Alec Sillifant

Empirically Dead

 

Chapter Fifteen

 

Dead Man’s Round

 

The atmosphere in the ‘Hanged Man’ was as welcoming as ever. Every eye in the pub was watching, with suspicion, the arrival of the trio of strangely attired and grubby non-regulars. As soon as Dr Colbalt’s shoe had crossed the threshold and landed on the sticky sawdust that carpeted the hostelry floor, silence had descended like a treacle anvil. Every conspiring conversation ceased and the piano player’s crooked fingers froze above the yellowed ivories mid-ditty. With the close arrival of a clown and a cowboy in the doorway, frowns grew more etched and there were several audible grunts of disapproval.

Suckov looked around the pub with a huge grin on his face. He winked at Colbalt and nudged him in the ribs. “Leave this to me, I’ll break the ice.” He took one step forward, his massive shoes kicking up a cloud of fine sawdust. “Would anyone like to see some fucking balloon art?”

Colbalt grabbed Suckov by the crook of his arm. “I think we’ve seen enough balloon art for the time being, and the reaction it elicits. Let me handle this.” The teacher cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are here merely to partake of a warming beverage and to blow the fog from our lungs and then we’ll be on our way. We don’t want any trouble.”

A large man with several days of greying stubble on his chin rose to his feet. A scar ran down his face from temple to chin, his left eye plucked out by its course. Perched on his head was a battered bowler hat several sizes too small for his skull, which, with the mop of unkempt black hair sticking out beyond the brim, gave it the look of a large spider from exotic realms, ready to pounce. “You might not want trouble, pal, but that’s not your choice.”

“I hardly think-”

Jeb drew his pistol, glanced his left palm across the Colt’s hammer and sent the man’s bowler hat spinning up into the air. His second shot blasted the hat onto the top hook of a freestanding, wooden coat rack. Smoke curled out of the barrel of the gun to shroud Jeb’s stern looking face. “Anyone else like to trouble us?”

Conversations started again, as did the off key piano playing, and the vanquished Cyclops sat down muttering as his drinking buddies laughed at his belittling. “Got to get respect from these prairie dogs, Teach,” said Jeb, holstering his sidearm, “violence is the only thing they understand. Got to show them you’re the wrong hombre to mess with.”

Suckov, who had been standing with his mouth open, clapped his hands. “That was fucking brilliant, can you show me how to do that. I could put it in my act. I could shoot the lollipops out of kid’s mouth at childrens’ parties…and it would come in handy when overly sensitive parents refuse to pay.”

“Between you and me partner, I was aiming for his arm,” said Jeb with a grin.

Suckov stayed silent for a second before getting the joke. “Aw, you, I’m the clown round here. Okay, lads, I’ll get them in, what do you want?”

“Nothing too strong,” said Colbalt, “we need to keep a clear head and plan what we’re doing next.”

“Whiskey, then,” said Suckov.

“Lemonade,” insisted the teacher.

The clown’s painted features curled into a mask of suspicion. “Lemonade it is…Jeb?”

“Bourbon.”

Suckov clapped his hands together. “Right, two whiskeys and a…” the clown tapped the side of his nose, “…a lemonade.”

“I’m serious-” said Colbalt, but he was talking to the back of the Clown as he advanced to the bar.

Cowboy and teacher took seats at an empty table. “So,” said Jeb, removing his Stetson and ruffling his badly cut, pudding basin, hair, “you got a thing against al-key-hol?”

“Let’s just say, we parted many years ago, and we weren’t the best of friends,” said Colbalt, as he cleaned his eye glasses with a rather dusty handkerchief.

Jeb nodded. “My pa had the same affliction, boy did he like his fire water.” The cowboy stared deeply at the table. “Broke him inside, turned him all mean.”

“Did he manage to break the habit?”

“In a way,” sighed Jeb, leaning back, “he found it real hard to hold his liquor when I filled his belly full of holes.”

Colbalt opened his mouth to speak but found his throat devoid of any suitable words.

“Whiskey, whiskey…lemonade,” said Suckov, slamming three large tumblers onto the copper topped table. Each man took a deep swig from their glass, Colbalt gagged and coughed.

“That’s not lemonade!”

“It’s mostly lemonade,” argued Suckov.

“I expressly-”

“Oh, calm down, starch nuts,” said Suckov, “there was a three for two on the whiskey and the barman threw the lemo in for free.”

“Maybe you could do with a drink, Teach,” said Jeb, rolling his glass in his hand, “we’ve been through a humdinger.”

“Yeah,” said Suckov, “you only live once.”

“Apparently not,” retorted Colbalt, eyeing his cocktail. “Dash it all.” He took another swig from his glass.

“And I’ve got a way that can get us a whole free bottle of the old water of life too,” grinned Suckov.

Colbalt lowered his glass. “Having a quick drink is one thing, but I refuse to be involved in theft.”

“Fuck-a-duck,” said Suckov, “you always have to assume the worst of me, don’t you?”

“I must admit, pardner,” said Jeb, “that’s what I thought you meant.”

“You pair of untrusting bastards,” said the clown, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve entered us into the pub quiz. First prize is a bottle of ‘Jock’s Wet Sporran’ whiskey.”

“We’ve got to win the quiz before we get the liquor,” said Jeb.

“Piece of piss,” said Suckov. “You’ve got me, an expert on showbiz, and you Jeb, in case any questions on shagging cows come up-”

“Hey!”

“-and the eternal schoolboy, here, can answer everything else.”

“I don’t know if this is wise,” said Colbalt.

“Have another drink,” urged Suckov.

Dr Colbalt sipped at his beverage, rolling the liquid in his mouth before swallowing. “Oh, very well…”

“Fucking brilliant,” said Suckov, his already permanent grin growing larger.

“…but I don’t want any of the whiskey.”

“No problem,” said Suckov, “me and Jeb will take one for the team.” He dug around in his massive pocket and pulled out a piece of water-stained paper and an eye-liner pencil. “I named our team ‘The clever mother’.”

“Why?” asked Jeb.

“There was a three word limit,” said Suckov, surprised to be asked such an inane question.

A bell was rung once. “Ladies and gentlemen,” announced the barman, “could we please have a little order while the quiz is in progress.” The ‘Hanged Man’ fell into a hush as the planning of robberies, murders and general ‘getting up to no good’ was put on hold. “Thank you.” The barman cleared his throat. “Question one, what is the second line from the famous music hall song ‘I’ve got a sticky wicket and I’ll slide it in your crease’?”

Colbalt shook his head. “By all that is Holy.”

“Oh…oh…” said Suckov, “I know this one. ‘Polish your balls before you put them anywhere near my box’!” He stared at the teacher. “Well, write it down.”

Colbalt, with head shaking, scribbled down the line.

“Told you we’d nail this fucker,” said Suckov, slapping Jeb on the shoulder. “They might as well give us the bottle now.”

“Question two, what does the Latin phrase ‘mens conscia recti’ translate into English as?”

There was a general murmur of discontent around the pub. “Who in bollocks name is going to know that, Harry?” said a voice from the gloom.

“I think it’s got something to do with arses,” muttered Suckov to Jeb and Colbalt. Colbalt could not help but roll his eyes.

“I’m trying to educate you scum,” argued the Quiz Master, “do you want to be ignorant pigs all your lives…and barred for interrupting the quiz?”

There was more murmuring along the lines of being quite happy to be ignorant but not so pleased at the thought of being barred.

“So, again, what is the English translation of the Latin phrase ‘mens conscia recti’?”

“Well,” said Suckov, “what are you waiting for, Prof., write the answer down.”

The eye-liner pencil in Colbalt’s hand hovered over the page. “This seems wrong, like I’m profiting from my education, taking advantage of those who did not receive what I was lucky enough to.”

Suckov exhaled loudly. “Listen, we’re not cheating, if anything we’re doing the right thing. Can you imagine what one of these fucking idiots could get up to with a pint of whiskey in them?”

A customer near to the clown turned round. “Who are you calling a fucking idiot, pal?!”

Suckov swivelled in his chair to face the red cheeked drunk. “I’m not talking about you, you fucking idiot, I’m talking about the other fucking idiots.”

The drunk gave a lazy wink. “Gotcha,” he said, and returned to cradling his half drunk pint.

“Fucking idiot,” muttered Suckov, as he turned his attention back to the school master and said. “See what I mean?”

Colbalt sighed and wrote ‘A mind conscious of integrity’ on the paper.

“You sure it’s got nothing to do with arses?” said Suckov.

“Steady there, pardner,” said Jeb, “he is the educated one.”

“Fine, fine,” said Suckov, his hands raised in acceptance, “just remember I made the point.

“Question three, what is the square root of 8?”

And so the quiz went on.