We were sitting merrily after he’d poured the drinks; well, I and he were sitting. Dull was standing, his head bowed like one in thought. I thought he was preparing a toast. He set his drink down beside Alfred’s and said:
“You know, Alfred, I fear I’ve lied to you.”
“What?”
“Oh, we didn’t meet last year at the ski lodge. I remember it better now. We met before then, once.”
“Oh yes?”
“It was before my accident, I think, which; well, disabilities are like a mask. No one knows my face; they only know my limp. Hehe.” It was a mirthless chuckle. “Yes, I think, it was in Chicago, the night of the 12th, I’m sure. Do you remember?”
“Month and year, dear Dull.”
“Oh yes, let us say, twelve years ago, and I was guarding some jewels. December night. Do you recall? Oh yes, I think you do.”
Taking his glass, he sat down. Alfred stared at his own glass with a deep frown.
“Yes,” nodded Alfred. “I was in Chicago at that time.”
“Terrible tragedy,” cut in Dull. “Just like the one last week.”
“Yes,” agreed Alfred.
“Strange, Fate.”
“I always say so,” I joined in, but there was only silence after.
“To fate?” Dull lifted his port, finally breaking the spell.
“Yes,” Alfred agreed, lifting his glass with a shaking hand.
We all drank.
“Well, I should be going,” said Dull.
“Oh no,” said Alfred, “but you’ve only just,” and then he stopped. “Please,” he said to the back of the limping figure. “It won’t be long.”
His words grew strangely slurred.
“I. Don’t. Want.”
“I understand,” cut in Dull, sitting back down. “Though I’d assume you are never very much alone.”
“Why . . . ?”
“The past has a habit of leaving us with ghosts. I think we both have our fair share of those.” Dull took another drink. “I saw a man killed once, in Chicago. The memory is never far from me.”
With a cold, diminishing laugh, Alfred’s head fell into his breast.
“Let us go,” said Dull a moment later.
I rose, reaching out to shake our host awake.
“Leave him,” said Dull, grabbing my cuff. “The laborer’s sleep is sweet.”
“Laborer? Alfred’s an idiot. Never worked a day in his life.”
“Then I suppose his sleep will not be so sweet, nevertheless, it is what he has worked for.”
I think Dull had seen through things at that point, he’s frightfully clever, and didn’t want to frighten me, though I had quite the start in the morning when I found out Alfred had committed suicide. But I wish Dull had seen through it sooner; he might have stopped Alfred from drinking that poison. Oh well, it’s on Dull, in the end. He’s the one who goes on about being haunted by the past. I don’t have the brains to remember it.
Tale Told 