Edward Kane and The Voice of the Spider. Chapter 17: They Ran from the Scene

‘The “Bitter Apple”, sir…’

‘The Bitter Apple tincture was remarkably…efficacious.’

Horse frowned: ‘Not sure what that means, sir – but did it….um…“shift the squatters” in there?’

Kane laughed: ‘Two drops of that Apple tincture, Mr Horse and those unwanted guests not only left the building – they ran from the scene!’

‘Told you it were good stuff – didn’t I!’

Kane rested the book on his lap: ‘So – tomorrow is the judgment of Lord Minto in the Peggy Boylan case. I shall try to get a good night’s sleep tonight and prepare for another judicial tongue-lashing. What does your own social calendar look like, my friend?’

Horse was putting on his jacket: ‘Got a little bit of business to sort out, sir. I might be a bit late….’

****

What was it that the spider said? If at first. you don’t succeed…

No lurking this time. Horse stood there, a target, in open view at the counter of the Irish drinking den. His hands warming a large tumbler of rum, his eyes closed, his head nodding along to the jaunty jig coming from the fiddler in the corner. Waiting for Big Brendan. He did not have to wait long.

‘You’re more stupider than I thought you were.’

Horse turned round. The frame of the large Irishman eclipsed the rest of the room. Horse nodded: ‘I like it here.’ He nodded towards his opponent. ‘I especially like the company. Makes me feel hintelligent.’ Big Brendan frowned. He knew that he had been insulted (but couldn’t quite work out how). He struggled for a retort: ‘Makes you feel…you feel…you’ll feel a bottle on your head, you will.’

Horse lifted the large tumbler towards his lips, but stopped, and then put it down on the counter. ‘You see, Brendan, me old chum, I don’t mind a good scrap, but the thing about you, my son, is that you are a dirty fighter.’

The man mountain balled his enormous fist: ‘Did you just call me a “dirty Irishman”?’

‘No, my friend, I would never call you that. You see, you and me, we’re foreigners in this country. So, we have a lot in common. We meet stupid people, and they call us stupid names.’ The analysis was lost on the angry Irishman. He leaned in: ‘I’ll come to your house and cut your throat while you’re sleeping…’

Horse lifted the tumbler again: ‘That’s you all over, ennit? Do the dirty deed in the dark when nobody is looking.’ Horse warmed the tumbler of rum between his hands and thought for a moment: ‘But you got your reasons, I suppose. Being called all sorts of names and such. Same thing has happened to me, my friend. But I let it in one ear and out the other. Why don’t I buy you a drink and we’ll start again? Pleased to meet you – my name is Horse…’

The Irishman growled: ‘And my name is die, ye English scum.’

Horse shrugged: ‘That must have been a mouthful at the christening…’

‘Are you trying to make a fool of me?’

‘Your name is “Dai”? I thought you was Irish – not Welsh…’

Both enormous Irish fists balled tight now, like two big fleshy cannonballs.

Horse shook his head: ‘You don’t like the English. I get it. I won’t take it personal because I can’t help being English. Just like you can’t help being a Paddy. I’ll let that go. But….’ The Irishman shrugged. ‘But what?’ Horse continued: ‘….but the minute you make it personal, then I’m gonna have to punish you, my son.” Horse nodded towards the glass tumbler on the counter. ‘Like if you was to steal my drink there – for no reason – then I would have to come after you, wouldn’t I. So – whatever you do – don’t make it personal, “Dai”, and leave me drink alone, there’s a good boy.’ The oversized Irishman narrowed his eyes. Then, with a malevolent grin on his face, he reached over and lifted up the tumbler of rum on the counter in front of Horse. The giant raised the glass in cheers, then glugged it down in one unbroken go. He took the empty glass, held it in front of the Englishman’s face, then tossed it across the room. A loud smash against the wall. The music stopped. Horse looked up at the angry Irish face: ‘Here’s what we’ll do, my son. You can stay and pay for the glass and I will meet you at the front door. But I warn you now – you ain’t gonna like it and this ain’t gonna be pretty,’ He turned on his heel and made for the exit. Big Brendan turned back towards the bar. There stood a glowering barmaid with her hand out, palm-up seeking recompense for the shattered glass.

****

Of course, Horse was nowhere to be found near the front door of that drinking den. He was safely two streets away. Horse reached into his jacket pocket. He took out the bottle of Bitter Apple tincture and examined it. The bottle was empty. Emptied, in fact. The rum in that large tumbler had entirely masked the taste of that powerful purgative. Horse smiled. Oh yes. Give it twenty minutes. Big Brendan was in for a sudden (and very, very messy) surprise…

Tomorrow in The Scotsman: What Does it All Mean?

Edward Kane and Mr Horse: Volume II of the Collected Short Stories. Available from Amazon and Kindle