The bar is sticky to the touch like it has absorbed as much alcohol as it can and is now oozing it back out. Ramshackle is sitting on a bar stool, a glass of daiquiri in front of him. Though it is uncomfortable, sitting with his arms crossed across his chest rather than resting comfortably on the bar, he doesn’t think his deep burgundy suit will appreciate the abuse.
A short bald man approaches him from his left, standing on tiptoes to lean on the alcohol-soaked bar. Ramshackle does not turn immediately. His face hasn’t settled yet into features that the client would find comforting. It takes longer than usual but Ramshackle finally turns to the man.
Despite his vast repertoire of words, the only word he can use to describe this man is dirty. His nails are black, there is hair where hair shouldn’t grow and his clothes are thin and fraying. His eyes are yellow and his lips black.
“Guvnor, I have heard you provide a certain service.” The man looks here and there and finding the room quite uninterested in what business the two are conducting, carries on, “Women,” he breathes, “if you get my meaning.”
Had Ramshackle been human, he would have recoiled from the putrid breath. But he is no man or woman. He takes a sip of his rum, lime and sugar concoction, savouring the liquid heat that spreads from his throat to his insides.
He says, “It comes at a price.”
The dirty man’s face scrunches up in anger. He slaps the bar. “I’m good for it. I always pay for services rendered.”
Ramshackle hums. “Come with me then.”
The house that Ramshackle takes the man to looks remarkably like the house that Kilney sees, three years from now, but the interior has changed to suit the needs of its current supplicant.
From the outside, the house looks a warm walnut brown, gleaming in the setting sun. It looks inviting and makes the man tremble in anticipation.
As soon as the door opens though, the house has been transformed. It looks nothing like it had when Kilney had walked in. Right now, it looks dusty, in disrepair and smells of abandonment. The man takes little notice. Who he is, is reflected so perfectly in the house that he feels at ease.
Instead of an office, there is a drawing room. It has faded sofas, a muddy brown, and a low table that, much like the bar, is covered in stains and rings from glasses and cups. The curtains have flower motifs but it’s impossible to tell the colour. They’re dull like the sun has leached away all their life.
Ramshackle and the man sit opposite each other. He says, “You will have to sign a contract.”
The man is taken aback. No brothel has ever asked him to sign one; and he has visited many. The only thing they have asked of him is to pay upfront. Which he has happily done. He removes his wallet from the inside pocket of his coat. He opens its maw and shows him the neat line of currency.
“Like I says, guvnor. I’m good for it.”
Ramshackle shakes his head. He’s irritated because the man doesn’t seem to get the kind of bargain he’s offering. He decides to say it in words he’d understand.
“For twenty-four hours with whatever and whoever you want, the payment is your life. You will die once your time is up. That is why there is a contract. Do you understand?”
The man pales. To be fair, his contact had told him that the payment would be his life, but he had thought they were exaggerating.
He can leave. He knows that too. The contact had told him that if he changed his mind, Ramshackle would let him leave, even if he had signed the contract. But this is the only place where every desire of his can be fulfilled, without any ramifications. And that is too good an opportunity to miss.
“I’ll get whateva I want? And no police, no nothing?”
Ramshackle nods.
“And I die after?”
“Yes.”
“What do you do with our bodies…souls…whatever?”
“I have certain…needs. As do you. And this arrangement helps us both.”
The man does not look alarmed as he asks, “Yous going to eat my corpse guvnor?”
“In a way. But not the way you think. Are you ready to sign?”
“Give me,” he says simply.
The man looks at the burgundy suit, the polished shoes and the slicked-back hair. He looks at Ramshackle’s face which looks like nothing. He realizes that if a policeman were to ask him for a description, he’d have a hard time saying anything. He can’t even guess Ramshackle’s eye colour or age. He doubts that’s his actual name. And yet, he grabs the pen and signs the contract.
“There. Now,” he rubs his hand, “where do we begin?”
4 of 26 of an ongoing series The Dream Maker. You can read all posts here. Written as part of #BlogchatterA2Z.
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tales of Suchita 
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