumps and each meal in a different room, and has his footman take the warming pan to his bed-sheets before retiring for the night, and has a freshly pressed change of clothes laid out for him every morning. What do you know-?'

He was interrupted by the sound of horses' hooves clattering across the ground outside. The landlord peered out of the window.

'It's Slattery and two of his louts!' Hanratty growled. 'One of 'em's goin' round to the back door.'

Nate pulled the revolver from his jacket pocket.

'Help me or stand back,' he said, his jaw tight with tension. 'I'm going to put an end to the bloody cur right now'

But Duffy stood up and gently pushed the gun towards the floor.

'Show some respect for the dead,' he said sternly. 'Hanratty here'll hide you. We'll see them off, don't you worry. But there'll be no shooting here this morning.'

Francie melted into the crowd as Nate allowed himself to be led to a door behind the bar that opened into a storeroom. It had only one tiny window that offered no escape. Hanratty closed the door behind him, just as Slattery strode into the pub. Nate knelt down and peered through the keyhole.

'Well, if it isn't Eamon Duffy and his mob,' Slattery declared as he stood, looking around the room. Nate observed with some satisfaction that the bailiff was still walking stiffly 'And who's in the box, then?'

'My brother, as if you didn't know,' Duffy replied coolly.

The man who came in with Slattery walked past the bar and stepped in behind it to open the back door and look out. He was only a few feet from the storeroom door. Nate could feel the floorboards settle under the man's weight.

'I'm sorry for your troubles,' Slattery said, without a hint of sincerity. 'I'm looking for a tall blond gentleman about eighteen years old. The young Master Nathaniel Wildenstern. Has anyone seen him?'

'Aye, I've seen 'im,' a man said from the other side of the room. 'Up yer arse, pickin' daisies.'

There was some nervous laughter. Nate couldn't see the bailiff's expression through the narrow hole, but his tone told him all he needed to hear.

'That's Charlie Fitzpatrick, isn't it?' Slattery retorted. 'Sure, I never knew you were such a sparklin' wit, Charlie. Maybe you can spare some more of it when I come to collect your rent this Tuesday? You do have the rent money, don't you, Charlie?'

There seemed to be no more wit forthcoming. Slattery was silent for a moment, and Nate could guess that he was giving the crowd the evil eye. The man at the back door closed it and walked in behind the bar. Nate gripped his pistol, wincing as he pulled back the hammer as quietly as he could.

'Get on with your drinkin',' Slattery said at last, throwing some money on a table. 'Drink away your troubles. Drink away your worries and drink away your sad little lives an' all. The more you all drink, the easier my job is, so have a round on me. And put some into poor dead Eoin there as well, why don't you? Don't want him meetin' the Almighty without drink on his breath. Give the Irish a bad name.'

And with a shuffle of boots on the wooden floor, they were gone. Nate eased the hammer home on his pistol and let out long breath. Slumping down with his back against the door, he stared up at the light coming through the tiny window.

Listening to the sounds of the men mounting their horses, he felt as if he were in a daze.

'Master Wildenstern?' Hanratty's voice called through the door. 'It's all right, they're gone now.'

Nate did not hear the landlord. This latest turn of events had finally overwhelmed him. He had never known the dead man, and yet the news of Eoin Duffy's death had been more than he could cope with after everything that had happened. He had thought that all he had to do was get away from the family – go to some far-flung corner of the world where he and the others could stay out of the way of the Wildensterns and live their lives in peace. But it could never be that simple.

'He's not answerin',' Hanratty said to somebody else. 'Do y'think he's all right?'

'Maybe he's fallen asleep – he looked knackered,' somebody suggested. 'You should have a look in and see.'

Now Nate had a man's death on his hands because he hadn't cared enough to ensure his instructions were carried out. Servants were never permitted to think for themselves, but people like Slattery were given more slack. It meant the family could wash its hands of any inhuman acts that he committed.

'I'm not stickin' me head in there,' Hanratty exclaimed. 'He was bit jumpy with that pistol if y'ask me. If I woke him up, he might get a fright and start squirtin' lead all over the place.'

'Best leave him to wake up on his own, so,' the other voice concluded helpfully.

Nate had known how his family worked even as he stood in that dungeon looking at the battered face of Eoin Duffy. And yet he had turned his back and walked away. And Clancy too was probably dead by now, because Nate had been stupid and careless, and because he lived in fear. Sitting in that tiny storeroom, he swore to himself that was about to change. He understood now what Clancy had been trying to tell him. He had been born into a privileged position… now he had to earn it. It was time to claim his inheritance.

His eyes wandered around the little room with its shelves of boxes, cans and paper parcels. It was nothing like the huge cellars at home, with their massive stores of fine food and drink. A milk churn sat in one corner, with a bag of potatoes leaning against it, some of them already sprouting shoots out of their brown skin. The whole room had a musty smell of vegetables on the edge of decay. In another corner was a small meat-safe, a cupboard with a wire gauze front used for storing meat. The Wildensterns were one of the only households in the country with the modern refrigerators. On top of the meat-safe lay a few sheets of paper and a pencil. Somebody had been doing the accounts. They were very small numbers.

Standing up, Nate picked up the pencil and a blank sheet and wrote out a short message on it. Then he opened the door. The crowd of mourners were looking on in interest.

'Francie,' he said. 'I need you to take this to the nearest telegraph office and send it immediately. Wake them up if you have to – tell them it's a matter of life and death.'

Francie looked at the message in confusion.

'But-'

'I need you to send it exactly as it is, do you hear me?' Nate insisted.

Francie nodded. Handing the note and some coins to the boy, Nate turned to Eamon Duffy.

'Sir, we need two horses. I can pay well.'

'We'll loan you the horses,' said the man, holding up two glasses of whisky. 'All I ask, Master Wildenstern, is that you drink to my brother.'

'It's the least I could do,' Nate replied, taking the glass and holding it up. 'May he be in Heaven an hour before the devil knows he's dead.'

'Amen to that,' the dead man's brother answered.

And so Nate rode away from the pub with the taste of whisky burning his parched throat. Like the bitterness of Eoin Duffy's death, it would take a long time to fade.