Thirteen Chairs (10 page)

Maybe I will ask her to show me later. I think we might be friends.

A
melia rocks gently from side to side, humming to herself. She pays no attention to the reaction of the others to her story; instead she focuses on her candle flame, staring at it with her head cocked to one side.

Jack looks at her, this odd little girl, and thinks about her story. He thinks it was silly of her to say it was a true story, something that had actually happened to her, but then she is young. It’s the sort of thing a kid would say, to try to make a ghost story scarier, but Jack’s too old for that kind of nonsense. He’s seen right through it. What is scaring him, though, is how few people there are left to tell a story, and how he still hasn’t thought of anything for his turn. Maybe it’ll be all right, he tells himself. He’ll think of something when the time comes. He’s like this with his English homework sometimes too. He always leaves it to the last minute, but he comes up with something in the end. And it usually works out OK. Usually.

‘That was wonderful,’ says Frances Crane, just a little too enthusiastically, her eyes shining in the candlelight. ‘Really wonderful.’

‘Thankyouverymuch,’ says Amelia in a dead tone, without looking up from the flame.

‘Amelia?’ says Mr Osterley.

‘Uh?’

Mr Osterley indicates Amelia’s candle with first a small hand gesture and then a more expansive one. Amelia fails to respond to either of them. Then Mr
Osterley coughs a small, controlled, but perfectly clear cough that likewise has no effect.

‘Amelia, dear,’ says Frances, and Amelia’s attention flickers briefly in her direction. ‘Blow out the candle, will you, please, my love?’

‘Oh. Yes. ’K. Sorry.’ After one last lingering look into the dancing flame, Amelia blows it out with a short sharp breath, and then scrapes her chair awkwardly away from the table.

‘Thank you, Miss Crane,’ says the pale man. ‘Thank you, Amelia.’

Five candles left. Jack looks over at those others remaining seated at the table. Four of them all in a line, more or less opposite Jack: ragged-faced Mr Fowler, pale Mr Osterley, cold and silent Mr Randolph, and Frances Crane with laugh lines on her face and scars on her wrists. And Jack by himself behind his own lonely candle. It’s hard not to imagine that they’re all watching him now, their faces eerie in the candlelight, staring at him.

Mr Osterley raises a hand from its place on the table and turns it slowly at the wrist, his fingers splaying, the index finger stretching and pointing, pointing, pointing straight at Jack. His heart lurches, but Mr Osterley’s hand continues to turn, and his finger moves on, now vaguely indicating the figure on his right-hand side.

‘Mr Fowler,’ says the pale man, without turning his
head. ‘Perhaps it is time for you to share another of your tales with us.’

Mr Fowler smiles. ‘Why, of course, sir, I’ll be glad to. And it’s a special tale I have for you tonight, for it is not just one of the many that I picked up on my travels, but instead a more … personal story, that I seldom share. A tale from my own boyhood. Why indeed, from when I was about the age of this young fellow, I should think.’ He raises an arm in Jack’s direction and fashions a wide smile on that craggy face of his. ‘It is a dark tale.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘A dark tale as perhaps only belongs in childhood.’ He seems now to be only speaking to Jack, his rich, cracked voice mesmerizing. ‘And it is a tale within a tale.’

Mr Fowler’s candlelit face seems to Jack to be floating in the darkness. It is all that he can see.

‘Darkness inside darkness,’ says Mr Fowler.

Then he begins.

‘D
arkness,’ my uncle liked to tell me, ‘is good for business.’

I thought at first that this was just an excuse for his miserliness. I thought that he was simply unwilling to burn sufficient candles and lamp oil to keep his tavern well lit. But I soon saw for myself that it was true.

‘See, this is a sailors’ inn,’ he told me, ‘and a man who has been to sea has likely as not gathered some secrets to him on his voyages. And he may want those secrets to remain in darkness. So let them as wants to be seen go sit by the fire. Everywhere else … well, there should be light enough that if any man should kill another then he can be sure of his identity, but no more than that.’

My uncle, like my late father, had been a seafaring man himself in his day, and so had a good knowledge of the ways of sailors. And, indeed, his judgement proved sound. In the port town we had made our home The Seven Stars was by far the most popular hostelry with seafaring folk, and the simple bill of fare of rum, ale, stew and darkness (and a strong possibility of a decent brawl) proved both popular and profitable. My uncle, having married my mother
shortly after my father’s death, regarded me as his rightful property, and so he set me to work in the inn. I worked a little in the kitchen, though this was principally my uncle’s domain, having himself been a ship’s cook in his sailing days, but mostly I served at tables, and seldom was trade so quiet that I was not worn ragged by the end of the night.

Occasionally, though, a brief respite from my labours might be gained when a lone sailor, in want of an audience for some unlikely tale, bade me join him at his table. I suppose, as I was young, that such men thought me more likely to be gullible and so to believe even their most incredible yarns, and my situation as an employee of the house forced me to maintain a polite silence even when I did not. But from time to time there would be a worthwhile story, well told, that rewarded my attention. Occasionally there may even have been a grain of truth in some of them.

One November evening in my thirteenth year, it seemed as if just such a tale had come my way. A ship of His Majesty’s Navy had not long come into dock and The Seven Stars was riotously busy that night, our customers shifting around the place, restlessly seeking the best and rowdiest company. But the fellow who beckoned me to his table, alone among them, seemed content to remain seated in one place.

Despite his having chosen the darkest corner of the tavern, I could discern at once that he was not himself
a Navy man, for he wore, not a uniform, but instead a great and ragged patchwork coat. It was an extraordinary thing, seemingly pieced together from the remnants of a dozen other garments, all of different sizes, colours and fabrics. The resulting garment was a lumpen, shapeless thing, and yet, I could just discern, held together with the finest and most exquisitely skilful stitching. His collar was turned up, and the wide brim of his ancient leather hat was tilted down toward me. So, now that his beckoning hand had returned beneath the table, the darkness and his clothing combined to hide from me every last inch of his person save for his dimly visible, unblinking eyes. These I thought to be of different colours, though it was difficult to say for sure in such poor light. I thought it likely that he would be a rough fellow, but in fact when he spoke I found his voice to be soft and refined.

‘I wonder, young sir, if you might bring me a plate of stew and a tankard of ale.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘I am indebted to you.’

I duly served the strange gentleman his stew and ale and made to leave him, but he bade me stay.

‘Please, lad,’ he said. ‘Would you grant a sailor a few moments’ conversation? I have been long at sea and I would be grateful for a little company.’

I joined him gladly for, as I have said, I was weary already from the evening’s work. My uncle would no doubt punish me if he saw me but, as usual, he was
in the kitchen rather than at the bar, so I reasoned I would be safe.

‘Are none of your crew here for company, sir?’

At this he must have smiled a little, for I briefly caught sight of a faint glimmer of dim candlelight on dull teeth in the shadows beneath his hat brim. He twitched a little too, as if a tiny ripple of laughter had passed through each of the parts of his body in turn.

‘Aye, lad,’ he said. ‘
Some
of my shipmates are here, right enough. But a soul can spend too long too close to his shipmates. I would rather a little fresh company. Besides, I have a fine tale to tell, if you’ll hear it, but it is one that they know very well already.’

‘A tale? Gladly, sir,’ I said, though not perhaps with much sincerity, for the weariness in my body infected my voice.

‘Ha! You’ve heard many a yarn from all sorts and all ports, I’ll be bound. You must think there’s barely a tale of the briny that you’ve yet to hear. Well, I’ll prove you wrong, lad. You have not heard the like of this one, I promise you. For this is a tale of the worst deeds of a dark-hearted scoundrel who betrayed his shipmates: a tale of greed, and of ruthlessness, and of terrible, bloody revenge!’

I had heard similar claims before, and oft enough been disappointed just the same. But I remembered my uncle’s words. A sailor likes the shadows to conceal his secrets. Here was a man almost
made
of shadows.
Would he not have the darkest secrets to draw upon for his stories? I leaned in towards him, the better to hear his words, and he grinned at my attention.

‘There was a ship set sail, some years back – an old tub, her glory days long behind her, but sturdy enough to weather another few squalls yet – sailing to Barbados. It was a smooth enough voyage out. The captain and many of the crew knew the boat and the route well, and the weather and the seas were kind enough, so they arrived in good time and fine spirits. They offloaded their cargo, and their work, for the moment, was done. So the crew, believing themselves entitled to some rowdy entertainment at the end of a voyage, set about the gaining of sore heads, one way or another, in various taverns around the town.

‘When the ship was to set off homeward, three days later, several of the crew had not returned, having been variously waylaid by imprisonment, injury or amorous entanglements, but the captain deemed that they still had sufficient hands to see them home safe so they did not delay and set sail as planned.

‘Now, three days out on the return trip and all’s been well so far when something is spotted off the port bow. The captain puts his spyglass to his eye and sees there is a jolly boat, seemingly adrift with no man aboard, but only a gigantic black bear in a cage.

‘They sail alongside, expecting that, perhaps, there may be a sailor lying asleep, as yet unseen, who might be able to explain this strange circumstance. But there
is none, nor any other clue to aid their understanding. There is only a great black bear, in a cage, in a jolly boat, adrift upon the waters.

‘Now this is a rum thing indeed, and sailors may be more prone than most to superstition, as you know, so there is some debate amongst the crew as to what should be done. Some think it an ill omen and best left well alone. Contrarily, others think it will bring them good fortune, so they should bring the beast aboard. And yet others say that superstition can go hang, but surely such a beast could be sold for a good price once they are home. This last argument is the one that finds most favour with the captain, so block and tackle and the strong arms of four sailors hoist the cage aboard, with the bear in it, and the ship continues on her way home.

‘Well, the crew are wary of the beast at first: intrigued and fascinated, but also cautious. It is a beautiful creature and black as the devil’s shadow, and sailors know enough of dark beauty to be wary of it. But despite its confinement in so small a space this bear proves to be a placid creature, and as the days pass he grows in the crew’s affection. One night, when one sailor plays his squeezebox, the bear rises to his hind legs and dances a crude jig, and this is great entertainment for all. Some of the crew, full of groggy courage, even venture close enough to the cage to push a hand through the bars and stroke that blackest fur, and the bear makes no complaint. It is a happy night for all.

‘Well, nearly all. While all else are laughing and carefree, the ship’s cook, alone amongst them, has a face like a thunderhead. While ashore, he had spent his time gambling, and enjoyed unusual luck. But this night he finds his luck has stayed on land. The cards are against him and he loses all of his winnings and more to the ship’s carpenter. There’s an angry fire in his belly, which he feeds with an excess of rum. He accuses the carpenter of cheating. There has been bad blood between these two before now, and old wounds sting afresh in the salty air, but the rest of the crew prevent a fight. They know these men of old and they are not alike. The carpenter is a fine fellow, strong and brave and true, but the cook is a sorry soul, selfish and deceitful, a weasel of a man, quite unlike his brother, and—’

‘His brother?’ I said. The sailor looked up at me, and even with only his eyes discernible in the shadows of his face I thought I read a teasing amusement in his expression.

‘Did I not say? The cook and the carpenter are brothers, though two men less alike you would seldom meet. But that’s of little matter. Now, where was I? Yes. So the crew keep the men apart and prevent any violence between them and they mock the cook as a poor loser. He swears and fumes and threatens in return, but the crew only laugh harder at his bluster and eventually he slopes off to his bunk, muttering curses as he goes. Well, the drinking and the singing continue a while in
his absence before the captain calls an end to it, takes the night watch himself, and sends his crew to get some sleep.

‘The carpenter awakes in his bunk next morning and at once knows something is wrong. There are noises coming from above deck, different ones all at once, that his dozy head cannot quickly disentangle. He rises quickly and sees that others of the crew are doing likewise. There is a good deal of movement on deck. Panicked, heavy feet. And there are shouts and cries, of fear, of pain, and of horror. The carpenter thinks for a moment that they have been boarded by pirates. He goes beneath his bed to take up his knife and there spies that his locker, containing his winnings from the card game, has gone. He curses the cook, presuming him to be the culprit, with harsh words even for a sailor. Anger steels his heart and he climbs the steps to the deck with terrible resolve, and without fear. Whatever danger awaits him he has fury on his side.

‘Emerging from the darkness below decks, the light hits the carpenter’s eyes, and he is temporarily blinded by the glare of the low sun at the exact moment that he first hears the bear’s fearsome roar. His fury turns instantly to terror, and his blindness to darkness, as a huge black shape blocks out the sun. He looks up and the bear is there before him, standing tall and broad, and black as the night.

‘He idly swings a massive paw and the carpenter is swept aside like a cobweb, though he lands on the deck
a deal more heavily. As he rises he takes in the dreadful scene before him. The deck is awash with blood, and strewn with bodies and parts of bodies, dead and dying shipmates, their cries and moans joining in a low murmur of pain. There is the bear’s cage, opened. There is the captain slumped dead by the wheel. There is the space where the jolly boat ought to be. There is the bear, raging and roaring as he shrugs off a pistol shot from the brave young cabin boy and repays it with a deadly blow to the head.

‘And there, out across the waves beyond the bow rail, is the jolly boat, with the cook rowing it away from the ship, and the carpenter has no doubt that his locker full of coins and jewels is in it too. The carpenter bellows across the sea to the cook. “You will die by my hand for this!” he shouts. “I swear to you, brother: you will die by my hand!”’

At this moment, the sailor raised up his left hand, clenched tight into a fist as if he were grasping onto life itself, and brought it down hard upon the table with a crash. I quite leaped in my seat with surprise, and my companion appeared a little shocked himself, as if startled by his own intemperate action. His right hand, by some instinct, appeared from beneath the table and fell upon the left, covering it, as if trying to conceal its embarrassing violence. Then in an instant, both hands disappeared back beneath the table and the sailor regained his composure. I only glimpsed his hands, so distracted had I been by the thump on the
table top, and so fleeting was their appearance, but I felt sure that there had been something awry in their appearance. It seemed they had been as mismatched as his eyes. But I had little time to dwell upon this.

‘Then the bear hits the carpenter again!’ said the sailor. ‘And the blow would have killed him had the ship not then rolled on a big swell and knocked the bear off balance. So it’s just a glancing blow he receives, and he lands on the deck again with only a broken arm for his troubles and his heart still beating. He ignores the pain and rolls clear of the bear’s next lumbering attack, then jumps to his feet and scrambles up the rigging of the mainmast, hoping that the beast cannot follow. In any case he does not, and the carpenter climbs on up (none too quickly with only one good arm) to a fair height, the better to take stock of the situation.

‘It is a sorry sight. He can see all of the crew now. They are not all dead, but none are standing, and some have been torn to pieces. The bear is roaming the deck on all fours, roaring wildly. It is a monster now, a raging beast, unrecognizable as the playful pet of the previous evening. The carpenter cannot imagine what can have caused this terrible transformation, but he has no doubt that it is somehow the cook’s doing. He casts his eyes out to sea again. The jolly boat is a good distance away now and disappears and reappears as it rides the rolling surface of the waters. The carpenter’s good left hand grips the rigging tight, as if it were
gripping the cook’s neck. And he needs to hold tight too. He’s been up the rigging in far rougher seas than this in the past, and without a care, but with only one good arm, and with no one at the helm to keep the ship steady, it’s a fine job he has to do to hold on as the ship pitches and rolls and the mast sways wildly.