by S.C. Barrus
Midway Between Heaven and Hell
Written By S.C. Barrus
Cover image by Michael Caporale (Surreal Blend), Edited by Katie Garling
© 2013 by S.C. Barrus, Published by Away & Away Publishing
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Midway Between Heaven & Hell
The chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, great beads of glass caught the sun which gleamed in through the sky-lit windows, refracting droplets of light in a grand mime of a fireworks display. Not a soul gazed up at that brilliance simply because the fact, not one of the souls perched around the massive oak dinner table, polished to a glorious shine, set with antique plates and silver and crystal, all from different exotic locals — not one of them cared.
They were finely dressed individuals, great businessmen in hand-tailored suits with mother of pearl cufflinks; elegant women in silken dresses, diamonds on long, beautiful fingers, dangling about sensuous necks. Each snuck sideways glances at the others with looks of confusion, determination, or high minded lip curls of snobbery. Most of their eyes glanced particularly in the direction of the shivering boy in the tweed jacket, the busted-out elbows, the sweat on his upper lip. But, uncomfortable as the affair already was, the host’s chair was barren, even after three glasses of Merlot had been served by a tuxedoed butler who played violin in the kitchen as he waited to be called upon by the awkward guests. “To lift the taste buds in preparation for the meal,” he said, “Our Host has quite the surprise for you. Your patience will not lead to disappointment.”
Mr. Johnson, whose head rocked with relaxed self-important banality — a posture he had learned from self-impressed businessmen and oil tycoons whom he had heavy-handedly overtook through hostile takeovers and sheer unfulfilled virility — lifted a white-gloved hand lazily, calling over the butler. He appeared quickly over Mr. Johnsons shoulder after gently setting down the violin.
Mr. Johnson took his time before he turned his head, and then only a fraction. “I must ask,” he harrumphed as he pulled an ivory-embossed silver cigarette case from his pocket, flipped it open with a thumb, and allowed the butler the honor of plucking up and delivering to his free hand a scented cigarette. Impatiently, he grumbled and waited for the butler to light a match and smolder his incensed cigarette. “No accounting for service, I suppose,” he chuckled as he glanced around the table. He frowned when none guffawed or even chuckled. “I say,” he took a hearty drag, and continued, “I say, sir, when will our mysterious host arrive? I know the life of a butler is chock-full of waiting, but I, sir, haven’t the whole night to be waiting in suspense, as it were, delightful as your silly music must be to you. You see, while your master’s offer was tempting, I did not expect this magnitude of competing bidders,” he motioned to the others, “and I don’t care for bidding on something I was convinced to purchase in the first place! Where, sir, is our host, sir?”
“Not much longer now,” said the butler bowing low. He procured another bottle of wine and inquired, “May I freshen your drink?”
“By all means, freshen! Freshen!” Mr. Johnson, his voice raised, the vein between his eyebrows thumping as if near bursting. Collecting himself, as his glass was filled, he chewed on his cigarette butt, his teeth gradually covered with the brown leaves of tobacco and the red stains of wine. “I dare say—take heed you—if the man of the house is not here by the time this wine is digested, I will no longer entertain his impertinence. So, for his sake, fill her up if you’re going to pour at all!”
Others followed suit, motioning for wine and shouting out about the preposterous nature of the situation. “Doesn’t he know who I am?,” “I for one have never been treated like this in all my life”, “Disgusting the manners held on this end of town. I think he’s new blood, and new blood is bad blood, wouldn’t you say?”—all but the young man in the tweed, whose knuckles were white as they clenched the table. He ignored the statements of the higher class entirely, his gaze steady, straight ahead, out of focus, and heaven knows, he didn’t drink. This will end today, he thought, his jaw clenched tight and the weight of the gun so heavy in his pocket. He leaned to the side as his back sweat with the effort of the simple attempt at sitting straight. No longer will I be afraid. Whatever it takes, this will end today.
Mrs. Williams leaned upon the table on elbows covered with long, shoulder-length gloves. Diamonds in her ears dangled as she spoke, and in a cavalier voice she said, “You sir, what was your name?”
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
“I am known as Mr. Johnson, if you must know.”
“And is there a first name, dear?”
“Mr.”
“I see. And am I correct in assuming you are here because of the promise of a business deal?”
“Why, yes,” Mr. Johnson eye grew wary, “and I assume that is why you are here as well.”
“Not at all,” replied Mrs. Williams. “Very strange, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well then,” Mr. Johnson’s eyes matched his red stained teeth, “Why then are you here, ma’am, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“It’s private, and we’ll leave it at that,” she said without a sparkle of emotion. “Suffice to say, Mr. Johnson, I think it might be possible that we’ve been hoodwinked. You there, sir, under what pretense were you invited?”
The questions flew around the table, and as the realization dawned upon the group, a growing sense of unease spread within the chamber, lit high with that ominous chandelier, the violin playing in the kitchen. After an uncharacteristic moment of silence, Mr. Johnson rose to his feet, drained the oversized glass of wine, and raised his important hand to inform the table they were being addressed.
“I say,” he said, raising his voice with vibrant gusto. “I dare say, I do believe that we have been duped.” He arched an eyebrow and let his gaze wander from face to face with a smug sense of importance and the air of an inquisitor, as if someone here knew what the meaning of the faux dinner was and hadn’t yet let them in on the secret. His gaze rested upon the young man who leaned funny to the side; the sore thumb amongst gilded fingers. “Unless,” he shouted in order that his voice might shake the house, “our host reveals himself in the next ten seconds, then, I dare say, I will be force to take my immediate leave of this horrible house.”
A shuffle past the imported Italian arch caught his attention. Past the two wide marble pillars with great veins of white, down the hallway lit with grand chandeliers, leaned a man against the wall, covered in shadow, a cigarette peeking out of his mouth illuminating his face in a glow of red, his eyes covered by a black fedora. He wore a powerful grin. Chuckling, the man in the hall took a long drag, taking his time with the exhale of effortless smoke rings. When he spoke, he did so without revealing his eyes. “Mr. Johnson, I believe. Yes, it is you, isn’t it? I should have known it would be you who would start the riot. Please, I would consider it a personal offence if you left before dinner arrived.” His voice then took a dark turn as he uttered the malevolent words, “Sit back down.”
Mr. Johnson’s eyes opened wide as he recognized the face in the hall, that nameless smile. “You’ve been here the whole time? You, sir, led me here in good faith.”
“Good faith,” spoke the man in the hall, “You don’t know the meaning of faith! I assure you, you have not an inkling on the matter. And as for ‘good,’ Mr. Johnson, you are nothing of the kind. Not one spec of goodness hangs about your loathsome person, your horrendous ideals, your shoot ‘em in the back business practices, or your exploitative mannerisms and backroom dealings. No, sir, do not point your
finger at me! No, sir, do not try to raise your voice! For once in your life you will be silenced. Even the tycoon of a stolen empire deserves an iota of humility before he dies!”
“I will not thus be insulted! You, sir, can rot!” spat Mr. Johnson with wriggling jowls. “Ladies and Gentlemen, excuse this outburst. You may fear for your life by this man with the gun who claims moral superiority, but he is a liar—a fact I have on good authority—and a thief. Now, you sir, there in the dark corner, you do not frighten me, I have ruled nations! Ladies and Gentlemen, please follow my lead,” he announced as his demonstrative figure rose quivering with a dark rage, ready to lead an uprising. “I,” he continued with an air of unfathomable superiority, “am leaving.” Pushing back his chair, he checked his pockets habitually, then stood, determined eyes not moving from The Host in the hallway.
The violin in the kitchen played a sweet yet longing melody, long steady pulls on the horsehair bow meandering like a stream directed by mortared rock walls through a large city.
The eruption of an echo shook the marble walls, the chandeliers, the foundations of the guests; a crack like a bull whip, then a piercing ringing in their ears. Mr. Johnson was pushed back a step by an invisible hand, then stood still, confused. He sniffed the air, looked around the room as if lost while blood trickled down the hole in his chest. “There are others like me, you know old boy,” he whispered, red collecting around the cracks on his lips. He stumbled back into his chair. “You can never win against my kind. While the meek wait to inherit the Earth, here are we. We have a strong grip, and a hearty grasp on reality, and while the meek wait, we have already taken over. Oh my, I feel as though…I’m slipping away…” As his eyes rolled back in his head he slowly hunched forward until his face met with a crystal wine glass which held him for a moment before shattering under his weight. He hit the table with a dull thud.
Eyes from around the table looked at the fallen man; blood began to collect on the floor, his cigarette still burning off to the side. The bullet hole in his chest gurgled and burped splashes of blood until the man’s black heart, pierced by the lead crown, puttered, then pattered, then altogether stopped beating.
They looked at the man in the hallway, a revolver in his hand, cigarette and grin held firmly on his face, grey smoke from the shot and the cigarette whisking around him. He stood like a cowboy in a shootout, a pose which looked practiced in front of the mirror on rainy days. One hand out to the side, the other pointed the heavy gun at its victim. Gradually he relaxed his pose, rested the cigarette between two fingers, revealed his eyes with reckless abandon and announced, “Your Host has arrived!”
A woman screamed, a man ducked under the table, others tripped over their chairs, crystal shattered and red wine spilled over white dresses. The air erupted with the voices of the diners, and the smell of wine and smoke wafted around the room with sickly sweet elegance, a tango of chaos. From the kitchen the tango was made complete as the song from the violin changed its tempo, du du du, dum dum dum. The floor rumbled with heavy footsteps as the patrons danced and slipped against the polished tile sending themselves careening smack against the floor.
The Host, savoring the chaos, watched for a moment before asking far too politely, “May I have your attention please?” The dance continued. “Please,” he said a bit louder, but only the boy in the tweed jacket with the busted-out elbows, sat still, a hand slipping below the table ever so slow. “Please!” The Host shouted angrily while guests scrambled at the door to the kitchen which had been locked shut by the butler. The Host eyes narrowed. “Sit down, sit down, sit down!” he shouted, emphasizing his demand with a gunshot to the air which in turn rained down bits of ceiling. The voices quieted, and the guests, having realized their folly, sent him their quivering attention. “That’s better,” he said in a whisper.
The Host reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Looking down at the paper, he squinted, pulled out a pair of reading glasses from his suit’s breast pocket, placed them loose on the tip of his nose, and scanned the note, looking through the spectacles like an old man. He cleared his throat before he began to read aloud. “Dear Ladies and Gentleman,” he read aloud like a circus maestro, arm swinging theatrically. He began to speak his next line, but he choked, coughed, cleared his throat, and looked up at his guest over his glasses. “Excuse me,” he apologized, shrugging. “Just needed to clear my throat. Too many cigarettes I suppose.” He coughed again, then continued to read.
“Dear Ladies and Gentlemen, I have called you all here today for a purpose.” He looked at them over his glasses, read their reaction, the terror on their faces. He flashed a brief smile before continuing. “You, each and every one of you, have wronged me in the past, significantly. Some have wronged me in business,” he looked up at the extinguished Mr. Johnson, and he pointed to the man, “like you, Mr. Johnson. Some have wronged me in a much more personal manner.”
He looked up at Mrs. Williams who trembled at the familiar face, her hand on the kitchen door knob. He pointed and said, “Like you.” He read, “And one of you has hurt me to the quick, snuffed out the only love in my life without regard to common decency, without regard to her pain, and without thought of the repercussions of your abominable act! Like you!” He bellowed and aimed two fingers squarely on the boy in the tweed jacket who remained trembling, a gun in his hand hidden under the kitchen table.
