Chorus of the Dead

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Sisterly, brotherly,

Fatherly, motherly

His walk to the tavern would be a long one but he welcomed the silence and darkness as he made his way to the centre of town. The moon was shrouded in a mist that diffused its soft light and illuminated the trees to his left and right. There was a warm spray of fog all around him that clung onto his exposed face and hands as he walked.

He thought of Lillian as he walked. He hoped she slept soundly, allowing her body to fight off whatever demons threatened to steal her life. She had felt so helpless in his arms, so dependent upon the help he gave her. No one had ever needed him for something so basic and yet she clung to him in the hopes that he would save her. His entire career was built on the assistance he could give after death. Lillian needed him in life, and despite Ainsley's attempts to remain professional he started to feel attached in a way he thought he never could with his patients.

He held his flask in his hands, noticing it was nearly empty of its contents. He'd need a lot more than a few mouthfuls to get him to forget her arms around him and the feeling of her breath on his face. He smiled at the thought. Yes, he was going to need a whole lot more.

A snapped twig to his right jarred him from his daydream and he halted his step. He had been walking along the fence of the cemetery, where the lighted street lamps did not permeate.

"Hello?" he called out into the darkness. He squinted. "Is someone following me?" he asked in what even he knew was a feeble effort. It was only a twig, he told himself, resuming his walk, only now at a slightly quicker pace.

He emptied his flask, hoping the drink would dampen his heightened awareness, and slipped it back into his inner pocket. He was not afraid. He had boxed with the boys in school, far away from his father's critical eye, where he could indulge himself and his male whims. It was the not knowing, the creeping darkness that unnerved him. The fact that he could not see his opponent unsettled him.

The cloud above moved on and suddenly he could see that he truly was alone in the darkness. He tried to laugh at his folly, but his amusement was short lived. He had the distinct impression that he was being watched while in Picklow, though he knew not from where, by whom or by what.

The tavern appeared like a beacon, a lighthouse in the misty night. The fog gave way to rain by the time Ainsley reach the main road and the pellets of searing cold pricked his face and neck. He flipped up his collar and hunched over to brace himself but the rain was unrelenting. When he reached the tavern doors he was soaked to the skin. He struggled hard to peel the outer layers of clothing from his person and found comfort in the throng of people in the pub and the blazing fire in the hearth.

The tavern was the Inn, the dining hall converted after dinner into a place filled with music, merriment and drinks. The room was alive with labourers, just come from work. Mill workers, Ainsley noticed, most likely the very workers who were employed under the late Walter Lloyd and now his son. The gathering was boisterous, the music loud.

Ainsley slipped into one of the empty chairs at a round table next to a window and glanced around the room. There was a giant stone fireplace, the focal point of the room, with a roaring fire radiating heat. There were a few other round tables like the one where he sat positioned around the outside of the room. In the centre of the room two long pine tables ran parallel to each other, each flanked with benches, three to each side of the table. This is where the majority of revelers sat, mugs of ale in their fists, their cheeks already red with drink.

"Ain't seen ye before," a voice called to him. He pulled his attention away from the others in the room and focused on a middle-aged woman in front of him. She stood over him with her arm bent and a round tray perched between her shoulder and hand, her free hand placed squarely on her hip. She looked like a woman no one would want to mess with, not in her husband's inn. "What'll ya 'ave?"