‘I’ll have a full Irish, with an extra basket of toast and an Eggs Benedict on the side,’ spluttered Uncle Flannery, his fingers tapping together excitedly. ‘Oh, and a cup of coffee’, he remembered, his face lighting up. ‘Plenty of sugar.’ Seamus could never quite understand his uncle’s insatiable greed: If there was food at the function, Flannery was bound to attend. Most invitations from him also involved food and the consumption of such in some way, shape or form. This morning was no different as they sat in the centre of a bustling café just off Grafton’s Street. Seamus hadn’t caught the name on the way in.
He looked at his uncle with a mix of disbelief and pity before turning to the waitress. ‘Water’s fine.’
‘Ahh now Seamus’ Flannery boomed, ‘You'll surely have a bit more than that now, sure there’s barely a pick on you!’
Seamus examined his grubby, slender frame and shot Flannery cynical bullets. ‘Plenty of sugar.’ Flannery sighed and waved to the slightly exasperated waitress. ‘Don’t mind him, he’ll have a toasted sammy.’ As the waitress hurried away, Seamus examined his uncle with an arched eyebrow and considered all the reasons as to why he detested him. Whether it be his obnoxious, overbearing personality, his childish expressions or his greasy walrus moustache, Seamus could not stand the sight of Flannery, let alone speak to him for more than a few unbearable moments. They say ignorance is bliss however, and this statement was never clearer as Flannery locked his hands, flashed his usual lippy grin and leant forward to discuss the means of engagement that brought them to meet on this morning,
‘Now Seamus, as you know I am a man of great renown in this city,’ he spluttered haughtily.
Seamus leaned back into his chair. ‘Oh, you make me all too aware uncle.’
Flannery’s brow furrowed and he jabbed a meaty finger towards Seamus. ‘Less of the cheek you. I’m after bringing you out to one of the finest cafes in town to conduct business and I expect you to listen.’
This was met with the comical arch of an eyebrow. ‘Business you say?’
Flannery practically bounced up and down in his seat with excitement. ‘As I was trying to explain, I am a man of many connections and with that comes it’s rewards.’ He moved in to whisper, ‘Rewards that I’m more than willing to share.’ He tried to offer a warm, friendly smile and a wink to his nephew, yet outed himself as the wolf in piggy’s clothing.
Seamus almost chuckled. ‘Go on,’ he muttered humorously. ‘Tell me more.’
‘As I was sifting through my post yesterday morning, I came across quite the special envelope. The contents of which is what brings us here today’ Flannery mused. ‘My trusted colleague and good friend Mr Sylvek Mazur has invited me to one of his esteemed dinners in his manor house in Malahide.’ He practically drooled as he fawned over Mr Mazur’s letter, with an almost magical glisten in his eye. It was pathetic.
This information proved insufficient for Seamus. ‘....So?’ he retorted. Such blatant and uncaring disrespect was enough to snap Flannery out of his daytime fantasy, his awestruck jaw quickly moulding into a snarl.
‘So....’ he spat bitterly before recomposing himself. ‘Sylvek has kindly requested that I bring a plus 1 and I thought, with you lacking a bit of’ he scanned Seamus head to toe, in all his scruffy stupor, ‘...finesse, shall we say, that it would be the perfect opportunity for you to experience the adult world.
‘I mean look at yourself Seamus’ Flannery drawled on. ‘You look like you’ve walked straight out of a landfill.’ He motioned to his nephew’s black and blue hand tattoos. ‘It’s no wonder you don’t have a job, what with your hands looking like the floor of Warhol’s factory!’
It was true, Seamus did have quite the collection of prison tattoos littering his hands, he could admit that at least. Jail time for hash dealing dealt to an amateur artistic nihilist was a match made in heaven for this sort of thing. Mostly comprised of scribbles and cartoons, they made a kind of collage that he loved, yet somehow any potential employers felt differently. Not that he went searching for them anyway. Seamus’ clear disdain for public image and overall untidiness naturally brought him under intense scrutiny from his uncle, who made it his mission to rectify this.
‘The party is tomorrow; I’ll arrange a taxi to collect us both and I expect you to be on your best behaviour’ Flannery wiggled in his chair.
Seamus stared at his uncle and imagined that his head was about to explode. At 22, you think that one wouldn’t indulge in such a childish reaction, but the more Seamus looked at his uncle, his moustache putting Stalin during Movember to shame, the more pleasure he derived from imagining the spray of Flannery’s life blood along the walls of this... (Seamus finally took a glance at the name of the café, emblazoned above the door)
But he remembered that he didn’t care and responded to his uncle: ‘Yeah, grand.’
Flannery scoffed and gripped his braces, delighted with himself. ‘You ought to show more appreciation my boy.’ He wagged a petulant finger. ‘Big things are to come for you and I.’
The waitress returned, balancing Flannery’s mammoth order with commendable skill. She laid the feast in front of him, and immediately the sparkle returned to his eyes. He clasped his hands together as if to pray. ‘Big things!’
--------------------------------------------------------
There was a fierce nip in the air as Seamus waited outside his apartment building for Flannery to arrive. Usually, this suited him just fine as he could blame the ‘illicit vapour of unknown origin’ that surrounded him on the chill, but he was in a sour enough mood as it stood, and he had no joint to relive such a temperament. Blowing into his hands and rubbing them together, Seamus waited and waited.
The taxi eventually came rolling around the corner and came to a halt in front of him. The passenger window quickly rolled down to reveal Flannery, who peeked his head out, took one look at his nephew's beer stained, fag burnt hoodie and trackie combo and squealed ‘Don’t just stand there, hop in you streak of misery!’ This brought Seamus a great degree of satisfaction as he opened the car door and leaped inside.
From the back seat, Seamus saw Flannery with his head in his hands, quivering miserably. ‘I do so much for you, I pull all these strings, and THIS is how you repay me?’
Seamus gave a petite little wave to the driver's mirror, ‘Hello uncle!’
‘Don’t you be getting smart!’ Flannery snapped before attempting to compose himself. ‘Fix yourself up’ he grumbled. ‘We’ll be there in 20 minutes.’
Then he folded his arms, twisted away towards the window and sulked for the rest of the trip. This suited Seamus perfectly. He sat back, relaxed and watched the streets of Dublin awkwardly jolt around him. ‘Malahide’, he pondered, ‘it’s mad that people live there.’
Then he closed his eyes.
‘Seamus...’
Ah Mam, would you fuck off and let me stay home from school?
‘Seamus.......’
For fuck sake, I’ve told you before I don’t like AC/DC!
‘Seamus...........’
Oh Jesus Sheila would you stop, that tickles.
'SEAMUS!!!’
Suddenly the fear of God was struck into the young man as he burst up from his car seat, opened his eyes and saw the fiery tomato that was Flannery, about to blow.
‘Jesus Seamus, would you get up to fuck’ he said, dragging him out of the car and shaking the life out of him. The poor bastard could only groan wearily in response.
‘Listen here boy’ the uncle snarled. For whatever reason, this snapped Seamus awake. While prone to passionate displays, this level of sincere anger and aggression had never before been seen from Flannery. He would never admit it, but in that moment, Seamus gained a new emotion that he associated with his uncle.
Fear.
‘You had better not embarrass me in front of Mr Mazur tonight.’ He was practically quivering with rage. ‘Because if you do, I’ll take a tin of beans, shove them sideways up your arse and make you walk all the way back to Tallaght you filthy little gowl.’
There lay a moment of silence between the two following this outburst.
‘Have I made myself clear?’
Seamus gulped; a reaction so goofy that he would have laughed had he not been in this situation himself. ‘Yes sir.’
This sudden recognition of authority returned Flannery to his reasonable humour, and he patted his nephew on the shoulders.
‘Good lad.’
‘Now.’ he puffed, gripping the lapels of his suit jacket and wiggling gleefully. ‘Let’s step inside, shall we?’
Seamus took one look at the manor house before him. You couldn’t even imagine a more foreboding building. There it stood, morose and handsome, an intensely gothic structure that practically reeked of the stink of human sin. A bubble formed in his throat, suddenly regretting the ‘for the laugh’ mentality that he rolled through life with, as he made his way up the cold stone steps to the huge wooden door, about as tall as Flannery was wide. And I say that with only a shred of hyperbole.
Flannery’s hand formed a fist as he rapped smartly upon the door. Almost immediately, it swung open, revealing no one. The colour drained from Seamus’s face, and he secretly started writing his will, hoping whatever ghosts haunted this house would pass it to his loved ones after his hopefully merciful death, as swift as it was untimely.
‘Good evening gentlemen, you have been well met,’ announced a deep voice from the ether. This was almost the nail in the coffin that was Seamus’s emotional state as he reeled in shock, yelping like a frightened dog.
The voice chuckled before muttering ‘Your nephew seems to be a little vexed Mr Flannery.’
Upon hearing this, said nephew took a deep breath and looked down. As it was, the voice did not belong to a damned soul of the underworld, but rather an unusually short man. The dread in Seamus’s expression quickly drained to embarrassment as he murmured a few words of apology.
‘Ahh no old boy,’ Flannery bounded ‘He’s lacking in a certain decorum, but I imagine we'll smoothen his edges tonight.’
The tiny man, dead focused on Flannery, licked his lips and smirked: ‘We certainly will.’
The man was dressed very peculiarly, like a corpse in undertaker’s clothing. His clothes were immaculately pressed and fitted, and his accent seemed vaguely Eastern European, with a certain slant of Queen’s English, surprisingly deep for a man of such stature.
He offered Seamus a gloved hand. ‘My name is Sylvek Mazur, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
His hand was accepted with an uncomfortable tension. ‘Uhhhh yeah, likewise,’ mumbled Seamus. Mazur looked up at him with one crimson eye, which glistened evilly in torchlight. ‘I’m sure you will find our banquet to be inaudibly enriching.’ He flashed a set of glistening, impossibly perfect teeth before Seamus withdrew his hand and chuckled nervously ‘I’m sure I will.’
‘Now gentlemen,’ Mazur threw his arm backwards to showcase the dank tunnel behind him, ‘Allow me to escort you to our meal.’
The trip from doorstep to dining room must have only taken a few moments, but to Seamus each step down that hall felt like an eternity. Oil paintings of deceased relatives illuminated by candelabras tugged at the knot in his stomach with every flicker. Dust rocketed from the carpet beneath his feet, floating around him like lost souls. Each blink of a mouse or twitch of an eyelid soundtracked these ghosts, with their pleadings and whispers echoing in his ears, as if in warning, as he came to the dining room door.
Mazur reached his hand up to grasp the doorknob before turning back and shooting the pair a grin. ‘And now,’ he chuckled, ‘we may enter.’
The dining room was massive. As if this door was somehow a portal to the world’s most extravagant cathedral, what should have been just another dingy room was a shimmering expanse of vampiric gold and affluent structure. The dinner guests were standing around and chatting formally, drinking wine from jewel encrusted chalices. All similar in appearance to Mazur, and no less off-putting, it was as if Madam Tussauds were hosting a Halloween Party for Bram Stoker’s golden girls.
Mazur somehow snapped a gloved hand and immediately each eye was trained on his company. Clearing his throat, he announced ‘Allow me to introduce our new friends, Mr Seamus and [Blocked Out for Artistic Purposes] Flannery!’ He was met with polite applause, formal greetings and a room full of hungry eyes. A few seconds later, everyone returned to their conversations, as one would expect, leaving Larry, Curly and Moe once again. Flannery snorted and whispered in Seamus’ ear just loud enough for Mazur to hear: ‘Typical Europeans, a curious group of lads.’
‘Now Flannery,’ Sylvek purred ‘Will you follow me to the coat room? I have much more to show you and I would not allow such fine Prussian silk to be damaged on the back of one of these silly old things.’ He motioned to a chair; a piece so regal that it could have been the Mirror of Erised for magpies. Flannery was characteristically excited by this unnecessary display of wealth, nodding his head in a blur.
‘Yes, yes yes Slyvek that sounds wooonderful’ he sang in that stupid North Circular Road accent that he always put on. He turned to Seamus and leaned in, pinching him by the cheeks. ‘Go and find a seat and don’t go causing any trouble.’ He shot a patronising wink, which in a way calmed Seamus, returning him to his usual ‘Uncle Flannery is a gas fool’ mindset, before skipping along beside Sylvek as they made their way through a door at the side of the room. Seamus reckoned he could hear the carefree ‘La la las’ of Flannery even after the door slammed shut.
Doing exactly as he was told; Seamus went to take a seat. Every single other guest seemed to do the same thing in a unison that made his anxiety flare up like a hare in schoolbag of greyhounds. The table was long and medieval, lined with goblets and platters upon crimson velvet. The dull hum of chatter was immediately silenced as everyone sat, leaving a tension that was more awful than awkward. Seamus tapped a nervous finger upon the table, glancing around, waiting for his uncle to return.
Just as soon as the silence commenced, it was broken by footsteps, methodically tapping throughout the room. Seamus peered to the bottom of the table and saw Sylvek Mazur slowly making his way to the top. Balanced upon his head, like an anaemic Mogli from the Jungle Book, there was a ginormous silver dish covered by a gigantic platter. Seamus’ jaw dropped. This must have been at least five times his size, yet Mazur’s gaze remained focused, with the steady tap of his footsteps unwavering.
Finally, he made it to the top of the table, laying the platter down. The silence that followed was absolutely crushing. You could have heard a pin drop, with all eyes on the room locked to the platter from Mars that lay before them. Sylvek was strangely solemn, as if he had buried a beloved childhood pet or had grim news to impart to a loved one. The more he analysed this look, the deeper Seamus started to sink into his chair.
After a minute, Sylvek sighed and looked up, his expression now celebratory and eager. ‘Now my friends!’ he boomed. This seemed to instil a rowdiness within the guests, who began to chatter eagerly and squirm in their seats. He raised his palms in the air; a priest commanding an unsettling parish, and bellowed:
‘The leaves upon an oak grow, as does our hunger. The crevices of the crucible swallows us from under. The foolish stare at the sun as their son’s will murder their mothers. Yet as they wilt and die, we persevere like good little children. Each day, we wait patiently towards redemption. Each day we wait to taste the fruit of Eden. Each day, we wait to feel real.’
Even Mazur was restless now. With each letter, he grew more unsteady, his eyes throbbing crimson, his mouth a restless snarl. A hound closing in upon a hare.
His fingers snapped open. ‘The eve of our feast is upon us!’
This sent the guests into a controlled frenzy, slamming their goblets upon their desks and chanting all sorts of Latin prose that Seamus had no hope of deciphering. Had they been speaking in layman’s English, it wouldn't have mattered; Seamus’ eyes and sole attention was trained on the platter, his body a boiling pot and his mind a quivering lid.
‘So,’ Sylvek whispered, silencing the crowd, ‘please welcome our newest dinner partner.’
He lifted the platter and there he lay.
The sight of Uncle Flannery, naked and writhing like a victim of the hangman’s rope, sent the rats feet of panic scuttling up the spine of Seamus. The eyes of his uncle bulged from their sockets, his shrieks and pleas muffled by an apple wedged in his mouth. Sweat cascaded from his body as he tried to wriggle free from his bonds. Had this been a movie or deep web snuff film, Seamus would have admired the quality of the special effects or biblical soundproofing of the platter, but he did little else than observe in stunned silence as his dinner partners descended upon his uncle.
Like a murder of crows upon a bastard nag, they laid feast on Flannery, his brays echoing around the hall (the apple must have been removed by one of the more sweet toothed cannibals). These turned to moans, to whispers, and before long what was once a pompous, fat barrister was now a slab of plump, fat bacon. The sounds of his bones crunching and flesh tearing pounded through Seamus’ skull like a judge's gavel upon the sounding block.
The cries of Flannery were replaced by the gurgles, cracks, slobbers and slurps of the cannibals. The candlelight illuminated their silhouettes, which danced along the walls like creatures of Samhain. They fought for chunks of Flannery like dogs for a bone, bullying and blaggarding each other, the joyous yelp of the victor rising above the chaos.
It goes without saying that this was the most traumatic thing that Seamus had ever witnessed in his short life. Fear’s paralysing fingers firmly gripped him, watching this ordeal from cradle to (literal) grave. If there was a prize for ‘Scream Impersonator of the Year’, Seamus would certainly have taken home gold or it’s plastic equivalent.
Once the feast had finished and the gentlemen wiped the corners of their mouths, a strange type of peace lay over the party. A job well done of sorts. Nare a belch or burp could be heard, each ghoul satisfied and content with their meal.
The piercing eyes of Sylvek Mazur woke Seamus from his coma, the gaze of the ghouls following soon after. The pulsing red of Mazur’s stare and the rabid beat of the young man’s heart told him one thing and one thing only,
Seamus began to run.
The halls of the manor had transformed completely as Seamus bolted through them, the party of savages hot on his heels. The walls throbbed vibrant colours and spat fluid shapes, a far cry from the musky, Georgian stupor of a mere 15 minutes prior. Seamus felt like Alice falling down a kaleidoscopic looking glass, the steady stream of the hall swirling around him. Maybe this hall was the key to infinite knowledge money could not buy? Maybe it was the of the result of the most potent LSD that money could buy? Whichever it was, Seamus didn’t care. Exhaustion and insanity clawed at him, yet still he ran, overpowered by the terror of spending an eternity completing crosswords with Flannery in hell’s kitchen. At that moment, he would have done anything to have prevented that for another few months at least.
The door of the manor had been miraculously left open, glowing like a disco ball. Seamus could practically smell Kool and the Gang as he leapt through, like a moth entering the bright light, and onto the pebbled stones of the manor garden. The cool night air swept around him as he knelt on the ground.
The cannibals encroaching on him like a violent sandstorm,
Seamus raised his hands to his face, let out one final cry
and everything went black.
Which, of course, is exactly what happens when one closes their eyes.
Especially tightly, in the face of death.
It’s mad how we all die a little bit when we shut our eyes.
Seamus considered all of this as he slowly peeked out from behind his fingers and saw the cannibals, once eager and youthful, reeling in shock and disgust before his very eyes. All semblance of malicious joy and monstrous elation had drained from their faces as they peered down at Seamus’ grubby mits.
Obviously, a slightly surprising turn of events, the young man reckoned.
Eventually, Sylvek emerged from the crowd and crept cautiously towards Seamus, a commanding figure now turned to a newborn lamb smelling the shite of its owner as he inspected the black and the blue that made Seamus’ hands. He seemed to find each blotchy scrawl offensive, his top lip curling in disgust.
‘You...’ he spat. ‘You are impure!’
His eyes brimmed with tears, quivering with rage as he took a sharp step back.
‘You are a disgrace to the beauty of human flesh. You who are given a perfect canvas and smears it with dirt will never be beautiful. You who so frivolously tears your gift will never be welcome at my table.’
Seamus was growing tired of Mazur’s open mic poetry reading as he pointed a shaky finger to the manor gates. ‘Go now and never come back,’ Sylvek pleaded. ‘For if you do, I will have no problem acquainting you with the pigs.’
With the same impossible snap of a gloved finger, Syvek Mazur and his disciples vanished in a plume of distaste, slamming the door for one final, resounding time.
Seamus knelt, completely dumbstruck, among the pebbles and the stones. The pressure of them beneath his body was glorious. He scanned his hands with glassy eyes, their doodles and figures dancing to celebrate the victory of their miraculously prevented demise.
He lay back, felt the weight of the world beneath him, and breathed a deep steam into the night sky. He watched it disappear and he hoped his Mam wouldn’t think he’d been smoking.
