by Mark Lumby
His head was starting to thud. He could really do with a drink right now, take away his shakes. And as he brought his hand away from wiping his face, he stared at his trembling fingers, dirt between the nails. He glanced up at Dupont.
What must he think of me? He must know I’m desperate.
Francis noticed his distractions, was aware that he didn’t look well. “But this is official business,” he leered at him with his palm upturned. “Can you even begin to understand what this would mean for you?”
He took his sight off the ceiling appearing disappointed at the stillness of the antique light fitting. “How could I?” he shrugged. “I’m not sure what you’re offering—you didn’t say.”
“Of course—” he sighed, lowered his head like he was thinking. “Okay—I will be open with you, cards on the table. How much value would you place on your life?”
“Money-wise? Well—that’s impossible,” Jack scoffed.
“Please, Jack Monday. Answer the question. This is important—all part of the process.”
The process? Jack shrugged. “Okay. As much as the next guy, I guess.”
“And what is the next guy's value? One hundred dollars? Thousand…One hundred thousand?” Still, Jack didn’t answer. “Let’s try one million dollars—any advances on one million?” he raised an eyebrow, joking with him. “The Brown brothers want five hundred thousand. If you do not return this money to them, you die. It’s that simple. So, Jack Monday, the value of your life is half a million dollars. That’s how much you are worth. If you accept my offer, your debt with the Brown brothers shall be paid in full. In addition to this, I will support you for the rest of your life. I will give you a place of lodging, I shall put monthly deposits into your bank account of—let’s say—twenty thousand dollars.”
That’s crazy. “Every month?” he tested, although surely it had to be yearly.
Dupont bowed his head to acknowledge this. “And if you accept, you will leave your life this instant; my driver will take you to your new home. You will be cared for; I believe your servant’s name is Anja; or if you would prefer—a male?” he raised a brow.
He shouldn’t accept, he knew he shouldn’t—wasn’t it obvious. This was too easy. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the debt and the Brown brothers, and how they would be no more. It was ridiculous.
Which room were they in? He imagined them briefly, sister straddled over her brother riding his penis, screaming in ecstasy, beads of sweat glazing her chest. And all the time, their mother watched from the corner, her legs apart, masturbating.
Without asking, Francis went to the corner of the room. He poured two glasses of Scotch from the bar, dropped in some ice, then filled a glass of water. He returned, with the tray in which he carried them upon. “By way of an answer,” he said, “choose the beverage you desire.” He placed the tray on the table at the side of Jack, and picked up his own glass, leaving behind two drinks from which to choose.
Jack looked up at him. “I don’t understand.”
“Take the Scotch and you say—no. You will go back to your life of debt, of self-destruction and, more importantly, the Brown brothers. A month from now, someone will probably find you face down in the river. I pity the sight they’ll see as they watch the police pull you out. Because the brothers won’t just stop at drowning you; that’s too easy for a man who owes so much. They will have their way with you; strip fingers from your hands; pull off your toes with rusty old pliers. They’ll beat you until your nose breaks and your jaw dislocates and your eye socket explodes. They’ll cut you up until you are barely alive. You will be begging for them to end it. But, alas, they won’t; you owe them too much, Jack Monday. They’ll keep you alive for their pleasure. You might heal, just in time for round two. Choose the Scotch,” he warned, “and it will leave a bad taste in your mouth.”
“And what if I choose the water?”
“Choose the water, Jack Monday, and you say—yes, your debt paid in full, a life that people—like you—can merely dream about. The water signifies purity,” he demonstrated this using his hands as the scales of justice, “the Scotch is ugliness. I want you to take the water, Jack Monday. I like you; want the best for you, and this is the right thing to do, for the both of us. I want to help.”
“But at what price?” Jack noticed he was leaning forward in his chair like he was hanging on Dupont’s words. He was selling him something that he desperately wanted. “I mean, for you that seems like an expensive glass of water.”
Francis agreed, “Yes, everything has a price, but considering what I have offered, what I am giving you, does it really matter what price I ask?” He rattled the ice in the glass and tested the Scotch, sucking in through his teeth. “Ugliness, Jack Monday.” He tasted it on his lip and held the glass up to the light. “Although, it would also be quite tempting to cast aside my offer for this one glass of perfectly sublime Scotch. It was given to me a lifetime ago by a good friend.” Francis looked down at Jack as he lowered the glass. “But I have money, so it would be easy for me to say that. You, on the other hand, have nothing. You’re broke and your next step is death. To take the Scotch would be pointless. I may just as well give you the knife to cut open your throat. I know what I’d do in your position.”
A life of no debt, a new home, a fresh start. Isn’t that what everyone dreams about? It did sound too good to be true, although it did appeal, too. “I should say no. That’s what my head says, anyway.”
“And your heart? What does that tell you, Jack Monday?”
Jack turned away from him. Call me Jack! he screamed in his head. He listened to the crackle of the fire, absorbed the smell of the wood as he stared across the room, trying desperately to find some evidence that would reveal more about who Francis Dupont was. Surely he wasn’t just going to hand a bum like him a life of luxury without wanting something. There was a painting above the fireplace of a man posing in hunting attire; he presumed the children by his side were Michael and Florence. They did have a likeness. They looked up adoringly at their father whilst clutching at his legs. There was something about the setting that seemed bizarre. But Jack already knew that they weren’t a normal family. In both alcoves, either side of the fireplace, swords were fixed to the wall, their ornate handles towards the ceiling and their points almost touching. They looked old—antique old, their metal dulled by age and dust. He remembered upon entering the room that the wall to the right was cased in leather-bound books from the door to the far window, and to the ceiling. He didn’t want to look over his shoulder to check out the books, or anything else that he’d missed. He was sure though, if the chance was given, he would scan the contents of the bookcase and discover something about the Duponts that would force him to walk from the house, and risk whatever shadows were watching from between the trees.
And your heart? What does that tell you, Jack Monday?
Francis was waiting patiently, swirling the Scotch around in his glass, ice clunking against the sides. But eventually, after swallowing the beverage, he slammed it down onto the table next to Jack as if to alert him that enough was enough.
Jack flinched, looking at the table. But as he thought about the offer, his heart pounded with both anxiety and excitement. The fact that he would owe no more money—to anyone—was a huge weight lifted. No more sleepless nights; no more waking up with a start to a car backfiring wondering whether it was gunfire; no more checking over his shoulder; no more suffocating in the life he lived. He would be free; he’d be able to breathe again. “I should say no,” Jack told him again as he stared up at him.
“But you won’t,” Francis was confident. “Perhaps I am just too generous.” He took a moment. “Jack Monday, what I do want from you will be delivered to me on your Fiftieth birthday. You are thirty, correct? Then that will give you twenty years! But, I admit, there is an additional condition,” he held up his finger. “I do believe it to be acceptable in exchange for my gift.” Francis crouched in front of Jack. He placed his han
ds on Jack’s knees, stroking them with his thumbs like he was caressing them.
Squeezing them.
Francis smiled as he slowly spread his knees apart. “Jack Monday.” His voice was gentle. “During those twenty years, you will be well looked after. Your diet will be healthy. I shall arrange a personal trainer of your sexual preference to visit twice weekly. You must not drink alcohol or caffeine or take narcotics.” Everything he was saying was pronounced as a question. “You must not eat junk food, only the food that is served to you by Anja, the food that I shall choose and will arrange to be delivered to your house weekly. You must bathe three times daily; you must remain clean and pure. And again, as much as Anja will be by your side, I will also be informed of anything you refuse. A Doctor shall pay a visit every six months for a routine health check.” He looked down at Jack’s crotch, his fingers following his eyes and moving up his thighs.
Jack couldn’t move—didn’t want to move in fear of getting closer to Dupont, of involuntarily edging his groin onto Dupont’s wandering fingers. By way of a distraction, he thought of Michael and Florence having sex, their mother in the corner. Dupont was watching him for a reaction. His touch was paralysing, whether it was shock or he was intrigued by what was happening—or perhaps Dupont had a power over him in which he couldn’t understand. His dressing gown chord had loosened and had fallen open; Jack could see his nakedness; he could see his meat. Jack said, “Sounds like I wouldn’t be able to leave: this place you have.” Jack scoffed, swallowing hard. His breathing had accelerated; he felt clammy and he was stirring down below. “Does,” Dupont flicked his thumb over Jack’s crouch, “this house have bars?” He sensed a twitch from between his legs, pulsating blood aiding an imminent erection. He was disgusted at the very thought of being aroused by a man, but at the same time, it thrilled him. He couldn’t help compare it to an experience he had at a strip club a few weeks back. She had teased the zipper from his jeans with her teeth and tongue, watching his eyes like she was making love to him. Or something else because in that situation, you simply don’t make love—you have sex—you fuck.
Was that what Francis had wanted, perhaps not part of the deal, but he wanted it—he wanted to fuck.
Dupont knew what he was doing, though, and he leered at him before removing himself away from his crotch, biting on his bottom lip to restrain himself. “You may joke: it will be your paradise. But be warned, if you breach our agreement—”
“I haven’t agreed to anything, yet.”
His gown open, Dupont made no attempt to conceal his nakedness. He looked up at him, eyes wide and fiery. “If, by any foolery, you breach our agreement,” he raised his voice sternly as if the interruption had angered him, his veins swelling and pulsating in his neck. His eyes were like blood. Dupont’s long thin fingers caressed Jack’s thighs and he squeezed to a point where it was unbearable; his nails were like broken glass. “I will not be amused, Jack Monday!” It felt like he was cutting into his skin and through his flesh, and at any second his thigh would crush and implode into a mess of muscle and shattered bone.
Jack had to twitch his leg away to give a hint of the pain. Dupont was smirking, although looking unimpressed, stood without haste, stared down on Jack as if by warning, and for the first time since meeting Dupont, Jack felt threatened, and the thought of Michael and Florence had abandoned his mind. He realised now that Dupont could not only hurt him; he believed he had the skill to do much worse.
Dupont turned away, his smile absent. As he left the room, he said, “Ugliness and purity, Jack Monday,” a last reminder like he was being pushed into a desired direction.
When the door closed Jack heard the lock turn from the other side. He promptly stood and went over, and indeed it was locked. He banged on the thick wood, tested the handle, considered kicking the old oak from which it was made from. Jack screamed out, “Dupont! Francis!” He thumped at the wood again, feeling each strike as the cuts from his hand undid themselves until he was sure someone would hear him—his children, his wife or butler. Maybe Francis himself, but no one answered. Jack forgot about how he feared him and strode over to the windows, tried opening them, too. They were fastened, too, solid, not even a rattle in the frame they were comfortable snug inside of. But he wasn’t surprised. He peered through the glass, but it only served to reflect his image. He’d forgotten how gaunt he looked. The stress of the Brown brothers had aged him plus ten years—plus twenty—his eyes casting a six o’clock shadow. Perhaps another excuse to accept the offer.
Finally, the lock turned on the door and Francis entered.
Jack spun around, squeezed his fists until blood dripped from his wounded hand. He was ready to make a lunge for him but thought better. He noticed the warmth from his hand, cradled it in the other. “You locked the door.” It sounded like a question. And then a statement as anger bubbled in his throat, “You locked the fucking door at me.”
Francis closed the door behind him; he closed it thoughtfully. “It was for your own safety, Jack Monday. Some of us are not as patient as I am.”
Jack didn’t understand what he meant and wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Although, he presumed that some of us was referring to Dupont’s family. But why shouldn’t they be patient? What is there to be impatient about? There were still too many questions for Jack to process and, he guessed, even if he did ask them, Francis would only tell him what he needed to know. Or else divert to a question of his making.
“I need to know, Jack Monday. I can only keep them at bay for so long. Sooner or later, I will need to let them have you!” He appeared almost sympathetic, a sadness in his eyes until he became aware of Jack’s bleeding hand. He moistened his lips and stepped closer to him.
Some of us? What did his family want with me? There’s something else to this, but—
“I am familiar with the Brown brothers’ reputation. Are you sure you want to refuse my offer?”
“You locked me in.”
“You have to learn to trust, Jack Monday, and to not question my actions…to not question me.”
Jack looked through the window again, not that he could see anything, but he was reminded of how ill he had looked. He didn’t like that person looking back at him. He wanted to kill him. If he didn’t accept Dupont’s offer, he feared that he would—or else the Brown brothers would make his ending as painful as possible.
From behind, as Jack was scrutinising his own reflection, Francis reached out for his hand, although he stole it back just as quickly leaving a thick puddle of scarlet on Francis’ palm. Francis looked down at his own stained hand, raised it to his mouth and consumed the blood with long strokes of his tongue.
5
At the base of the stairs, Jack waited nervously on a faded leather couch. Between his legs he held his hand, examining the cut that had turned into a healed scar. And he wondered how this could be, how it could have healed so fast after being touched by Dupont’s tongue as if his saliva contained magic. He even stuck his thumbnail into the scar to see if it would prise open; he would have felt relieved if it had, if he had at least extracted a little amount of blood. To his left was the room he had left and the corridor which the room was a part of. To his right was another hallway, doors at either side, and at the end were some large mahogany double doors that fit from floor to ceiling. The butler stood firmly by the front door staring expectantly at the top of the stairs, occasionally glancing at Jack.
“Am I being kept prisoner?” he called out, his voice reverberating off the walls and rising towards the roof.
The butler didn’t answer like he was afraid to be heard speaking.
The silence enraging Jack, he got up and walked over to him. “Could you open the door, please?”
The butler glared at him like he was surprised by such a request like his words were poison.
“I just want to stand outside, get some fresh air. Unless I’m not allowed to leave.”
Michael and Florence ran across the hallway up the stair. They wer
e still in their gowns; she was giggling as her brother chased her. When he caught up with her, he grabbed her wrist and spun her around. He was hurting her; that much was obvious. She wriggled against his grasp, trying to break free. Her laughter had stopped, then with his other hand, Michael hit her across the face, and grabbed her by the throat. Her eyes bulged and she spluttered, reaching out for his hand to remove him. She found it in herself to spit into his face.
Jack screamed up the staircase. “Hey! Hey, you’re hurting her,” and he ran to the foot of the stairs.
“Sir, please, no!” the butler protested. Jack looked over his shoulder, saw the butler’s desperate eyes, and stopped himself.
Michael had noticed Jack, let go of his sister’s neck and pushed her away. She disappeared into a room down the hall. Michael looked down at Jack and was smirking at him. He leaned over the bannister and said, “You’re my father’s plaything, aren’t you?”
Plaything?
“Your father has a proposition for me,” Jack corrected him.
Michael laughed. “Is that so? Is that what my father calls it now?” He galloped down the stairs. When he passed Jack, he leaned into him and took a whiff of his neck. Michael smiled at him and had that same meaningful expression Dupont had given him like he was being seduced. He drew closer and whispered into his ear, “I may enjoy you after all. Just you and I; wouldn’t that be exciting?” He drew the back of a long finger down the side on Jack’s face as he said this.
The butler had apologised to him with a nod, but it was obvious Michael was uninterested.
