by Amy Cross
“Why couldn't you have let me keep them?” Lucy sobbed, as I turned and saw several shocked neighbors approaching Katie's body. “I wanted them so much! Daddy, why couldn't I have had them? I wouldn't have hurt Mommy if she hadn't tried to take them away from me! They were talking to me! Why couldn't she hear them?”
Table 9
Prologue
Twenty years ago
“And will you be waiting for someone this evening, Miss Carradine?” the waitress asked, as she took a leather-bound menu from the counter. “I know you usually come with your boyfriend. Is Harry...”
Her voice trailed off as she began to feel a little uncomfortable. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something seemed a little different this time.
“It's just me,” Vivian replied calmly, before forcing a well-prepared smile. “What I mean is, I shall be dining alone tonight. Harry...”
She paused, her left eye twitching slightly.
“Harry can't make it on this occasion. He's otherwise...” The words caught in her throat. “I'm afraid he's otherwise occupied.”
“Well, we have your usual table waiting for you,” the waitress told her, as she led Vivian across the restaurant, toward the windows at the far corner. “The same reservation every week. You look different tonight. Is that a new look?”
Glancing down at her black dress, Vivian's face flickered slightly, as if she was struggling to contain herself. She'd worn all black for the first time in her life – black heels, black stockings, a black dress that ran to just below the knee, and even a black hat with a black veil – and she knew that she probably seemed a little striking. At the same time, she felt absolutely certain that black was the only appropriate color for the evening, even if she felt the other diners were watching her. Still, she had chosen the clothes very deliberately.
“Yes,” she managed to say finally, as she reached the table and the waitress pulled the chair out for her. “I suppose it is a new look.”
“It suits you.”
“You're so kind.”
As she took her seat, Vivian carefully avoided looking at the empty chair opposite. Instead, she took a look at the cutlery and straightened the knife, which had been left a little askew. Then she glanced across the restaurant and saw a dozen or so other diners, at least half of whom she vaguely recognized from town. She caught the eye of a few, but they quickly looked back down at their plates as if they too sensed something different about her tonight.
“I don't know if you need to see the menu,” the waitress said after a moment, “or whether you already -”
“I'll have my usual,” Vivian replied, turning to her. She paused, before remembering once again to smile. “The same as always, if you don't mind.”
“Absolutely, and...” The waitress paused, clearly feeling a little uneasy. “Seeing as you're alone tonight, will you still be wanting bread to start?”
Vivian swallowed hard. “No. No, that won't be necessary.”
“Giving you the night off, is he?” The waitress smiled. “Your fiance, I mean. Letting you out alone like this.”
“Harry has another...” Vivian paused, feeling a cold sweat starting to prick her brow, before taking a deep breath and regaining her composure. Her eye was still twitching, but she felt there was nothing to be done about that. “Something of the sort,” she continued, swallowing hard. “Please, there's no need to fuss. I shall simply have my usual.”
“And wine?”
She shook her head. “No, I shan't be needing wine tonight.”
“I'll bring you some water, then,” the waitress replied, before taking a step back, as if she was relieved to be done. “I'll be right back, Miss Carradine.”
“I'm sure you will,” Vivian replied, watching as the waitress headed back across the room. “I assure you,” she added under her breath, “I am a very patient woman.”
After a moment, she reached into her pocket and slipped out a small bottle. Her hands were trembling as she carefully set the bottle on the table. She'd planned the evening down to every last detail, and she knew that she had to save the bottle's contents until the end of the meal. Even after everything that had happened over the previous few weeks, after all the gossip and the shock and the humiliation, she was determined to enjoy one final meal at her favorite restaurant, even if – for one – she had to dine alone.
“I'll make you regret your choice, Harry,” she whispered, keeping her voice low. “What does that Mary bint have that I don't? Why would you run off with her and leave me all...”
Her eyes were fixed on the bottle, and she couldn't help thinking of the thick, black liquid within. She'd worried that she might have second thoughts, that she'd lack the necessary resolve to go through with her plan, but now she actually felt rather calm. After so much uncertainty and doubt, it soothed her soul to know exactly what was coming next.
No physical pain could match what she felt in her heart.
“Table nine will always be ours,” she said under her breath, her voice trembling with tears before she managed once again to pull herself together. Glancing down at the bottle again as the waitress approached, she forced herself to smile. “Always, for all time. No-one will ever be able to take it from us, and one day, I shall have company here again.”
With that, as the waitress brought over a jug of water, Vivian began to unscrew the bottle's lid. A faint, curling wisp of vapor rose from the rim.
One
Today
“That table right there,” he said firmly, poking her shoulder twice with a pudgy finger and then pointing across the restaurant. “I'll take that table, the one no-one's sitting at! Bloody hell, girl, are you blind?”
Trying not to appear flustered, Lisa turned and looked over at the table in the far corner. While every other spot in the restaurant was filled, table nine certainly appeared to be empty. She turned back to check the booking screen again, but no matter where she tapped, table nine still wouldn't show as being available. The restaurant was heaving and the noise of chattering diners was overwhelming, but for some reason table nine seemed to be locked out of the booking system.
“What's taking so bloody long?” the guy asked with a loud, theatrical sigh. “Why are you telling me I can't have a table, when there's blatantly a free table over there? Is it reserved or not?”
“I'm sorry, Sir,” she replied, forcing an awkward smile as she tried closing the booking screen and then loading it again. “The computer still says -”
“I don't care what the computer says,” he continued, interrupting her. “Do you need a computer to see that there's no-one sitting at a table? Look at the bloody thing, for Christ's sake!”
“Sir -”
“Look at it!”
Before she could reply, Lisa felt a pair of sweaty hands on either side of her face. Too startled to ask the man to stop, she let him turn her head until she was looking once again at the table.
“Do you see anyone sitting there, Einstein?” the man asked.
“No, but -”
“And is it reserved for anyone?”
“It doesn't seem to be, but -”
“So what's the bloody problem?” With that, he let go of her face and starting slipping out of his coat. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, “talk about hard work.”
“We recommend reservations at least a day -”
“I don't care about that either,” he added, tossing his coat onto the counter and, in the process, sending the booking receipts flying. “Look, it's not complicated, darling, so try to wrap your pretty little head around it. Me customer. You waitress. Me want table. You have table. Me go sit at table, and you come take my order. Got it?” He let out a slow, rumbling belly laugh as he turned to another couple who'd just entered the reception area. “Sorry folks, got a slightly slow girl here. I'm just having to explain her job to her.”
Lisa took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. She'd been warned that customers might sometimes be difficult, but this guy was genuinely a lit
tle terrifying. Reaching up, she wiped a trace of sweat from the back of her neck.
Cool under pressure, she told herself. You have to be cool under pressure.
“What seems to be the problem?” Annette asked, hurrying over to join her at the desk. “Lisa, how are things going here? It looks like there's a little bit of a queue forming.”
“This customer would like a table,” Lisa replied, trying not to let it show that she was insanely grateful for her boss's arrival, “but table nine doesn't seem to be showing up on the booking system.” She tapped the screen to show what she meant, but she was so nervous that her trembling hand inadvertently brought up a different table. “Hang on,” she continued, fully aware that she was blushing. “Wait a minute, I'll get it back.”
“Classic,” the customer sneered.
Glancing at him, Lisa saw that he'd just taken a photo with his smart-phone.
“Hashtag incompetent,” he said with a grin as he tapped at the screen. “Hashtag... gormless.” He chuckled as he posted the picture online.
“It's okay,” Annette said, gently easing Lisa out of the way and resetting the booking program, “I'll deal with this. Someone should have told you about table nine, we always leave it empty. Please, go back to your other tables and I'll speak to the customer.”
“But -”
“You did nothing wrong, Lisa. Table nine should just be left alone. Please, let me handle this.”
“You wanna hire better staff,” the man grumbled as Lisa turned and made her way across the restaurant. “That girl seems slow in the head. Is she some kind of retard, or what?”
Lisa winced as she heard his words, but she refused to look back. Instead, she slipped between tables and headed toward the serving station, although she couldn't help glancing over at table nine and wondering why – when the rest of the restaurant was so busy – that particular table was left untouched.
Two
“I'm fine,” she quickly typed on her phone a few minutes later, “stop worrying.”
She tapped to send the message to her mother, hoping that it'd be the last reply she'd need to send for the night, before hearing someone hurrying up behind her.
“I've just sat a major-league bitch at table eight,” Donna said, rolling her eyes. “Kid and a husband too, and the husband looks totally whipped. I've got my hands full with tables one to four, so do you think you can take eight off my hands? Please? Pretty please with a throbbing red cherry on top?”
Glancing over her shoulder, Lisa realized that even across the crowded room, she could hear the woman at table eight loudly chastising her daughter for some perceived mistake. A moment later, her eyes were drawn to the next table along, which still sat empty and undisturbed.
“Sure,” she muttered, before turning to Donna. “By the way, what's with table nine?”
“What about it?” Donna asked, as she started ringing up a customer's bill.
“The fact that it's never used,” Lisa continued, grabbing some menus. “Why can't we sit anyone there?”
“Oh, you mean the ghost stories?” Donna grinned at her. “Ignore all that. You don't believe in ghosts.”
“Ghost stories? What are you -”
“Table nine's just a superstition,” Donna continued, glancing over her shoulder and looking for a moment at the table in the far corner. “Some people are just dumb and they let that crazy shit, like, infect their minds. It's all hogwash. Still, whatever you do, leave table nine alone. I heard Annette once fired a girl for trying to seat someone there.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. And by the way, I think you're wanted.”
Turning, Lisa saw that the woman from table eight was waving at them.
“Like I said,” Donna continued, keeping her voice low, “major, major bitch. It doesn't matter what you do, that cow will complain about something. Just don't let it bother you. Think of it as an initiation rite for your first shift. Go on, the Kraken awaits!”
***
“Do you seriously not have veal?” the woman at table eight asked archly, her voice dripping with disdain as she squinted at the menu. “I read on your website that you serve veal.”
“I think the website might still have the old menu,” Lisa explained, forcing a smile. “I'm very sorry about that, but -”
“We came for the veal,” the woman tutted, interrupting as she turned to another page in the menu. “You should think about that sort of thing. If you're going to put a menu on your website, you should at least bother to make sure it's up-to-date. It's false advertising otherwise, luring people in here off the streets and then hoping they'll stay even when the menu isn't to their taste.”
“I'll tell the -”
“How hard is it to change a menu on a website? By law, we should get something off our bill, for the inconvenience.”
“I'm -”
“And it's frightfully bad to have the traffic passing so close to the building. Every time a bus goes past, I hear the windows rattle.”
“I'm very -”
“Still, I suppose one can't expect too much from a restaurant in a small, suburban market town. Just wait a moment while I try to find something else that doesn't seem too awful.”
“I'm very sorry,” Lisa managed to say finally. “I'll let you look at the menu, and I'll come back in -”
“Oh no, you don't,” the woman snapped, clicking her fingers as if she was trying to control an insubordinate dog. “I'm not having you wandering off. You'll wait quietly until we're ready to order. I'm sure I can find something that won't offend my palate.”
Spotting movement nearby, Lisa turned just in time to see Donna carrying some plates to another table. As she passed, Donna silently mouthed the word 'bitch' and then continued on her way. Although she hated to use such language, deep down Lisa couldn't help thinking that for once Donna was actually bang on the money. After a moment, feeling as if someone was trying to get her attention, she turned and looked at the nearby tables. There was no sign of anyone gesturing for her to go over, but she still felt as if she was being watched by someone.
“Elizabeth, stop!” the woman at the table suddenly hissed, leaning across and slapping her daughter's hand.
The little girl recoiled, her eyes filled with shock, and Lisa realized that she'd been playing the salt and pepper shakers.
“Christ,” the woman muttered under her breath. “Who'd have children? Little runt.”
Lisa smiled at the little girl, who looked to be no more than eight or nine years old. They made eye contact for a moment, but the girl seemed too cowed and scared to smile back, preferring instead to simply look down at her lap as if she was genuinely terrified.
Glancing at the woman's husband, Lisa saw that he seemed almost the same. The woman clearly ruled with an iron fist and brooked no dissent.
“What about the beef bourguignon?” the woman asked waspishly. “What kind of wine do you use for that?”
“I'm not sure,” Lisa replied, “red I think, but -”
“Red you think?” the woman asked with a grin. “Oh well, that's very specific, thank you.”
“I'll go and ask the -”
“Oh, don't bother,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “You should know these things if you work here. Obviously the chef ought to be using something from Burgundy, but I don't know if a place like this is so picky about doing things in the correct manner. For all I know, your head chef might be some spotty little oik from the job center.” She flipped back to an earlier page in the menu. “I rather think I'll look for something less risky.”
Lisa opened her mouth to explain that it was her first night on the job, before realizing that she should just keep quiet. Still, she was about to tell the woman about the specials board when she suddenly caught sight of a figure at the edge of her peripheral vision, over in the corner at the next table. As soon as she turned, however, she realized that there was no-one to be seen, and she found herself looking directly at the empty table nine.
<
br /> She waited, convinced that she'd seen someone at the table, before telling herself that she must have been mistaken. Still, she watched the table for a moment longer, just to prove to herself that there was no reason to worry. A set of cutlery lay on the immaculate table-cloth, along with salt and pepper shakers, a candle, a wine glass and a leather-bound menu. Everything was laid out as if a diner was expected at any moment. It seemed such a shame to let a nice table go to waste, but Lisa figured it wasn't her place to start challenging the restaurant's rules. Apparently table nine was simply out of bounds.
“Lobster,” the woman said suddenly, setting her menu down with enough force to rattle the cutlery.
Lisa turned to her, momentarily startled.
“Do you think your chef can manage to cook a ruddy lobster properly?” the woman asked, before glancing at her daughter. “Ignore Mummy's language, darling. It's just that these people are so tiring.”
Lisa forced a smile. “I'm sure -”
“This is why you have to work so hard at school,” the woman told her daughter, while gesturing toward Lisa. “If you get bad grades, you won't be able to go to university and then you'll end up like this, working in the service industry as a common waitress.”
Lisa opened her mouth, poised to answer back, but at the last moment she managed to hold her tongue.
The little girl looked at her mother with fearful, cowed eyes, before briefly glancing at Lisa and then returning her gaze to her lap.
“And bring us a bottle of whatever red wine is best paired with shellfish,” the woman added, leaning back in her chair as if she felt she'd won a small victory. “Something with a rich palate, something that doesn't take like supermarket slop. But don't think for one moment that you can overcharge us, because we're not fools. Perhaps a decent malbec, if such a thing can be found in this establishment.”
