Chapter Eight
In which Alec endures boredom, dreadful reading material and an infuriating desire for booze.
Alec…
After that brief visit from ‘Margaret,’ it was three days of Grandad’s company.
He clomped irritably down the stairs, wearing his Frankenstein mask, put my meal just within reach and left again.
By the second day, I’d had enough.
“Liam, what are the chances of you adding a book or two in addition to your hospitable dining experience? By that, I mean books that don’t involve crop rotation - though I did find it fascinating - or swooning Victorian maidens?” To his credit, the food was always good; things like hearty stews, and home-made bread.
If it was possible for a plastic mask to change to a scowl, Liam’s mask would be wearing one. “Are the accommodations not to your liking, Your Grace?”
I chuckled politely, because it was more helpful than wrapping my chain around this ancient bastard’s neck and strangling him. Of course, part of my foul mood could be that I hadn’t had a drink since I woke up deeply hungover in this cellar that no self-respecting rat would call home.
“It would help pass the time while you and your granddaughter come to your senses. ”
Shite. Some of my irritation was seeping through the cracks of my genial smile. Traditionally when this happened, I pulled out my gun and ended whoever was causing said irritation. Grandad here? It just wouldn’t be sporting.
“Not the best way to get me to do ya a favor, lad.”
“True,” I agreed pleasantly. “The isolation must be getting to me.”
“I’ll think about it, then.” He stomped back up the stairs.
What was really getting to me was my arsehole security staff. How could those bloody sons of bitches not have found me yet? I’d been spending my alone time deep in thought about the various ways I intended to kill every fucking one of them for being outsmarted by an extremely attractive but cunning environmentalist and her band of mud-covered morons.
Every time I thought about ‘Margaret’ flirting and drugging me with such ease… it both enraged me and made me feel some grudging respect for her. There have been assassins sent after me from half a dozen crime families - and that was just in the last year - who couldn’t touch me, yet this woman with her sensible trousers and ridiculous penchant for endangered wildlife scooped me up and imprisoned me without ruffling her perfect, glossy hair?
Of course, if I hadn’t ditched my security team and ended up in that shitty pub, blasted half out of my head, it wouldn’t have been quite so simple.
Exactly, you fucking idiot. What were you doing, sucking down a bottle of what was likely kerosine instead of scotch without backup?
The scolding little voice in my head sounded annoyingly like Alastair. That asshole had no business lecturing me on common sense after marrying into the family that… Well, that family..
The second level of disgust was with myself. A nagging little voice in the back of my mind kept pushing for a drink, nudging me relentlessly, making me sweat, even in the cool cellar. After that snide comment from ‘Margaret’ about my drinking, I’d rather suffer with the need for a bottle of scotch than the shame and desperation of having to ask for one.
So, I spent my time working out with my limited resources, sweating out the booze and the rage, and reading about organic farming, which was only slightly more enthralling than watching moss grow on the stone walls. My luck changed slightly on day three when Grandad set down a tray of sandwiches and a battered copy of The Monkey Wrench Gang .
“Ah, something new. Thanks, Liam.” I even managed to inject a thin layer of courtesy over the top of my usual withering sarcasm. “Any plan yet?”
He folded his arms, glaring at me through his Frankenstein mask. “Never ya mind.”
“Ah. When you see your granddaughter next, would you ask her about my watch? It’s my late father’s, you see. I’d like it back.” He made a noise that could have meant anything from “I’ll think about it,” to “fuck you,” before stomping back up the stairs.
When I opened the book, I found an inscription.
To my dear Fee,
As a wise man once said, make good trouble.
Love, Grandad.
My laughter echoed through the cellar. Of course, it would have to belong to Margaret/Fee. I wondered what Fee was short for. Fiona? Ferren? My knowledge of Irish names beginning with F was limited.
Re-reading the Monkey Wrench Gang was my best and only distraction. I’d first read it when I attended the Ares Academy, the private college for the offspring of crime families. We’d been assigned it for, as my professor said, “It’s creative use of sabotage by environmentalists. An excellent example of using the tools at your disposal.”
The concept of ‘environmental warriors’ attempting to ‘liberate’ parts of the western United States was amusing at first, but I found myself fascinated by the creativity of a group of people who worked with extremely limited resources to bring down the powerful developers who wanted the land. I’d read it, and re-read it more than once since. It didn’t win me over to the side of these ridiculous idealists, but I appreciated their cunning. There were several passages about some of the more successful methods of destruction that were heavily highlighted by Fee.
It seemed clear that my captors had never spent any amount of time in my basement prison, because the wooden floorboards above did nothing to mask their voices when they were in the kitchen. I overheard Fee’s increasing frustration about what to do with me, and her grandfather’s deeply unhelpful suggestions, which consisted of killing me and burying me on the farm. “He’ll be useful as fertilizer if nothing else,” he’d said. Or, in his better moods, he’d suggest throwing me back in the boot of the car and dumping me somewhere on the side of the road. “As ya’ said,” he’d cackled, “no Englishman can ever find a thing in County Mayo.”
There was another male voice too, quieter than theirs and not included in their discussions about me. He could be useful.
The lack of alcohol or any immediate threats to my life gave me more time to think, more than I liked. What was happening with the Lee Ville project? Why did I embark on the journey to pickle my internal organs with copious amounts of alcohol? Even with all the revelations of the past few months, this weakness was inexcusable. I’d always prided myself on controlling my vices. Why did I allow this particular vice to control me?
My opportunity to escape finally came on the fourth day when the cellar door opened and a man walked down the stairs, whistling before he glanced over at me.
“Ahhhh!”
His response made it clear he didn’t know what the rest of the family had been up to. He was tall and lanky, like Fee, and wearing a knitted cap over his thinning hair, a grey beard, and glasses. “Who- what- why are you chained up, lad?”
“Ah,” I chuckled, as if this was simply an embarrassing story. “It’s a bit of a prank, you see. Fee thought it would be amusing to chain me up and see how long it would take me to get free. If I get out, she owes me a pint or two. If I don’t, I work on the farm for a week.”
He stared at me, brows drawn together and clearly perplexed. “Such an odd bet. Wait, are those my overalls?”
“I suppose so,” I agreed through gritted teeth.
He stood there, apparently thinking this over. “Well, did you want to stay down here, then, or should I show you around the farm?”
A kind-hearted simpleton. Exactly what I needed. “I’d love to have a tour.” I held up my shackled wrist. “Could you find the key for these?”
“They’re likely hanging up in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.” He gave me another pleasant smile before he headed back up the stairs. He returned quickly, holding up a small ring of keys with a triumphant grin. “I was correct, on a hook next to the cellar door.” He busied himself with opening my shackles.
I contemplated looping my chain around his neck. It would take no more than a moment or two to strangle this gentle fool. But when he looked up at me with a smile and Fee’s hazel eyes, I didn’t have the heart to do it. He was freeing me, after all.
Once I was unchained, he said, “Well then. Shall we start with the goat pen or the mushroom shed? ”
“Should we find Fee and Grandad first?” My hands tightened into fists and I shoved them in my pockets.
“Oh, they’ve headed into town for parts for the farm truck,” he said apologetically. “It might be just a bit.” He smiled at me placidly, straightening his glasses.
“They have the only method of transportation, I suppose?”
“Aye,” he agreed. “So! The goats first then?”
I could be out of this agricultural hellhole in minutes and finding a way to contact my men. Charles must be half out of his mind by now. But… the memory of Fee’s eyes and the lengthy visual inspection she’d given me that first day came back to me. She’d wanted me, unconsciously licking her lips, sweetening that sharp tone with a husky voice.
Letting this play out could be the most entertainment I’d had in years.
“Of course. The goats sound… delightful. What’s your name?”
“Martin.” He courteously held the kitchen door open for me and I almost groaned with the pleasure of being outside again.
“How do you do, Martin? I’m Alec.”