‘Do not look for my heart any more; the beasts have eaten it.’
―Charles Baudelaire
According to all of Monkshood, money is at the root of all evil. No-one understood this more than the strikingly meagre Mr. Saturn. At precisely 7:15am, the O’Gara twins came knocking.
“Mr. Saturn?”
“‘Tis I.”
Without a word, they pushed past and made themselves at home.
“...You, you can’t just come in here and—”
“Mr. Saturn, I’d like to make it clear to you that we have reason to believe our father left you a cheque for one million pounds in his will.”
Just one year ago, Mr. Saturn sat in his usual spot among the lavender fields waiting for a ‘chance’ meeting. When a frail old man came battling through the brush, wooden cane swinging, his heart skipped a couple beats.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Mr. Saturn moved himself closer to the door.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Saturn, but we don’t have time for games. We know you have it and we’d quite like it back.”
“I would really like you to leave.”
“One year ago, you gave a palm reading from your usual spot in the purple pasture. That man was our father, Morbid O’Gara.”
Mr. Saturn shuffled over to the stove and began brewing a pot of tea.
“I’m sorry, I’m quite distrusting of strangers. Your father did leave me a cheque, yes, but…it’s gone.”
“You’ve spent it already?!”
The silence was broken by the whistling of the boiling kettle. Pouring the tea, Mr. Saturn considered his reflection in the bronze elixir.
“No.”
Retiring to the unoccupied armchair, he studied the O’Gara twins, both of whom were becoming increasingly impatient. Donning black tunics, porkpie hats, and magnifying glasses round their necks, they inched their chairs closer.
“I had been on my way to the bank—”
“Ah, so it’s at the bank.”
“Don’t come storming into my house asking questions then interrupt me when I try to answer them.”
The twin looked at his bare wrist.
“I suppose we have some time.”
“As I was saying, I was on my way to the bank. I passed through the markets of Monkshood, with the ladies telling tall tales of oranges, bell peppers, and pumpkins. Then there was this great terrible fog descending, suffocating the birds mid-song. At some point, I came to a field with a large cow. I remember this because it looked odd being so alone. I went over to stroke the poor creature, and that is when it started gnawing at my jacket pocket. I really didn’t think anything of it until the cow raised its head, showing the cheque—wrapped in a plastic bag—making its way down its throat. With no cheque, I reluctantly made my way back home, empty handed.”
“Surely you don’t believe we’d buy that cock-and-bull story, Mr. Saturn?”
“It’s the truth, I swear it. Head to toe!”
The second, mostly mute, of the twins rose from his seat and lurched over him.
“We are reasonable people, Mr. Saturn, but that can quickly change. It would be better for you to tell us the truth.”
“How many times do I have to tell you?”
“In that case, it looks like we will be here for the rest of the day; and through the night.”
Mr. Saturn glanced at the front door.
“Do you have a blanket?”
Retrieving spare blankets from the nearby cupboard, he briefly took a pause to look at the picture of a warm-looking woman in the crescent frame. The O’Garas began whispering in the corner of the room.
“If we’re going to be in each other’s company, I would like to know what to call you both.”
“I am M. O’Gara,” the one on the left said, raising his hand.
“I am J. O’Gara,” said the one on the right.
Mr. Saturn nodded his head.
“Right, are we cold? I know I am. My bones are all locked up.”
Met with stark indifference, he grabbed the matches from above the fireplace and scratched one against the wall. A planetary glow puffed out from the tiny stick of wood with the rosy tip. In a flurry, the hearth came alive, popping like twigs breaking underfoot. Around the table, the twins used their magnifying glasses to inspect the various markings on Mr. Saturn’s wooden table.
“My wife used to dig her nails into the wood whenever she was anxious.”
“Where is your wife?”
Mr. Saturn fished a red button out of his pocket and placed it in the centre.
“That’s all they gave me.”
He pointed to the photograph.
“We had gone to see a performance of La Traviata at the opera house. It was a tropical night, and my wife—being so intolerant to the heat—asked for my help in removing her coat. While we were busy pulling and tugging, we heard sudden shouting. When I looked up, I had just enough time to leap over the seats in front. I thought she would follow me, but part of the ceiling gave way, and….”
“And they gave you that.”
“Thirty years of marriage reduced to a totem..”
“Are either of you boys married?”
“I’m not, but he is,” M said.
Mr. Saturn poked and stirred at the fireplace, sending a blaze up the chimney. The stench caused him to hack.
“Would you like some water?” J asked.
He shook his head and strolled over to the counter where there was a newspaper. Taking a pen out of his pocket, Mr. Saturn sat with the O’Garas at the table.
“Have you boys ever done a cryptic crossword?”
“No,” they said in unison.
“Well, today you learn.”
Still coughing, he turned to the last page.
“Seven across reads, ‘Eric swallows rodent - how irregular!’ What do you think?”
“A rat?” poses M.
“Precisely! Now, if you look carefully, it says that Eric swallows the rodent, but this isn’t something out of a fairytale. If we put ‘rat’ in the middle of ’Eric’, we get the word ‘erratic’.”
J moved his chair closer to the table, looking down at the puzzle.
“That’s the answer?”
“Yes! With cryptic clues, the definition is either at the beginning or the end, and the rest is word play.”
M shuffled over to the stove.
“Any tea left, Mr. Saturn?”
He nodded his head, prompting M to scour the cupboards. Turning halfway, he said, “J, why don’t you tell Mr. Saturn about our father.”
“Ah, yes.”
While he told the story of their recently deceased father, M took a packet of pills out of his pocket and poured them into the fresh pot of tea. Then he set the steaming mug in front of Mr. Saturn who was completely engrossed.
“I thought you seemed cold, so I made you another.”
Over the next hour, the O’Garas watched as he sipped and sipped, getting drowsier by the minute. Eventually, he slumped forward, letting the mug slip and crumble on the floor.
In a grog, Mr. Saturn awoke to realise both of his arms were tied to his armchair. In front of him were the O’Garas, both of whom looked rather dishevelled.
“Good morning, sleepy head,” J whispered in his ear.
“What…?”
M kicked Mr. Saturn’s chair.
“Wakey, wakey!”
He tried to move but felt a breathtakingly burning pain. His arms were covered in weeping holes: cigarette burns.
“What time is it?”
“7:15am,” J said.
“That’s the time you knocked on my door.”
“That was yesterday, Mr. Saturn. Keep up!”
“What have you done?!”
M took hold of the armchair.
“Just as there are holes in your arms, there are holes in your story!”
Roughly, the twins hoicked him up.
“We, sir, are going to go on a little walk.”
They dragged Mr. Saturn to the door, urging him to unlock all seven padlocks.
“Hurry up!”
Outside was brutally quiet, pierced only by the tender song of snowdrops falling to the ground. There was a twin to each arm of Mr. Saturn, whose feet were flayed by the tarmac.
“Where are you taking me?”
J pulled his head back by his hair.
“We are going to see if your cow story is true.”
Mr. Saturn sobbed as they passed empty field after empty field.
“Don’t cry, Mr. Saturn,” M said.
“…Cold.”
As they continued on, he (in a semi-conscious state) heard the sounds of choirs singing and crows cawing. A swift impact sent a spurt of blood spilling down the white like melted wax. Coming to a stop, Mr. Saturn touched a trembling hand to his lip.
“Here we are,” M said, grunting as they threw him over the fence.
They discarded him in the middle of a field, right in the centre of a stone fairy ring. M pulled him up by the scruff of the neck, manoeuvring his head like a marionette.
“Come on, Saturn. Where’s this cow?”
“I told you already!”
“I don’t think so!”
“No cows will be out here ‘til the snow is gone! Please, just let me go.”
J kicked him in the back.
“That’s what you get for lying!”
“I’m…not…lying,” he wheezed.
“Our father was a great man. You took advantage.”
“I didn’t know your father! He was just one of many who came by!”
“So we’re not the only family you’ve fleeced?”
“I haven’t ‘fleeced’ anyone. I only give palm readings to the willing!”
M pushed Mr. Saturn’s face into the snow.
“We’ll see about that!”
He struggled against his grip, careful not to inhale.
“Please—”
“What was that?!”
“I’ve told you everything I know!”
“See, I don’t think you have. I think you live in your magical world far too often, and this story is just that; a story. My father always said, ‘Michael, don’t trust anyone who’d use a yardstick as a wand,’ and he was so wise.”
“Then why did he seek my services?”
“He was sick! Oh, I bet you rubbed your hands together when you saw the great Morbid O’Gara walking the path.”
“Why did he write me a cheque?”
“Well, he must have been confused.”
Mr. Saturn summoned the strength to free himself.
“You don’t leave someone a cheque for that kind of money without intention!”.
J kicked the back of his legs.
“Shut your mouth!”
Mr. Saturn started to crawl.
“I…have nothing…for you.”
“Now you talk!”
“Your greed is truly…astonishing.”
M flexed his hands.
“That cheque belongs to the O’Gara family and us alone.”
In the near distance, a shot rang out. A silhouette started towards the three of them.
“Get off my land!”
The twins jumped the fence, leaving Mr. Saturn behind who held up his hands.
“Don’t hurt me!”
He pointed his shotgun.
“You better have a good excuse, boy.”
“My name is Mr. Saturn. I was drugged and dragged here, sir. I’m not trying to cause trouble.”
“You know, boy, most farmers would let you go….”
“Please, I beg of you. I’ve seen enough cruelty to last a lifetime!”
He lowered his aim.
“Nice try.”
Mr. Saturn struggled to his feet, but he was knocked over and hit with the buttstock. Vision blurred, the familiar sound of cows mooing grew closer and closer before all deadened.
Mr. Saturn awoke to the crackle of a hearth. Straw infiltrated every part of him, scratching at his broken skin. Peering through the cracks, he saw a silhouette moving and whistling.
“Help!”
They turned on the radio loud enough for Mr. Saturn to hear beyond the roaring blaze. Just then, a stoic voice emerged from the static.
“Torrid O’Gara, estranged brother to the infamous Morbid O’Gara couldn’t believe his luck early yesterday morning when one of his cows passed a plastic bag. Having washed it off, the farmer was astounded to find a cheque for one million pounds! Mr. O’Gara plans to adopt his nephews, Michael and Johnny, and continue the family business.”
Liquid came raining down on Mr. Saturn.
“My…eyes…!”
Feeling a nauseating tugging at his side, he looked down to see his intestines blooming like roses budding. Lungs tightening, Mr. Saturn thought of his wife, of his decision to open the door, and of the palm reading. But what are stories worth to lambs of God?