Hill of Nails

The air stirred only momentarily as Joey strode through the dregs of the afternoon rush and honed in on the small, curved bar. The barman looked up from his crossword. When he saw who it was he brushed the newspaper aside and took an interest in the bottles behind him.

Joey slammed the sluggish, 2 foot long snake on the bar. Its eyes boggled briefly on impact.

“What’s that,” said the barman with an evident lack of interest.

“Snake,” said Joey, watching the barman carefully.

The barman shrugged, spat on a dirty cloth and began to clean a patch of dead insects from the wooden upright.

“Bastard got in the dunny again,” said Joey. An acidic emphasis of words and a raised eyebrow turned the statement into an accusation.

“Yeah. Snake’ll do that.”

“It will,” snorted Joey, leaning over the bar and grabbing the barman by the lapel, “if some stupid bastard puts it there.”

Quick as a flash, the barman jerked his head backwards and then brought it smartly forward, connecting with Joey’s left temple. The noise this made, not unlike a cork being yanked from a wine bottle, made the adjacent barflies wince.

As Joey slipped to the floor in short melodramatic instalments, the customers returned to their reveries. They were the sort of involuntary daydreams that bubble up quite unheeded from such a stifling, airless environment, ones that are washed away with each swig of cool beer only to return seconds later to drown the mind in desperate thoughts of other places.

And into these reveries came the Customer. Overdressed and sweating, she entered with evident caution, keeping herself from making eye contact and provoking some kind of scene she did not have the energy to deal with.

Funny thing, really, the barman thought afterwards. The Customer was not a native – her outfit looked more the kind of thing you would wear when you did not know whether you would end up in the searing heat or the freezing cold, and could only pick the one outfit. But the Customer had a sliver of steel in her manner that said she had nothing to fear.

Then the Customer surveyed the room in a few seconds, looked momentarily dejected, and walked back out through the entrance without a word.

The barman stood silently in contemplation until the snake bit him in the bum.

***

There was a photograph, and it was thrown down in the middle of the elegant white table...four pairs of eyes stared hungrily at the picture, and nobody liked what they saw.

“Impossible!” said the first.

“Ridiculous” said the second.

“The very idea!” said the third.

The fourth remained silent and sat back, suddenly amused.

“But we must face the fact that it has been stolen,” said the Cat. “And you four are the only ones in town this cool Autumn afternoon. I came here for an answer and I will not leave until one of you tells me who stole it.”

A hint of menace. Nothing overbearing, nothing obvious...just a collective understanding that the Cat did not just pop by for a friendly chat about the world of international art theft. One way or another, his business would be concluded today, as would the career of anyone who stood in his way.

“Whilst we all think this over,” said the Cat, “we would all feel better for a drop of whiskey.”

Three of them exchanged suspicious glances as the Cat called the waitress over and ordered them all a drink. The fourth examined his fingernails and began locating invisible specks of dust on his tailored jacket.

Soon enough, the waitress returned and distributed the glasses, each containing two fingers of whiskey.

“May I propose a toast,” said the Cat.

“Hmmf. Go on.”

“To the redistribution of the people’s art back to the people!” he said, raising his glass.

“To international art theft,” said the fourth. The Cat glowered.

“Excuse me,” came a female voice in halting French. “But I am looking for a man.”

“Then you’re in good company,” said the Cat, glancing at his photograph of the portrait of the Merry Monk and hoping one of the others would pick up on this and laugh. Nobody did.

“I am looking for this man,” said the Customer, holding out a photograph. The Cat took it and circulated it amongst the others, who shook their heads in turn.

“Sorry, lady,” said the Cat. “And besides, we have our own problems.”

The Customer smiled slightly and wandered away toward the entrance of the cafe-bar, leaving them to their own matters.

The Cat rubbed his hands together. “Well, gentleman,” he said, breezily. “I leave town tomorrow morning and I just know I’ll have my answer by then. One of you knows to do the right thing. See you all soon, my friends.”

The Cat stood up, put on his jacket and walked out.

As he did so, three of the men at the table began to snigger...they had just seen, taped to the back of the Cat’s jacket, the infamous portrait of the Merry Monk in all its glory, defaced with the words “How’s My Thieving?” written on in black marker pen.

As one they turned to the fourth, who was whistling a happy tune as he quickdialled the police on his mobile.

***

Professor Goddard was whistling a happy tune, but he felt like shit. Every breath he took left the fur lining on his thick, cream-coloured coat that little bit wetter.

“Goddamn it,” he said, taking off his gloves and blowing into his hands. “Paul got frostbite again. Took two of his toes this time before the jackass would see sense.”

“Calm down, Professor,” said Commander Paddy. “He may be an idiot but he’s braver than a whole bag full of balls.”

“I don’t disagree, Commander, but we can’t afford to lose man hours this late in the season. We still need a shitload of data from the mountain of samples we took, and if Paul keeps going around shedding toes like this we’re fucked. The plane arrives a week on Tuesday, damn it.”

“I hear you loud and clear, but it’s Commander Johnson you should talk to. Medical background. Has a list of scare stories a mile long...maybe it’ll do some good on our Texan friend, eh? Say, have you tried some of the vodka yet?”

“Vodka? What Vodka?” said Goddard.

“You haven’t heard? Jesus Christ," said Paddy. "A whole heap of stuff came over on the boat last week along with the science supplies. I suspect base control want us to finish the season with a smile on our faces. An entire crate of spirits, optics and cocktail glasses...and the vodka is damn good. Here, I’ll pour you a glass.”

"But why now?"

“Jesus, enough questions!” said Paddy, with obvious exasperation. “Just accept the damn thing as a present for a job well done.”

“Or not, if Paul can't keep his toes to himself,” muttered Goddard, rummaging through the crate to find a glass.

Paddy smiled and picked up a bottle of vodka from between two large drums.

“I now declare Bar Subzero open,” he said, raising the bottle in mock salute.

The wind roared, and a blanket of snow swirled in through the door for a moment. The door closed again and the noise died away.

A figure dressed in white, face covered, walked over to Goddard and Paddy.

“Mary?” said Paddy. “Aren’t you supposed to be out with Johnson?”

The figure did not respond, except to untie the ties around its neck, allowing the figure to push its hood back.

“Hello,” said the Customer. “I believe this is Bar Subzero. I’m looking for a man who may be here. He's a no-good lousy drunk, but he has a heart of gold.”

Professor Goddard and Commander Johnson stared at one another with open mouths.

***

The Customer glanced around her as she walked into the bar. This was not the nicest area of town by a long way, and her constitution was a little twisted since the last place; she was nearly mugged for want of a kiss.

She was tired. Very tired. This had been going on for too long now, far too long. She had been all round the world several times to no avail. She had seen the inside of a thousand bars, maybe ten thousand. Failure after failure haunted her. The seas of faces, the hopeless despair, the broken promises and failed affairs...it was the stuff of nightmares rolled up and stuck in a bottle before being thrown into an ocean of misery.

Ah well. A little focus, that was what was required. A little belief.

The piano player was scarcely bothering the keys, and the atmosphere was dead with yesterday's smoke. She gathered her resolve around her like a cloak and set forth.

“Excuse me,” she said, tapping a fat man at the bar on the back. “I’m looking for a man.”

She held out the photograph. It was bent, criumpled, stained, faded and torn, but the face in the picture was still clear.

“Yes, I know him...I believe that’s the man you’re looking for,” he said, sweating in the heat of the afternoon. He raised a pudgy digit into the air. “Over there.”

She took his words lightly, assuming it was another false alarm. Then she followed the fat man’s finger and gasped. In the gloom was a familiar face, half-turned from her as he slouched over a drink.

Good God! Could it be true? She scarcely dare go over...but this was the end of the tunnel and she would not stop now.

She approached the man and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned round and almost dropped his drink.

“Of all the gin joints in all the world, you had to walk into mine,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. “Talk about coincidence.”