Oisín McGann - Ancient Appetites

'That's it,' Gerald said in an encouraging voice. 'That's a good fellow. You'll be safe with me.'

Brutus rested his right arm on Gerald's shoulders, causing the younger man to stoop under the giant's enormous weight. The claw opened and clicked closed again, inches from Gerald's face. He patted the arm nervously and started to lead his research subject towards the door. Brutus's fingers loosened their grip on the saw and it clattered to the floor.

Clancy woke to see Gerald crumpling under the weight of the ogre, one giant arm wrapped around his neck. Slowly, to avoid attracting attention, the manservant swung his legs off the bed.

Brutus slipped and lost his footing, bringing his whole weight down on Gerald's shoulders. Gerald let out a loud grunt as he tried to remain standing. A moment later, Clancy piled into Brutus, knocking Gerald aside. The young doctor watched in despair as Clancy charged the howling giant straight towards the window and, with a crash of glass, shoved him through. Clancy nearly followed him out, but Gerald darted forward, grabbed him and pulled him back. They both leaned out of the window to see the remains of the ogre splayed on the ground several storeys below. There had been no conveniently placed gargoyle this time.

'Well…' Gerald gasped, straightening up unsteadily. 'That's the end of that.'

Gulping air, he nodded his thanks to Clancy. The pale-faced footman sank back onto the bed, clutching his bandaged chest. Gerald hurried out of the door and along to the elevator, eager to see if there was anything of Brutus's body to salvage.

'I suppose that was one way of getting him downstairs.'

Francie had gone to great pains to assure his father that the Wildensterns would not be coming after him. Shay found it hard to believe: the Wildensterns were not known for their forgiveness. It was only after Francie had informed him that Master Nathaniel not only knew the full story of the botched robberies and had kept quiet about it, but had also promoted Francie to the position of groom in the engimals' stable, that Shay finally had to admit that it sounded like they were in the clear. Even so, he persisted, it was all a bit fishy if you asked him.

Francie still felt a wave of cold fear come over him when Patrick Slattery walked in as they were sitting over pints of stout in McAuley's. Shay went tense beside him, gripping the edge of the rough-hewn table. But the bailiff was a changed man. McAuley's was the local for many of the Wildenstern staff, and word had got round in the week since the catastrophic train wreck that Slattery had been fired by the family and that his name had been blackened by rumours of murder, so he could not find work anywhere else. Everyone knew that the disaster on the railway had been caused by Trom and everyone knew who drove the bull-razer. Slattery's expensive suit was dirty and dishevelled and he wore bandages on his head and one hand. There was a sullen look in his eyes that dared anyone to give him grief. Despite his loss of status, he could still inspire fear. He stood by the bar and ordered a whisky, downed it in one and then demanded another.

Francie was struck by a sudden need to empty his bladder. He slid out from behind the table. He had to walk past Slattery, and the bailiff glanced down at him as he made his way out. He imagined the man's gaze drilling into his back as he unlatched the door and stepped outside. It was a damp night; a light drizzle was falling and Francie trudged through the mud round to the back of the pub. There was always a stench from the outhouse so he avoided it, choosing to relieve himself into the hedge behind it.

Someone came out after him: he heard footsteps in the mud and then the sound of two horses trotting towards the pub. There had been no sign of them on the road when Francie had come out; they must have been down under the trees at the bend. The outhouse door opened and there was an indrawn breath and a curse. Francie recognized Slattery's voice just a few feet away. He froze. He didn't want to go bumping into that fellow in the dark. Before the door could close again, the horses drew up.

'Patrick Slattery?' a man called out.

'Who's askin'?' Slattery snapped back.

'A friend of Eoin Duffy's,' the man replied.

Francie flinched as a shot rang out and then another. Something heavy fell against the outhouse door and there were three more shots. The horses whinnied and their riders shouted and then they were gone, galloping away into the drizzling night.

Francie cautiously looked round the end of the wall. Slattery lay dead against the toilet, his body across the threshold, his chin pressed against his chest as if he were asleep. Men were coming out of the pub; there were excited shouts, questions and fearful warnings.

'Jaysus, it's Slattery,' someone said. 'Someone's done 'im in.'

They formed a semicircle around the corpse, and for some time there wasn't a word. They took off their hats, shifting their feet and looking uncomfortably at one another. Then, at last, Shay said:

'Sure, it was the best cure for 'im, God rest 'is soul. Let's get 'im out of there now – it's no fit place for the deceased.'

And so men who had despised the bailiff while he lived gathered to lift his body up and carry it inside, finally treating Patrick Slattery with all the consideration, respect and diffidence he could have wished for… had he not been dead.

Daisy was waiting in a chair by Roberto's bedside when he finally regained his senses. He had been feverish for more than a week, racked by pain from his injuries. His sleep was troubled by nightmares, and when he woke, he would suffer delusions brought on by his agony or the laudanum given him to ease it.

Even as she nursed him, she wondered about their future. How could she forgive him for his infidelity? It was hugely humiliating for her and the greatest betrayal of her trust. If word got out about it – as it surely would – she would hear whispers and muffled laughs wherever she went. But worse was the knowledge that she was trapped in a marriage with a man who did not love her – who was in love with another man, one old enough to be his father. She had heard of this kind of thing before, of course; the upper classes had all sorts of strange habits, but Roberto was her husband. She'd be giving him a piece of her mind, he could count on that.

Then one day he opened his eyes and looked over from his bed at his wife and smiled weakly, and she knew that it was an argument that could wait until he was better prepared for it. As a friend, she owed him that much at least.

'How are you feeling?' she asked, smiling back at him.

'I'm starving… Thirsty too,' he replied. 'Other than that…'

His voice drifted off as he tried to move his legs. A look of sorrow came over him.

'Gerald says there might still be hope,' Daisy told him, getting on her knees by his side and taking his hand. 'You have your ancestors' blood in you. He said anything is possible.'

'Having met my ancestors, I'm inclined to agree,' Berto snorted. 'That said, I'm not sure I'm happy having their blood crawling around in my veins. Heaven knows what it's getting up to in there. Is everyone else all right? Tatty? Nate? What about Clancy? Did he make it?'

'They're all fine,' she reassured him. 'Although Clancy refuses to stay in bed even though he still has a hole in his chest, and Tatty ordered a suit of boy's clothes to be made for her the other day. I'm not sure quite what to make of that. Nate and I have been busy putting the house in order for you.'