Yes, I've sort of had a few ups and downs with my writing recently and I just really wanted to share this. Its the introductory part of a short story I've been working on recently. I will point out that it is a first draft, so this won't be near the point I'll feel comfortable sending out, so cue the occasional spelling mistake or cliche, but I felt that I should share something with you, so here it is, the opening part of a penny dreadful ghost story with a Gothic flavour called The Maid and The Mystics:
The
Maid and the Mystics
I
slumped over the dark wood bar in the Tudor Room, reached the jug
down and levered a couple of gobbets of beer into it. I'm sure it
would settle by the time that we were ready to drink it. We could
always go back for more anyway. We'd a long standing agreement with
the landlord. We'd provided a service for him many moons ago and now
he had graciously provided us with a safe haven for our little
monthly meetings. An undisturbed room, no staff or customers to
overhear us and permission to help ourselves to drink. As long as we
kept the spirits away from the spirits.
I
climbed down, being careful not to slosh the beer everywhere and
straightened my shirt front as I returned to our usual table beneath
a faux-antique tapestry depicting a medieval hunting scene. Bragi
Cartwright had his pocket watch in his stoat fist and stared intently
at it through wire rimmed lenses.
“Madame
Claire Smythe's late once more,” he stated and dropped the watch
back into the unbuttoned scarlet waistcoat to relieve pressure from
his huge stomach. “She always does this. Five minutes here. Half an
hour there.” His finger started wagging at me like an irate
woodpecker as I stood beside him, jug still in hand. “It's not on,
I tell you. She'll only give us excuses again and it really cuts into
the club meeting's itinerary.”
Bragi's
once hyperactive hand reached out and clenched the corner of the dark
wood table top just in time for the heavy oak door on the opposite
side of the room to creak open and the mourning-dressed figure of a
middle aged woman entered. She swept casually passed the maze of
tightly packed chairs and tables and delicately eased herself onto
the maroon cushioned pew lining one side of our table.
“Ah,
I see that everyone's arrived. Once we're all sat comfortably, we can
begin,” Madame Smythe said as Bragi gave me a knowing look that
Smythe was oblivious to. “A port and lemon for me please Obadiah.”
I
placed the jug on the table and as I passed Bragi to the 'staff only'
door for access behind the bar, I rolled my eyes. He patted me on one
elbow in sympathy.
Behind
the bar, I struggled to find the port bottle in such a tight space,
but in a handful of moments, I was splashing a dollop into the bottom
of the nearest wine glass I could lay my hands on. A few more moments
of searching, I found the lemon and a knife and was carving off a
slice to drop into the deep liquid that matched the room's wood
furnishings and panelling.
I
returned to the table, placed the glass down before Madame Smythe and
lowered myself into a chair opposite her. She'd raised her veil while
I was pouring her drink. She looked at it, grimaced and then looked
at me.
“You
really must try wearing something other than that tired old black
suit, my dear,” she stated. “You look like an undertaker's long
deceased assistant. Now look at that.” She pointed at my elbow.
“The jacket's completely worn through at the elbows, and my, I
daren't even think what that dark stain on the front might be!”
“And
the grey shirt front, and the fraying shirt sleeves…” I nodded my
head along with each point. “You mentioned those the last time we
met, and the time before that. In fact, you've mentioned them every
time we've met up over the last three years. They come with my trade.
They're the downside of the practical work I'm employed to do.”
Taken
aback, Madame Smythe opened her mouth to berate me once more.
“Stop
this nonsense at once!” Bragi's voice rumbled about the room. “The
pair of you, You both go through this rigmarole every time we meet
and I'm sick of it. Now, to business. Or would you both care to
provide me with enough refreshments to withstand you're verbal
boxing?”
Madame
Smythe gulped. “You're right of course Master Cartwright.” Her
breath audibly hissed as she let out a calming breath as she backed
down from the argument. “We're here to cover any points of
outstanding business from last month.”
