The Revised Prologue - Revised

The flash of lightning pulled Antoine from a surreal, thoughtful daze. He had been losing himself in his thoughts lately, a sign that made him worry if he wasn’t a bit loopy. He was keeping to himself, not really talking to anyone, despite the business going around him in the bar of the Bishop’s Square Inn. He looked up and saw the Bishop’s Square sign (which rocked in the ferocity of the night’s storm) out of a small, four-pane window in the lobby area. Antoine wasn’t surprised to see the amount of people at the inn that night. The Bishop’s Square Inn was the only inn in the small town of Turkwood, Kent. Despite its humble surroundings, Bishop’s Square was a portal for the working class that inhabited most of the town. It took them out of their drudgery and transported them to a higher position in life. Even though the bronze chandeliers had begun to rust, and the teak staircases had begun to creak as guests went up to their rooms, it was still a higher life experience for many of the citizens of Turkwood. These denizens of the working class were lucky if they had managed to get a house all to themselves.

Turkwood, a small fishing and logging village just north of Folkestone, Kent, had been Antoine’s place of residence for the last two (or was it three) years. Antoine didn’t know, he had never been good with years. He could hardly remember what year his father was killed, despite the harrowing ordeal though it was. Now, the closest thing he had to a family had been ripped from him once again, which was why Antoine found himself drowning himself in liquor at the inn. He hoped, although the hope was unfounded, that he would be able to drown out the images of his former employers (to whom he had been a valet) and the sad looks on the faces of their two young boys.

In his hand, an ice-cold German black lager sat, almost forgotten. It was his fourth one, and each had taken him an eternity to consume. Dark rings of condensation marked the resting place of each mug on the teak wood table. The resulting image reminded Antoine of a dark, binding chain. The “chain” disturbed Antoine; it was as if the Bishop’s Square Hotel was trying to shackle him to the muddy little town he had tied himself to. Or worse, it might be trying to shackle him, to chain him to the horror that had just wracked this small, perpetually busy little town.

The orange glow hidden behind gaps in the storm cloud had faded some time ago, and Antoine had been left to the yellow, artificial haze that the Bishop’s Square Hotel provided. The orange flush had been emancipating, freeing the town of Turkwood, Kent (a small fishing/logging town just north of Folkestone) from the harsh, relentless grips of the torrential rain that had plagued them lately. Now the rain had returned, and any hope of the warm feelings that a blue sky brings were lost just as quickly as the couple had been. The owner of the nationally renown “Terry Fisheries & Co.” had been killed, along with his pregnant wife and a majority of the crew. Antoine couldn’t keep himself from thinking that it had been his fault. You inebriated bastard, a phantom voice teased, Can’t even fulfill your bleeding --

Antoine drowned the phantom voice with a long, intense drink from the beer mug in his hand. Three gasping breaths helped him recover from the toxic nightcap. He looked up at the patrons in the Bishop’s Square Inn, the drunkenness in his eyes masking the welling tears. Antoine, who would come to Bishop’s Square on his “personal evenings” (which is what his former employer had called them), noticed that the usual patrons and guests were there. Nothing, not even the perpetual lightning storm and torrential rain shower, could dissuade them from their nightly restitution. Some people there seemed to just need a little fortification to get them through the week. There were also a few there that he recognized from the offices of Terry Fisheries, the one that the husband of the couple had run. Antoine wasn’t surprised to find the workers a little crestfallen. The husband had run the company efficiently, but he had also treated every one of his workers as a different person, not as parts of a bigger machine. He had always been that way, and it had earned him a place of respect in the hearts of many of the Folkestone citizens. As a result, many small toasts were being paid to the fallen foreman.

The great, oaken door to the Bishop’s Square Hotel opened slowly. A small, mousy man entered the inn. He looked completely out of his element amongst the drunken, working-class multitude. With his pale brown three-piece suit and gold-rimmed glasses, he stood in stark contrast to the working class citizens, whose clothes were covered in layers of soot. Most of the regulars to the Bishop’s Square Inn worked in random factories around Turkwood and oftentimes did not stop at home before seeking compensation for their backbreaking labor. The tidy, little man was, in fact, a representative of Mr. Terry, the former foreman of the business. He had come to see Antoine to resolve a few ambiguous matters in the will Mr. Terry had left behind. However, he didn’t know who Antoine was, and Antoine used this to his advantage, watching the poor man (who Antoine thought of as a fool) wade his way through the sea of the working class. That imbicile, coming in here with his “fancy” clothes and whatnot, Antoine thought, a knowing, cynical smile on his face, If he is not careful, every lowlife and prostitute in this inn will be on him before he can even get to me.

Antoine allowed himself a few more moments of entertainment at the man’s expense before calling him over. The man was happy to have found Antoine amongst the crowd. A long, arching wave in Antoine’s direction caused Antoine to raise an eyebrow in incredulity. Was this man really that foolish? He made his way over to the table Antoine was sitting at, cordially excusing himself whenever he came close to a minion of the working class. When he reached Antoine, he set the briefcase gently on the table, either not noticing or disregarding the cynical smile that had now replaced the frown on Antoine’s face. He meticulously unlatched the briefcase he brought with him, extracting documents from within. As soon as he was finished, he looked at Antoine, a tawdry, trained smile on his face.

“Hello, Mr. Laurence. How are we doing this fine day,” he began, but after thinking about what he had just said, he murmured, “Mmm, don’t answer that.”

“I was hoping you weren’t that daft,” remarked Antoine, his cynical smile now morphing into more of a smirk, “I thought men of the law were supposed to be intelligent.”

“Now, Mr. Laurence,” the lawyer said, his rehearsed smile fading, “let’s not breach the rules of etiquette on our first meeting. I call myself Alexander Cabot.”

“What do you want from me, then, Mr. Cabot?” asked Antoine, his hand running through his tawny hair, as if to say ‘let’s get this bloody ordeal over with.’

“I would very much like to go over the late Mr. Terry’s estate,” began Alexander, “In his will, he mentioned that you shall be the guardian of the boys until the older boy is of age. While I have my reservations about the scenario, it was Mr. Terry’s wish.”

Antoine’s eyes focused on the man, a sneer crossing his face, “What are your reservations? That a Englishman would entrust his estate to a Frenchman, even temporarily?”

“Not necessarily,” said Alexander, shaking his head “but your remaining presence at the estate is circumstantial at best.”

A look of pure hatred filled Antoine’s eyes, and the Frenchman moved as though he was going to leave. Alexander’s hand was quicker than it looked, though. It darted forward, grasping Antoine’s arm and preventing him from leaving.

“Sit DOWN, if you please,” Alexander said, to which Antoine obeyed, the hate prevailing in his eyes, “Disregard that last comment. It’s just, shall we say, old prejudices resurfacing. Shall I buy us some drinks?” – Alexander snapped his fingers at the nearest barmaid – “Barmaid, two of your finest drinks over here. A scotch-and-soda for me and a - ”

“New stein of black beer,” said Antoine simply.

“As you wish,” said the barmaid, one eyebrow cocked incredulously at the lawyer.

“Now, back to business,” resumed Alexander, “As you know, I am Mr. Terry’s lawyer and executor of his will. We first need to consider what we should do with the estate itself.”

“Burn it. Demolish it. I don’t care what the hell you do with it,”

Alexander was quite obviously annoyed at this point, “Don’t be daft, you French inebriate,” he said before changing the subject. “The older boy is to be the steward of the estate, but he is still quite young.”

“Why are you talking to me about all this? I’m not quite his family, you know,” explained Antoine, murmuring a quick ‘thank you’ to the barmaid as she delivered their drinks.

“Are you fluent in English?” mentioned Alexander, a definite tone of annoyance in his voice, “In his will, Mr. Terry stated that you were to be the guardian of the two boys, should something happen to both him and his wife.”

“How much research did you do before you came to me?” asked Antoine, his teeth now bared in hostility, “He still has family. Did you even contact them? I don’t want to spend the rest of my –”

Before Antoine could finish his sentence, the oaken doors to the Globe Hotel burst open again. Antoine jolted and looked over at the doorjamb. Never had he seen a man so angry. Wet, sticky mud adhered to the man’s shoes and to the cuffs of his pants. His receding, dark red hair was plastered to his head, little rivulets of water dripping down. The person’s eyes were very demonic in appearance, an effect likely augmented by a lack of sleep. His hands were clenched into two furious fists, effectively resembling flesh-colored steel mallets. His red moustache gleamed over his bared teeth, as though his mouth was on fire. Only an idiot would cross a man on a rage such as this.

The demonic man was the first to break the awkward silence following his entrance. Walking as though he were entranced by the hatred which filled his veins, he pointed at Antoine, shouting:

“You drunk son-of-a-bitch, Antoine! You murdered my brother! You murdered Wallace Terry! After all he has done for you! How the bloody hell COULD YOU?”