The Gambler's Ruin - Part Two

***

The delivery arrived just after 1 PM, by which time Mary had already left to start her own chores, and John had successfully cleaned the fireplace, cleared the chimney (finding no sign of a dead animal lodged inside it) and begun cutting back the wilder areas of the gardens.

A strong voice called out “Hello?” and, wiping his hands, John walked to the front of the pub to find a young man with broad shoulders, sandy hair and an easy charm, unloading supplies from a van, two at a time.

The boy jumped down at the sight of John, shook his hand firmly and introduced himself as Dylan Hopkins. He looked barely a day over 19, but was as eager to work as any man John had met before, and together they set about lifting the crates, kegs, boxes and bottles down from the van.

Moving the delivery into the cellar was hard work, not helped by the lack of light or cramped conditions. They successfully cleared a path through the worst of the rubbish, but it was still uncomfortably tight and made manoeuvring the larger items extremely difficult. They struggled and swore for over an hour, until finally, after many curses, a few breakages and several bruises, they finished loading everything onto the relevant shelves and took a well-deserved break.

John wiped his brow repeatedly and stretched his sore back. It had been a long time since he’d done any heavy lifting and he already knew his body would pay for it the next day. Dylan, on the other hand, looked ready to do it all again. He was perched on one of the crates, smiling broadly and smoking. He offered John the pack who shook his head and politely declined. “I’m trying to give up,” he said, to which Dylan took another deep drag, smiled, and said, “Yeah, me too.”

They chatted amiably for a few minutes while John continued to stretch his muscles, and Dylan shifted his weight to get comfortable. “Did you buy the place off Mr. George?” he asked.

“No,” grimaced John as he heard his back snap into place. “Mr. George was my wife’s uncle. He left the pub to her in his will.”

“Oh, he is dead then?”

John felt the tension in his spine ease, then leant against the dark bricks and let their coolness chill his skin. “Why would you think any different?” he asked.

Dylan finished his smoke and threw it to the floor. “You hear things, don’t you?” he smiled. “Wasn’t even sure the place was still his.”

John laughed. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, he liked to gamble. More than most, I’d say. Guess it suited the name of the pub, really, but he was always holding games here, only he wasn’t very good at it. He kept losing money and started having secret games after the pub closed to try and win it back. No idea who he played with since he always kicked us out before the games began, but you could always hear him inside, playing with others. Always thought there must have been an entrance in the cellar to let them in,” he said, and glanced about as if expecting a secret door to open at any moment.

“If there is, it must be buried under 6 feet of junk,” sighed John.

Dylan looked a little disappointed and struck up another cigarette. “Rumour had it,” he went on, “his debts were so bad he bet this place and everything else he owned to try and pay them off, but he must have still lost, because one day he weren’t nowhere to be found. Just got up and vanished in the middle of the night, leaving the pub locked up and empty.”

John frowned in disbelief. “He was never seen here again?”

“Not that I know of. Some people claim they've seen lights in the pub while walking home late at night, it’s why we thought he might still be around, but no-one got an answer when they knocked on the door. Probably faulty electrics,” he smiled, and John smiled too, but felt uneasy in doing so. He’d been unaware of any gambling issues and the story concerned him. Legal ownership of the pub might not have been as solid as he had first assumed. Who would know what had been promised to other gamblers during games? Was the pub still even Mr. George’s to hand down to Mary in the first place? John didn’t know, but he intended to find out.

***

Two hours later than planned, John locked up the cellar and returned to the garden. The heat was already cooling off, making his work much easier, and he spent the remaining afternoon pulling out dead plants, cutting hedges and turning over dry earth until his body was damp with sweat.

He was struggling with a particularly tough, rotten tree stump when Mary returned. She watched him push and pull for several seconds as he desperately tried to force it from the ground, then tapped his shoulder and offered a fresh glass of water, admiring the ruddy glow on his cheeks and the way his shirt stuck to his body.

John drank greedily, feeling the cool water quench his thirst, and then sat down at the nearest bench, inviting Mary to join him. She watched him brush back his limp, damp hair and sipped casually from her own glass.

“Was it a successful trip?” he asked.

“Not bad,” she replied. “I must have visited every shop and house in the area, my feet are killing me. Met some very nice people, though. They all seemed excited about the place opening again.”

“So long as they remember to turn up on Saturday, that’s all that matters,” he grinned.

“They promised they would, we’ll just have to wait and see now. Some of them were a bit odd, though. They kept asking about Uncle Henry and if we’d heard from him. I almost felt bad that I had to tell them he’d passed away.”

“The delivery boy mentioned something about him to me as well.”

Mary raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Have a good long talk with him over lunch, did you?”

“No, I’ve barely stopped all day.”

“Really? With the amount of mess you made in there, I’m surprised you had time for work. And I thought you’d given up smoking.” she said accusingly.

“I have!” he exclaimed, then saw Mary narrow her eyes in suspicion. He recognised it instantly as a sign that she didn’t believe him. “Dylan had a couple while we spoke, but that was it.”

“All I’m saying is you could have cleaned up after yourselves instead of leaving it for me to find,” she muttered darkly.

“I really don’t know what you mean,” he protested. “I’ve been out most of the day.”

Mary held his gaze for a second or two, wondering how long he might go on denying what she already knew to be true, but his face remained blank. He was not one for lies or tricks, but clearly had no intention of admitting what he’d been up to, so Mary set her glass down, took his hand, and lead him through to the bar. “Then how do you explain this?” she asked, pointing towards the table by the fire.

John stared at the mess on the table’s surface. A pint glass, cigarette stubs and two hands of cards were spread out there, frozen mid-game.

“But those were in my pocket...” he whispered, and instinctively reached inside his jacket to search for the pack. It was empty, of course.

He sniffed the air and smelt the same pungent odour he’d first noticed that morning. It hung directly above the table, somehow impervious to the gusts of wind which blew through the room, but it was stronger, bitter, earthy and foul. It smelt like a spoilt cigar, and mixed with it was another, darker odour that he could almost taste.

He turned to Mary and tried again to explain that he had no idea where the mess had come from, but she was no longer listening. Her arms were crossed and a look of disapproval was writ large upon her face. Her good nature had all but faded away as he continued to deny any part of the mess was his, and she finally told him, with a frosty tone, that if he couldn’t be honest about what he’d been up to, he could have at least cleaned up his lie first, then briskly left the room.

Their bitter moods continued long into the evening, with neither believing nor listening to the other. They cooked, ate and cleaned in silence, and by 10 O’clock had retired to bed with barely a word spoken. It was an odd end to a day that had begun so positively, thought John as he brushed his teeth. It had all been going so well until... well, until those cards appeared and caused trouble. He couldn’t understand how they’d gotten from his jacket pocket to the table. Had he dropped them? Perhaps Dylan had found them and set them up as a joke.

He walked through to the bedroom and locked the pack in his bedside table drawer. Mary was already beneath the covers, her back turned towards him. She was clearly in no mood to talk and he knew better than to try. It was best to leave things until the morning, he knew, and blew out the candle for the night.

***

It was close to midnight when Mary woke. She’d been tossing and turning for several
hours, drifting in and out of sleep, but unable to fully relax. She was still bitter about John’s behaviour, but there was more to it than that. In the few minutes she had managed to keep her eyes closed, her mind had been filled with shifting visions of pale faces and cold eyes that watched her from secret corners. It had made her feel frightened and nervous, so much so that even when she woke she thought she could still feel their glare upon her.

She sat up in bed and shivered. The room was so dark that she could barely see the wall opposite; the night was so silent the only sound she could hear came from her own heavy breathing.

Trying to make out the shapes in the darkness, she glanced around the room and listened. Her eyes ran around the walls, picking out the chest of drawers, the wardrobe, the mirror, and then a figure, dressed in white. Her heart nearly leapt into her throat before she suddenly realised it was John. He was hunched over; half crouched, listening at the bedroom door.

She hugged the bed covers and waited until her curiosity could not be contained any longer. “What is it?” she hissed quietly.

John straightened and raised a finger to his lips to silence her. “I think there’s someone downstairs,” he whispered. “I heard a voice.”

A look of concern crossed Mary’s face, and she watched as he carefully twisted the handle of the door. It opened inwards with a small squeak and he paused, looking through the gap until he was certain it safe to continue.

Mary threw the sheets back and crawled from the bed to join him, taking every step as slowly and quietly as she possibly could. Her bare feet slid across the floor in hushed whispers.

At first she couldn’t hear a sound, and was about to say that John must be imagining things, when suddenly the distinct but muffled tones of a voice rose from far below.

John kept his eyes fixed firmly on the small square of landing, waiting for any sign of movement. The voice fell quiet, and he counted the seconds as they passed without incident. No sound, no movement. Had the intruder gone? He didn’t know and wouldn’t be able to find out from his current position, he needed to get downstairs.

Reaching to his right, he plucked the long, thin, iron candlestick from the chest of drawers, and squeezed it firmly in his fist. He looked at Mary, nodded with his head towards the stairs, and silently made his way out of the room.

She watched him descend one step at a time. The shadows wrapped themselves around him and blocked him from view, leaving her to feel quite alone as she rocked nervously on the balls of her feet. If there was an intruder, she didn’t want to face them, but the thought of being left alone was not a comforting one and, with a nervous sigh, she swiftly followed him down the stairs.

Step by step, they moved closer to the bottom and then stopped. Mary forced herself to relax, ignoring the writhing nerves which twisted insider her, and fought against the urge to run. John, patient and calm, listened for a clue to the intruder’s whereabouts, and then peered around the corner. The landing looked clear.

With a small jump, he darted to the rug and tip-toed along, pulling Mary along by her hand. The next flight of stairs began at the far end of the landing, opposite the second guest room whose closed door blocked out all light and hid the corner in darkness. He dearly wanted some more light, fearing he’d walk into a forgotten table or knock over an unseen vase, but he could not risk opening the guest room doors in case the noise aroused suspicion. They needed to be absolutely silent until they were in the right position to catch the intruder. Surprise was everything. Instead, he held onto the banister and pulled himself along as Mary matched his step.

The voice was coming steadily now, rising and falling in a regular wave of deep notes. Something about it made the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand on end, and he knew, by the way Mary squeezed his hand, that she felt the same sense of unease. It sounded agitated, and rumbled and growled, like a low engine that spat out guttural words of some unknown language.

They were close to the top step, it was just a few feet away. Holding his breath, John took the last two strides, squeezed Mary’s hand tightly, and prayed she’d make no noise. A wave of relief rushed over him as they reached the corner without incident, and then crouched, listening as the growling voice continued, unaware of their approach. From here it was just a short trip down the stairs, and along the hall.

Whoever was in the bar sounded impatient. They were pacing back and forth with heavy footsteps, sighing and muttering to themselves, but still John could not understand the words. He twisted his neck through the banister, straining to see through the gap at the top of the door, but all he could see was an orange glow that flickered and pulsed erratically.

Something dark flashed past and John pushed himself further forwards, trying to identify the shape. It had been large, but fast and, astonishingly, covered the distance of the room in only three steps. He could hear it pacing near the fireplace and just as he pulled himself back, there came a sudden heavy pounding, like a fist beating against a table. It echoed through the bar so loudly John almost cried out in surprise. The pictures on the walls rattled in their frames, dust sifted down from the beams above and the floor shook, such was its power.

Silence descended once again, and with it came a sudden icy chill that ran through his body like a mid-winter wind. He shivered uncontrollably from head to toe. The wooden steps felt like ice beneath his feet, and he could see his breath form white clouds as he exhaled. It was as if he’d been plunged into frozen water.

He bit his tongue and hugged his body tightly to prevent it from crying out in shock, and then, as quickly as the moment came, it went. His temperature rose and his body stopped shivering. It was still cold, but not even close to the freezing temperature he’d just experienced.

Mary squeezed his hand painfully and he turned to look at her; she was unnaturally pale and visibly shaking. Her eyes were wide, and at first he thought the sudden chill must have affected her more severely, but then he noticed she was staring, terrified, at a spot across the landing.

“It was shut, it was shut,” she whispered through trembling lips.

John followed her gaze to the second guest room door, the one they’d crept past just a short time ago, the one which had been closed and had kept the corner of the landing hidden in shadows, but was now wide open.

How? When? The questions nearly burst from his lips, and then the voice from below suddenly flared loudly. The intruder was no longer worried about disturbing anyone, it seemed. His voice grunted and growled angrily, and then came a reply.

John froze. Two intruders? He could have sworn there had been only one, but again the dark voice was answered by another that was too different in tone to be from the same person. This one was fainter, lighter and rushed through words like a breeze, sounding both desperate and pleading.

The first voice snapped at the second, silencing it for a second or two before it took up its whimpering tone once again. A simmering tension was rising between the two that was so powerful, John could almost feel it. He squeezed the candlestick in his hand. It didn’t matter if there was one person or several, he wanted them out. No-one would sneak in here again to play their games or lay claim to what wasn’t theirs, this was his home now.

Mary, still staring at the open door, tugged at John’s sleeve. She knew what he was going to do and desperately wanted to stop him. Something told her that to go into the bar would be a bad idea, but John wasn’t paying attention. His jaw was set and his determination fixed. She squeezed his wrist, but he shook her away and broke free, swinging the candlestick before him like a baton.

“John, wait.” she whispered desperately, and staggered down the stairs after him. Through the crack in the door she caught the smell of smoke, saw a shadow of black move swiftly across the room, and heard the wooden scraping of two chairs being drawn.

John, just a few feet ahead, moved closer to the door and raised the candlestick high above his head. The intruders were close. He could imagine them, sat by the fire, enjoying their moment and completely unaware of what waited for them. He ground his teeth, and then, with an angry kick, launched himself through the door.

It burst inwards with a crashing thud, revealing a room flooded with angry, fiery light which spilled out into the hallway, and made them both recoil in shock. It was like looking into a furnace. Waves of scorching heat billowed out and singed the hair on their heads, then in less than a second, it vanished, plunging them into instant darkness.

Mary cried out and ran forwards. The bar was so black and cold it felt like she was in a cave.

“John?” she called out, but there was no answer. “John, answer me!”

A rustling, scraping sound came from somewhere behind her, and she span around wildly, flailing her arms out in preparation for an attack. The darkness pressed upon her. Her bare feet felt the rich, warm rug on the floor and she reached out just in time before walking into a table. It rattled and rocked angrily, then a harsh, scratching sound ripped through the room and a flare of light broke the darkness. She held her breath, squinted, and let out an audible sigh as the soft glow of a candle grew and lit her husbands face.

John reached out one hand, pulling her close and hugging her in comfort. His face was pale and clammy, his lips strained and his normally calm and friendly eyes were wide with shock.

He walked around the bar, thrusting the candle into every corner to find the figures he’d seen, the shapes which had been sat on either side of the table. There had been two, but his eyes had struggled to make out their forms. The one sitting in the nearest chair was little more than a dark, hazy outline, the other, sat directly opposite, was more defined but looked darker than the sky at night and was impossibly thin. Around it had been an aura of black smoke that belched out from unseen coals, filling the air with its stench, and, just before it had vanished, John had caught sight of two glowing eyes and a row of sharp, white teeth which grinned up at him.

He waved the candle around wildly, searching for the intruders’ whereabouts, but the room was empty, silent and cold. It still stank of smoke and burning, but he knew the fireplace was bare. The source of the heat, the light and the smell had been that strange, thin man.

“What’s going on?” he asked, but Mary did not answer. She was looking at the rug beneath their feet and pulled the candle down to show John a series of large, elongated marks that had been seared through the material and led across the room and back. They looked like shoe-prints with a clear toe and heel, but were unnaturally large and thin.

He took a step backwards and felt the back of his legs knock against a table. Something rattled, fell, and smashed with a crunch of shattered glass. He flashed the candle to the floor and saw the remnants of a broken pint glass glistening up at him; a pool of dark liquid was splashed across the rug.

Raising the candle to the table, he stared in disbelief at the collection of objects which were scattered across it. Two hands of cards were laid out before two drawn chairs. They were the cards from the pack, the ones he’d locked away before bed, but yet here they were, face-down and stuck once again before the game could finish.

Beside each hand of five, was a sixth card that had been deliberately separated from the others. John stepped to the side where the thin figure had been, and turned over the card. He shivered as it revealed one of the loathsome, leering Jokers and saw, scrawled on the white space either side of it, a letter - “H” on the right and “G” on the left.

Mary whispered the letters aloud, trying to understand their meaning while John turned over the rest of player’s cards in turn.

Ace, two, three, four, five. A straight.

He felt his stomach drop.

Perhaps Mary hadn’t worked out the meaning, or in repeating the letters over and over, hoped to stop herself from thinking long enough in order to do so, but John had a strong idea of what they meant, and an even stronger suspicion of what he would find under the cards of the second player. One by one he flipped them over.

Three tens, two eights. Flush. The winning hand.

He felt Mary tremble beside him as his fingers stroked the back of the final card. Her voice was a frantic whisper. He swallowed nervously, then with one quick movement, turned it over.

Another Joker grinned wildly up at them. The candlelight made his eyes flash and glow with a glare so evil that it forced a cold sweat to break out upon John’s body. It looked as excited as a child on Christmas Eve, unable to contain its excitement at the thought of getting something new.

The second player had won, and the prize? The two pairs of letters, harshly scrawled on either side of the figure, told him that.

“M. E.” and “J. E.”

“Those are our initials” Mary gasped, but before John could say anything in return, a fresh stench of burning filled his nose and something moved in the darkness beside him. He jumped backwards and threw the candle down. The shadows flooded the room as the flame went out, and he seized Mary’s hand, pulling her roughly to the door. His fingers fumbled with the bolt, the temperature of the room grew hotter, and from somewhere behind an orange glow began to rise.

The metal rod shot back with a jolt, and John ripped the door open. He felt his heart pound in his chest as he yanked Mary out into the cool summer air and ran, dragging his wife along behind him. The gravel hurt his bare feet, the cool air made the sweat upon his skin feel like ice, but they could not stop, they had to get as far away from the pub as they possibly could.

Mary whimpered and begged to slow down, but John ignored her pleas and all the while they ran, he desperately tried to convince himself he hadn’t noticed the candle snuff out before he dropped it to the floor; that he hadn’t seen the silhouette of a tall, thin figure stepping out from the corner of the room where it had been waiting patiently; and that he hadn’t heard a low, guttural chuckle rising from the dark as they fled The Gambler’s Ruin.