Copyright Oggbashan October 2013
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
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It had been a good solid meal. I was pleased that I had followed my colleague's recommendation to stay for a few days after the conference in this ancient Sussex hotel, The Hanged Man.
Simon had said that the only flaw was The Hanged Man's reputation for being haunted, but since I don't believe in ghosts, I wasn't worried despite staying overnight on Halloween. Even when I realised I was the only guest booked in for that night it didn't bother me.
Simon has asked me to make a diversion on the way to the conference, into the Weald of Kent. He wanted some 'strong cider' made by a local farmer. The process of getting it was surreptitious. I was to avoid the farm shop, go to the farmhouse and ask for 'Roy'. Only then could I buy the 'strong cider'. It was surprisingly expensive, but Simon said it was worth it. He wanted two litres at five pounds a litre. Roy told me there was a discount if I bought more, twenty pounds for five litres. I trusted Simon's taste, so I bought three litres for myself. Simon was delighted when I handed the cider over.
On arrival, the hotel's sign had puzzled me. The 'Hanged Man' looked more like a hanged dummy, suspended from a harness around him instead of being hanged by the neck. A placard in the foyer explained it. Apparently an Exciseman, a Riding Officer, had been captured by smugglers and had been hung from a hook inside the hotel, only being released the next day when the smugglers had gone. The hook was still there, in a beam above a short set of stairs leading from the restaurant to the bedrooms.
The hotel's restaurant had been reasonably full for a Thursday evening in the autumn. As I worked my way through the meal I could understand why. The food was a standard English menu but the quality of the ingredients, the preparation and the presentation were impeccable. The house wine was an Appelation Controlée Burgundy.
The staff made me feel at home. The hotel has been owned and run by the same family for many generations. The manager, the chef, the chef's assistants, the bar staff and the waitresses were all members of that extended family. George, the manager looked and dressed like an old-fashioned pub landlord. He even had a ruddy face framed by mutton-chop whiskers. The waitresses and bar maid gave me feelings that I thought were long dead.
The two waitresses, Angela and Sandra, were distant cousins of Maureen the barmaid, but all three looked like sisters. They were dressed in a pastiche of country maid costumes with white aprons over full red skirts and white gypsy tops. I hadn't been attracted to any woman in the years since my wife was killed in a car accident. But this evening I was very aware that the women serving me were good-looking, competent, efficient and that they enjoyed what they were doing. Happiness is sexy.
If I hadn't been so tired and stressed by the strain of organising and chairing the conference, I might have responded better to what seemed like subtle advances from two of the women. As the sole owner of the largest local company and a widower I might have expected more interest from women in the last couple of years, but perhaps I frighten some of them because I am so prominent in the local community. If I had been seen with any woman, her picture would probably feature in our local websites or papers within hours. Few women are willing to face that sort of exposure for a first date.
When I went to my room to unpack I was aware that I had eaten well, perhaps too well. My brain was still whirling with the impact of the conference. There had been so many possibilities raised, so many useful contacts made and so many positive results, that I would be busy for weeks dealing with them all. The few days I was staying at The Hanged Man would be useful for me to unwind.
I changed out of my formal conference suit into casual clothes. I went back down to the bar for a drink. Maureen served me a pint of the local bitter. It went down so smoothly that I was soon drinking another. Angela and Sandra came into the bar. They stripped off their aprons which Maureen hung up for them. I invited all three to join me for a drink. They surprised me by choosing local Sussex cider. I mentioned that I had bought the 'Strong Cider' in Kent. That seemed to impress them. They had heard of it, but never seen it. I went to my car and brought back a litre.
The label was handwritten. All it said was 'Strong Cider. Drink with caution'. Of course, we had to try it. Maureen surprised me by producing wine glasses. Once I had tasted it, I knew why. It wasn't 'cider'. It was a strong spirit like Calvados. Between the four of us we soon finished the litre and I went back to my car to get another one. As I met the night air I knew I had been drinking but I couldn't disappoint the three women.
By the time the second litre was half-gone, I was legless. Angela helped me to sit down in a comfortable chair beside the fire. Maureen brought me another glass of 'Strong Cider'. I was aware of Angela and Sandra sitting on the arms of the chair, each with an arm across my shoulders. I must have gone to sleep leaning against the soft breast of one of them.
When I woke up I was alone. I decided to go for a walk around the village before going to bed. A walk might help clear my head and let my brain settle down. I had a key to the front door and I had been told I could come and go as I wanted. Normally there would be a night receptionist but since I was the only guest I hadn't objected when the manager suggested that the desk wouldn't be staffed from midnight until seven am.
The street lighting was sparse as I started to walk towards the river. It was a cool evening, fairly mild for the end of October. Any children visiting neighbours for Halloween would have been in bed hours ago. The street was deserted. The shop fronts were dark. Only a few lights in upstairs rooms reminded me that this was the 21st Century and not the 18th that the architecture suggested.
Even if it had been the 18th Century the riverside would have been as quiet as it was now. The offshore currents at the river's mouth were very difficult under sail. The access from the sea into the river is and was difficult through a silted channel that varied and varies after every storm. No ship of any size could have entered despite the apparent width at high tide.
But in the old days smugglers were supposed to have landed thousands of tons of cargo here on dark nights. Now, hauled up on the bank, there were just a few small boats that would use lightweight outboard motors for pottering around. There was no boat that couldn't be launched from a small trailer. I wondered how the smugglers could have brought in as much as they were said to have landed. It was approaching high tide as I walked along the river bank away from the landing place.
I had to use my torch as I left the dim street lights behind. Beyond its beam I could see little, but its powerful LEDs carried a long way. I swept the beam across the river.
There! Just at the edge of the beam was a large ship unnaturally high in the water. How? Was it resting on an island? No. It couldn't be. It was slowly moving towards me. I peered as I moved my torch. Of course!
The ship had been raised on camels, large flat-bottomed barges lashed alongside. Its draught must have been reduced to a few feet, enabling it to cross the shallows safely. I wondered how they could attach the camels in the darkness.
As I stepped off the path towards the river I tripped and my torch went flying. Several heavy bodies flattened me to the grass.
"Keep quiet, my hearty!" a rough voice hissed at my ear. "Or you'll have a cut throat."
I could feel a sharp blade under my chin.
"Dowse that light!" a faint shout came from the ship.
I could sense someone struggling to turn off my torch.
"Press the end..." I hissed.
The knife wavered at my neck but the torch went out.
Had I wandered into a re-enactment of smuggling? It seemed unusual to do it at dead of night when no one was around to be an audience.
If they were re-enactors they were taking their roles very seriously. The men holding me down stank of stale sweat and salt water.
My hands were dragged behind me and tied with coarse rope. A stinking cloth was rammed into my mouth and tied there with more rope. A sack was pulled over my head, down to my knees, and more rope lashed it in place. Everything had a stale smell of rotting seaweed.
I felt the knife's point prick my back.
"Keep quiet, Cully, and walk slowly. Or..."
The knife's point emphasised the order.
Hands supported me on each side as I seemed to be retracing my steps towards the main village street. But where had there been cobbles? I didn't remember seeing any cobbled street or path in the village. Perhaps I had confused the direction in which I was being taken?
I could hear the faint stamping of many horses' hooves and a creaking of leather harness. We brushed past some horses.
We had entered a building because I could feel floorboards under my feet. A door closed shut behind us and I heard bolts being rammed home. The room stank of hot oil.
"OK, Jeb, what have we here?"
It was a cultured, bored, voice.
"I don't know, Master,"
'Master' sounded more like 'Meister'.
"I think he's gentry-like. His clothes are of finer weave than even the Squire wears. He had this light but it was so bright it is more like a signal flare than a lantern. I don't know what to make of him, honest, Master."
"Show me the light," the cultured voice ordered.
