The air was alive with the sound of chatter. Cutlery and glasses clinked against the worn wooden tables and the smell of cuisines from across the world mingled and danced under my nose. A handful of servers weaved between the tightly-packed tables carrying dishes of every colour and flavour, deftly navigating the throngs of customers entirely too wrapped up in their own conversations to make room.
That was how I found myself on that brisk Saturday evening, standing by the door to the kitchen, surveying my domain. Business was good, as usual, and it seemed the steady stream of custom wasn’t letting up. I offered an encouraging smile to Emily, one of our junior servers, as she burst out the door with two bowls of kadhi bari curry on one arm and a plate of rabanada on the other. She wearily returned the gesture.
Suddenly, from around the corner to the main entrance came Jack, 19 years old and our newest recruit. I’d placed him at the front desk, taking reservations and greeting guests until he got a lay of the land. My instructions were clear; he was only to leave his post for his allotted break, which wouldn’t be for another 90 minutes, or if-
“One of your special clients is here, sir,” he whispered breathlessly, eyeing the nearest table to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. Two generous servings of Dongpo pork and what appeared to be the table’s third bottle of wine made the possibility unlikely. He continued. “The gentleman says his name’s Mr Miller, and he’d like to see you.”
I smiled. Ashton Miller is discrete, and tips generously. He’s always welcome.
“Excellent. Send him this way,” I replied briskly, and he nodded, turning back to the entrance. “And Jack?” he turned his head back, “I appreciate your discretion, as you’ll see in this month’s pay.”
Jack nodded again, this time with a smile, and disappeared around the corner.
Ashton Miller, a lean, gangly man in a thick overcoat, staggered into the restaurant proper a few moments later. His springy curls were hidden behind a blue bobble hat, and much of his lower face behind a woollen scarf. He’d clearly stolen the two from different people because they went together horribly. A simple face mask and a high collar, and all that was visible of the man were a pair of beady eyes which darted about before landing on me. He stiffened up and strode over.
“Evening… friend,” he murmured. Each word came laboured from Ashton, monotone and with a resonant aftersound like his throat were a great bell. Compared to my more gabby customers, he was a welcome change.
“Good evening, Mr Miller. Shall we?” I gestured to a door marked ‘Manager Only’ down the other side of the room, and Ashton eagerly nodded, the pompom on his hat bouncing ridiculously.
On the other side of the door was my office, a simple but respectable affair with a rich oak desk, a row of cheap filing cabinets on one wall, and a bookcase on the other. I reached behind the bookcase and flicked a switch, and the whole thing swung out, the entrance to a spiral staircase in its place.
Back during the prohibition era, this place had been a speakeasy. Luckily for my purposes, the whole restaurant had shut down in 1923, so the unregistered basement remained a secret. Now only I, and my clientele, have any clue of its existence.
Ashton had to duck a little to fit down the staircase, the top of his hat still scraping against the top. As we neared the bottom, a warm orange glow could be seen from the room beyond, and at last, we stepped out into the bar.
A series of small candlelit chandeliers lit the length of the room, along one side of which ran the bar itself. Rows upon rows of little corked bottles sat on shelves behind the bar, all adorned with hand-written labels. The labels were in a code only I knew, which meant that nobody but I could tell which drink would give you the best buzz of your life and which would burn a hole through your oesophagus. It helps to discourage theft in a world where the police getting involved isn’t an option.
A shoddily-shaved man with a wide-brimmed hat sat slumped on one of the bar stools, surrounded by a half-dozen empty shot glasses, all of them emitting small whisps of smoke. With one hand, the man was holding a glass over his outstretched tongue, hoping to catch a non-existent last drop of drink. With another, he drummed the top of the bar, as if impatiently waiting for something. With a third, he adjusted the brim of his hat, while the rest danced around his jacket, feeling at various pockets. His droopy form immediately snapped upright as I entered, and a Cheshire cat grin spread impossibly wide across his face.
“Hey-hey boss!” he called in a reedy, East London accent. His arms all sprung forward, lifting him off the bar and dropping him to the floor, from which he bounced to his feet to face us. I shivered involuntarily at the uncanny sight. “And Ashton! It’s been too long my friend, how are you keeping?” Ashton stared impassively in response. The man nodded for a few moments, encouraging Ashton to speak, but eventually gave up. “So! Boss. Here’s the thing, yeah? I’m fresh out at the minute, but you get me one last drink for the night and I’ll pay my tab first thing in the morning. What do you say?”
“I say you’re done for the night, Skint,” I said, eyeing the empty glasses as an excuse not to meet the eyes of the spindly giant, “You want more, you come back tomorrow.”
I prayed my fear wasn’t audible; my clients are usually smart enough not to bite the hand that feeds them, but the fact that Skint could tear my limbs from my body as easily as rip the wings off a butterfly was impossible to ignore at moments like this. Skint didn’t react for a moment, then two of his arms jerked towards me, fingers flared with razor-sharp nails. My heart leapt to my throat and I stumbled back, but each arm was quickly restrained by two more before it could reach me. Skint laughed nervously. “Ah-aha! Sorry ‘bout them, boss. They get awfully rowdy without their drink.” He paused for a moment, smiling desperately at me, then relented. “Right! Yep, you got it, boss. I’ll be back tomorrow.” All but two of Skint’s arms retracted into his jacket, and, tipping his hat as he passed us, he headed back upstairs, muttering to himself, “Tomorrow… tomorrow… tomorrow.”
“Apologies, Mr Miller,” I said, composing myself as we made for the wall opposite the bar, where a couple of booths were hidden from the main area by a set of curtains. Ashton sat at the table, then wheezed, “My… usual… please.” I nodded, and stepped back from the booth, drawing the curtain back into place. Ashton likes his privacy, especially while eating.
I walked behind the bar and to the door of the walk-in freezer. In its speakeasy days, the room had been a mere larder, but now a refrigeration unit chugged quietly in the corner, and frost covered the walls. Various carcasses hung from hooks in the ceiling, and I quickly selected one. For most clients, a specific cut was desired. Ashton was anything but picky, however, and with a cleaver I took from a rack on the wall I severed a whole leg. The carcass was returned to the hook, and I took the leg with me. On the way back to Ashton I chose a bottle from the shelf behind the bar. On its label was a semicircle bisected by a straight horizontal line, followed by a triangle. Perfect.
I returned to the booth and passed the leg and the bottle to Ashton through the curtain. We sometimes talked as he ate, something with which I hoped his drink would help him, but this time he said something he’d never said before. A break from routine was something most unusual to Ashton, so I took notice.
“Would… you… sit… with… me?” he croaked from behind the curtain. I felt my composure drop a little, but it quickly returned.
“Of course Mr Miller, if that’s what you’d like.”
I ducked behind the curtain and sat opposite Ashton, who had removed his hat and scarf, and was in the middle of taking off his mask. A shot of ice went through my blood as his face was revealed, and I had to force myself to maintain eye contact. His mandibles clicked together in anticipation of his meal, and he uncorked the bottle and took a swig. With a sickening series of snaps and crunches, Ashton’s chitinous thorax receded as the drink graced his throat, and at last, an unlaboured breath came to him.
“Thank you,” Ashton said with a relieved sigh, “That’s… much better.”
He took the leg from the table and, beginning at the thigh, brought his mandibles down upon it. He cut through the flesh like warm butter, finally stopping as he hit the bone. His jaws snapped together again and again on the stump of bone, wearing it away rather than breaking it. At last, the bone was weakened enough that Ashton snapped off the stump, silently crunching away at it for a few moments until it disappeared down his gullet. He then proceeded a little further down the leg and continued. My throat burned with bile at the sight, but I managed to keep myself together, if a few shades paler than before.
“Things have been rough… out there,” he spoke between bites, “Lots been… going on.”
“I must confess I’ve been out of the loop,” I replied, trying to maintain my light tone, “Aside from Skint and yourself, I haven’t had any customers down here for a month now.” This fact had been a source of concern as of late, but my clients aren’t exactly the reliable sort, so I’d assumed this unusually long slump was just a passing phase.
Ashton nodded, “Well, that’ll be why. People scared to… be seen congregating. Rat Trappers been… getting folks nervous.”
If I’d been behind the curtain I would’ve rolled my eyes despite myself. Operation Rat Trap has been running for over thirty years, and the most success I’d heard of them having was taking out Herbert Briggs in ‘02. Briggs was one of Skint’s drinking buddies, and the most reckless, idiotic man I’d ever met. In fact, I half-suspect his liver got to him first, and the Trappers only took the credit after the fact. In short, if that was the best they could do, I could afford to pay the Rat Trappers little mind.
Ashton must have noticed my reaction. “Ha! Yes, yes I… I understand. The Trappers, getting people nervous? I’d be… sceptical too! But they aren’t some underfunded band of… secret service wannabes anymore. Seems someone in high places is… taking an interest in their work. Believing… we might be real. They’ve been stepping up their work.”
A tingling of nerves went through me, for the first time about something outside the room. Ashton was reliable, not prone to fear. If he was worried about the Trappers, they might really be becoming an issue. I tried to compose myself.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much,” I said with what I hoped was confidence, “If the Trappers get too bold, Dalton will sort them out. Remember in ‘08 when they stumbled across one of his places? Three dead agents and no leads. That scared them off for a while.”
Ashton, who had now reached the lower tibia, leaned back in his seat, cocking his head to the side sympathetically.
“I’m sorry to tell you this… friend, but Dalton’s dead. They got him.”
Ashton’s words hit me like cannonballs. Dalton? Dead? Impossible. I remembered the crack in the far side of the bar where he’d once thrown Briggs for taking a sip from his drink. His arms had bulged to the size of tree trunks, and if Briggs hadn’t stretched his neck a couple of metres free of the bar he might have killed him there and then. As it was, he’d broken four ribs, and had walked with a limp every time I’d seen him. Someone like Dalton couldn’t just die, not to a bunch of amateurs playing detective.
“Dalton?” I managed to choke out, completely abandoning my professional demeanour, “Are you sure?”
Ashton nodded.
“Clark and Jobs, too,” he said wistfully. “As I said, people are getting… scared.”
Ashton finished his meal, sliding the last of the foot into his mouth. He paused for a moment, then began hacking, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. At last, he choked up five half-dissolved toenails onto the table.
“Apologies, my friend. They’ve never quite… agreed with me.” Ashton sighed, satisfied. “Delicious as ever. I will… certainly be coming back, no matter what the others say.”
“Pay them no mind, Mr Miller,” I said, my professionalism slowly returning, “Even if the Rat Trappers are getting bolder, you’ll always be safe here. I’ll make sure of it.”
“That… I am… sure of,” Ashton choked out, the rigidity slowly returning to his throat. “Ah… seems… time… to… leave.”
Ashton donned his mask, hat and scarf, and I joined him back up the stairs. He slipped me a cheque as we walked. It would cover the next two months of the lease on the restaurant. I thanked him for his generosity, which he brushed off.
“Price… worth… the… service,” he said. I couldn’t quite tell under the mask, but he might have been smiling.
I bid Ashton farewell and was left alone to once again survey the restaurant from my vantage point near the kitchen door. The atmosphere was as alive as ever, but tainted ever so much by Ashton’s revelation. Did my clients really think my restaurant was no longer safe for them? Was all my preparation and care not enough for them? Might it not be enough? I dismissed the thought. This place was my home. It was my livelihood. More than that, it was their sanctuary. I wasn’t going to let them take it away.
That brings us to the present. This has been a message to the Rat Trappers. I know you comb the internet for mention of my clients, so this will no doubt make it to you. I know you won’t be able to ignore a confession, much less a challenge. For that’s what this is. You may have won some early victories, but these people have been hunted since the dawn of humanity, and have hunted you right back more than effectively. And they have me.
I will continue to post about my experiences, to show my clientele they have nothing to fear, to which you have two possible responses. You may step back. You may retreat back to the light, where monsters don’t exist and where people just go missing. Or you can stay. You can try to stop me. You can come looking for a war.
And you’ll find one.