The Buisness Deal

Credit: Tyler Carter

The fire crackled in the fireplace. The low ambient sound of wood splintering and transforming into charged bricks of ash filled the room as the two men sat in silence. The younger of the two sat in a large arm chair discoloured and stained by age. He didn't look too pleased with the arrangement but considering Mr Temple's upbringing it took very little for him to be dissatisfied. He sat in a pristine suit, navy blue trousers straightened and blazer bare of any signs of use as if he had purchased it from the tailor that very morning. He fiddled idly with his moustache as he waited, eyes darting around the room at all the signs that told him to run. The books on their shelves coated in a thick layer of dust, the rotting old rose preserved in a glass cage that was sure to be harbouring a number of life threatening diseases and the reindeer antlers that hung at the side of the room perfect for spiders to make their own playground. Had he known any better he would have assumed this apartment had long since been abandoned and yet it stayed home to the great Mr Gold, the one man who could help him with his situation. And so he stayed

Mr Gold was an old and powerful man. The kind of unsuspecting man whom would roam the streets undetected and yet held all of the town in the palm of his hand. He was in his early fifties with a reseeding hairline and a face that could cut stone. His forehead was wrinkled from years of scowling and jaw so square he resembled a block. Currently he watched with pleasure as Mr Temple fidgeted and fumbled in his seat taking much pride in the uncomfortable nature it put him in. But what's more he knew he would never speak out, knew he would never offer to move their meeting elsewhere, never want to tempt hurting his feelings. Mr Temple was a weak willed man and that is what Mr Gold loved more than anything else. Slowly he reached over to the table between the two and, avoiding the business papers, took hold of his smoking pipe. That too was well worn with bite marks along the mouth piece and scratches littering the wood but it got the job done.

He took hold of the instrument and pulled out his lighter and tobacco, filling the end and lighting up as he inhaled a long slow breath before exhaling dramatically.

“You wish for my help Mr Temple.” His voice was low and drawn out when he spoke.

“Indeed Mr Gold. I fear I would not have come so far to bother you had it not been an emergency.” Mr Temple replied, his words swift and pointed. He shifted further in his chair so that his back side barely rested against the seat.

“An emergency you say? What emergency is so dire as to bring you to my home at eleven o'clock at night?” His voice was stern. So stern he almost sounded annoyed. It was all part of his process to make clients squirm, show them his disinterest and contempt at being pestered so that they are quick to grant whichever wish he wants in return. Watching the bait squirm was the best part of his position. However what was said next was something even Mr Gold feared. A name he had not heard since he was a young boy. A name of one who he was certain he had left in the past. The name of the one he was sure he had killed.

“Arthur Lodge, sir.”