Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

Aiden Miller-'Prometheus' to his friends, after the Titan of Greek mythology-was seated in an enclosed booth at the rear of The Black Sheep tavern, at a table built for a much smaller man. Cursed by nature with a body like an ox and an unwelcoming face, the gentle giant had fled from his native Ireland to join Dr Marvello's Travelling Circus many years before. Adopting the identity of the circus's strongman, Miller had found a new sense of purpose in his life. If the man had not been mute, he would have said that he was the happiest he had ever been in his whole life.

He wore a dog-eared and mottled grey frock-coat, and a thick, woollen cap covered most of his bald head. A low hem of dark-brown hair skirted the back of his head, like a fringe that had slipped somewhat. It flourished into a thick, bristling beard that enveloped the lower part of this face, with only his eyes and nose visible under the shade of the cap's peak. Four untouched tankards of ale were lined up like soldiers on the table in front of him, and his clay pipe streamed a flume of smoke towards the tavern's low ceiling. Purposely finding an area of the place built for secrecy, Miller wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible. Towering at over seven foot tall-this was no easy task.

A rickety old bar was positioned in the centre of the tavern, and several late-night drinkers were idly ghosting backwards and forwards inside the public house, either not caring, or not daring to look Miller in the eye.

'He's a queer one and no mistake, Arthur,' said a lank-haired man hunched over the bar. 'I mean, look at the size of the bleeder! He must be all of eight feet tall, if he's an inch.'

The landlord glanced towards Miller's booth and nodded. 'He's been there for over an hour, Alfie. Bought four ales, and not touched a single drop. Just been reading that letter in his hand, over and over,' he said. 'Must be bad news, whatever it is.'

The customer grinned. 'Probably a note from his bit o' fluff, tellin' him she's run away with someone who looks less like a bleedin' gorilla.'

The barman and his customer erupted in hearty laughter.

'That's a bit rude, if you don't mind me saying,' said a small, squeaky voice by the side of the customer.

The customer spun around to face the voice's owner, but no one was there. He felt a firm tug on the bottom of his long overcoat, and his eyes slowly panned down to face the wide, open face of a dwarf woman with a thatch of tousled blonde hair nestled under a stout straw hat. Large emerald-green eyes peeked up from under the brim, and her scarlet lips glowed like the petals of a summer rose.

'Who the bloody hell are you?' said the man incredulously, gawping at the immaculately dressed dwarf.

'The name's Twinkle,' replied the tiny woman.

'What are you doing in here, lass? This ain't no place for a young'un,' said the barman, leaning at full stretch over the bar.

'Yeah! Go on an' get home, little girl,' chorused the customer.

'I'm no little girl, mister,' Twinkle said, snatching the tail of the man's coat and yanking it as hard as she could. The customer slipped clumsily from his stool, and landed flat on his back on the sawdust floor. The dwarf swiftly cocked her leg over the man's body, and flopped all her weight down hard astride his chest. The air whistled from his lungs. 'I'm the bleedin' gorilla's bit o' fluff!'

The customer's eyes bulged in disbelief as they flicked first from Twinkle's mischievous face, to the large shadow that suddenly blocked out the light. Aiden Miller's voluminous form towered over the man, his upside-down face grimaced into a cold, stone glare.

'Let's just calm down now, eh, big fella? Alfie didn't mean no harm; the man's got a loose tongue, is all,' the barman said, hurriedly grabbing a bottle of whisky from a shelf behind the bar. 'Here, why don't you go sit yourself down an' enjoy a dram or two on the house, eh?'

Miller glared at the quivering customer on the floor for what seemed like an age. Sweat formed in copious amounts on the barman's greasy forehead as he waited for Miller to make his mind up.

'Come on, duck, no harm done,' squeaked Twinkle. 'Let's go get drunk.' And, with a playful grin, the diminutive woman climbed off the customer's chest, leapt up into Miller's vast arms, and the couple removed themselves quietly back into the booth. The landlord exhaled a heavy sigh of relief.

With her elbows perched upon the rickety table, the woman called Twinkle slid one of the tankards of ale towards her, battling to lift the tin cup to her lips. She was dressed in a long, flowing gown, with a high collar and puffed shoulders, thinning into tight-fitting long sleeves. She was decidedly overdressed for the grimy backstreet public house, but her pride showed on every inch of her face.

'So, come on then, spit it out, love. Why all the secrecy? Why couldn't we just meet back at the train?' she asked, eying Miller's dour expression.

The giant slid the crumpled note across the table towards her and, with his eyes, he bade her to read it. Twinkle obliged, offering the hulk of a man a supportive wink. Her eyes darted across every word, but her smile faded the more she read.

She glanced up at Miller. 'This is rum stuff, love. When did you get this?' Twinkle demanded, with a fire in her voice that belied her stature.

Miller pointed a finger over his shoulder.

'Yesterday? Whilst we've been in London? And you're only just telling me now?'

Miller's eyes nodded for him. He lifted the bottle of whisky, and downed half the contents easily in one gulp. He was heavy with sorrow, and not even the sight of Twinkle's beaming smile cheered him. Chewing nervously at his lip, his bushy moustache twitching from side to side like a metronome, Miller anxiously waited for the reaction he knew was coming.

Twinkle gave his arm a painful pinch, and sucked air in between her teeth. 'Prometheus, you daft lug! Did you tell Mr Quaint?' she reprimanded. Looking around her, she lowered her voice into a whisper. 'Well, what are you waiting for? You have to tell the boss, you know that, don't you? We've all got our secrets, darling, you more than most, I admit, but he needs to be told. We're a family, remember? Tell you what, duck-we'll go and tell him together, right?' Twinkle said, as she slurped on the ale. 'After we've had a few more pints, of course.'

A little over ten minutes later, Twinkle slammed down the third of her four tankards and belched loudly, patting her chest with her hand. 'Pardon me,' she scolded herself. 'By crikey, those ales are strong…let's have some more!'

Miller placed his hand on the top of the fourth tankard, rose from his seat and grinned broadly at Twinkle. He shook his head and tapped his breast pocket, where he kept his watch.

'Is it time to go already? What rot! You are such a killjoy, y'know that?' Twinkle chirruped, dejectedly sliding from the bench, and she tripped into Miller's arms as they headed for the tavern's door.

The late night air was immediately refreshing, and the winter wind nipped at any exposed flesh. It danced off the waves of the nearby Thames, bringing a moist chill along with the breeze. The docks were empty, but in just a few hours along the wharf at Blythesgate fish market, the trading barges and fishing trawlers would turn the area into a thriving hustle and bustle. Twinkle trotted happily at Miller's side through the towering claustrophobia of the crowded warehouses towards Grosvenor Park train station.

They unknowingly passed a skulking figure dressed in black, hiding amongst the shadows of a dark doorway, and he watched the giant and the dwarf with interest as they staggered a drunken zig-zag across the road. Not taking his piercing blue eyes from the odd-sized couple, the man observed their every move. He slowly removed himself from the darkness, and crept along the wharf after them.