Thief’s Hand
It was an odd summer that year to say the least. The heat was oppressive, the jubilance of the start of the season and return to work were short lived. The big steel contracts had ended, and shifts were returning to normal hours and pay. Out in farm country draught had blight had run rampant and the only beer and ale on draft was weaker than water and just as sour.
The street had started to change or perhaps people were just angrier it’s hard to say. Tempers were strained and more than one fight had broken out this week. It was hard to say when things had lost their lustre or which of the many problems finally caused things to fracture. But oddness seemed to extend out all over the place. Whatever was affecting honest folks like us seemed to be driving the aristocrats and money folk mad as hatters. A wealthy dinner in the city had ended with some kind of suicide pact. The headline in the paper was “Champagne and Suicide” it read like the title for a dime store crime novel.
The science and Technology fair which was to show off wonders from Europe and American was still weeks away and so there was nothing to distract from the heat and bad overpriced beer. On more than once occasion I’d taken the family to swim in the lake to just get a few hours of relief and that was knowing all the crap that was poured in there every day from the dozens of factories along the shore.
By this time seeing the rich folk swaggering into our street from wherever they came from had was more annoying than pageantry. It was good to see them sweat like pigs though all wrapped up in their finery as they tried to convince hunched old grass maker who lived in the crooked house at the end of the street to sell his wares to them. His midnight glass was still in greater demand then his was willing to produce so it was natural that other glass makers has tried to imitate it and produce their own variations but as of yet none of those knock offs had the same lustre and beauty as the true product.
Figgins one of the boys from down the pub had told me about a side business he had gotten into one night after we decided to have as many whiskeys as we normally had pints. So desirable was the midnight glass that he knew a guy who was even buy leavings of it. Broken bits, drops lefts over from finished pieces, evening floor scrapings. The better the quality the more he paid, and Figgins was even willing to cut me in on the deal if I was amenable. I was hesitant I always liked the old glass maker. He’d given me work when there was none to be had but I was tempted. Money in my pocket for nabbing some trash seemed like a good deal.
Normally I’d pass on a deal like that without a second thought, but I found myself agreeing to meet the fence even if I hadn’t committed myself to the enterprise. It could have just been accumulated fatigue from lack of a decent night sleep in weeks or envy at seeing all those rich folks, or maybe it was just the whiskey talking. In the end what did it matter.
Never one to delay and put off a chance for some quick cash Figgins insisted we meet the buyer that very night. I was already half committed so didn’t see the harm. He led me to one of the more upscale parts of down but of course instead of going down the main thoroughfare we had to duck into the side alley. The cops might be understanding about two rough sorts such us caught out here late at night but they were more likely to say hello with a blow from their truncheon and let the station sort it out later.
Where we ended up was the delivery door of a delicatessen called Jorgen and Son’s. One of the Son’s was working when we arrived. He gave Figgins a conspiratorial handshake and offered some day old rye while he went through as small velvet bag of midnight glass leavings. It was just trash and slivers from what I could tell but honestly all I really cared about at that first meeting was how cool it was inside.
The heat and humidity were replaced by cool refreshing air. Coming from a contraption blew air across a slowly melting block of ice. It was like a little slice of heaven. Figgins tried to hide the purse heavier in coin then it had been in glass when I looked back. They had been trading and haggling and my name had come up more than once. The son he’d been dealing with smiled and offered me a wooden crate containing a block of ice to seal the bargain. By then they had me I was committed.
I cracked open the crate as soon as I got home. Even that little relief provided from the ice seemed to cool the whole apartment. That night I dreamt for the first time in long time and awoke feeling hungover but refreshed. Not just me but my wife, and our son and daughter too. It was good to see them without bags and bloodshot eyes for a change.
Dearest little Abby had lost some her pallor and her cheeks looked rosy again. She was a wee slip of a girl young and carefree as all kids her age and needed a little healthy colour. Ezekiel had the worn leather look of all teenage boys who spent all day out in the sun. Looking at him chattering eagerly over breakfast I couldn’t help but think that the extra money I got from selling the glass leavings might be enough to let him enjoy another year or two of school rather than having him join me at the steel mill. He’d be old enough to work in a month and up until now it had just gone unsaid that he’d have to find a job like all his peers after his birthday.
The steel mill closed at noon on Saturday’s and all day on Sunday of course. In the past Saturday afternoon was family or football time but ever since the old glass maker had taken on extra help, I had done a shift there in the afternoon. Mainly hauling supplies or fetching things from the back when requested. There was also plenty of cleaning to be done. Normally I didn’t do any anything in the glassworks but that Saturday after helping Figgins crate up and load some large pieces to be shipped out to clients, the old glass maker called me into his workshop.
He explained that he needed full concentration for what he was working on and need me to man the furnace and bellows. He pointed to a blue line on the temperature gauge and said to keep it as close to there as I could. The glass kiln just blasted out heat with all it could muster and the blue line was dangerously close to the red line for my taste. But I shovelled coal into the gapping maw and stoked the bellows for all I could while getting blackened and scorched.
My arms felt like limp noodles by the time I was done. He must have been working at the piece of hours when he finally yelled at me to stop. He yelled in frustration and anger that old glass maker. What he held in his hand was a glass eye of such perfection that it almost seemed to look at me when he held it. But whatever he sought in the finished product was lacking. The old glass maker murmured to himself that it barely held a haunting glimpse.
Whatever was wrong with it I couldn’t tell. No through my exhausted haze it looked every bit as if it was a normal eye apart from the midnight purple iris. I was about to leave when the old glass maker yelled at me to stay. He’d try again and if I wanted to work next week I had best find the strength to continue. And so we began again.
I dug deep into every last reserve I had. It was hardly the first time a boss had worked me past the breaking point. It was a fact of live that you either continued or did not work again. No one ever took “I need a break” as an excuse. Hours more passed as I worked the furnace and the old glass maker spun and twisted the glass. Laying line after line of midnight glass and weaving in colours until the glass ball took on the illusion of flesh.
And yet this one while better than the first was still lacking some unknown quality when the old glass maker held it up to the light as if trying to see through it. I could tell he wanted to go again but I was starving and wanted nothing more than the comfort of my bed. Before he could demand we go again. I asked to call it a night insisting that it must be almost midnight by then. He was still seething but checked his watch any way. Concern and surprise covered his face when he saw the time. He quickly smashed the two glass eyes agreeing that I must leave at once of course. He told me to throw the shards into the metal bin in the kiln while he fetched my pay plus a bonus. I simply nodded and started sweeping up the fragments. When he left, I could see in the broken shards that two irises had manged to stay perfectly intact. Small flawless lens of the midnight glass glowing purple in the reflected light. I quickly pocketed them and tossed then rest into the metal bin as ordered before he could return.
He was distracted and rushed me out of their far faster than you would think a hobbled old man could. I took my money and my leave and went to the Fox and Beaver for something to eat and in need of a stiff drink even a bad one. The Fox and Beaver was always welcoming, and young Billy sorted me out with enough food and ale to feel human again. Figgins was there as well for where else would he be. He asked after I had finished if I had anything to trade, I nodded, and he smiled that greedy smile of his.
An hour later I was leaving Jorgen and Son’s with more money than I had ever possessed at one time. Figgins walked behind me the whole time salivating at what I had gotten for those two little lenses and I knew he would not be satisfied with leavings anymore. But I did not care. No what mattered to me was the life changing sum of money in my pocket.
The next week was a tough one to be sure. Once again, I slept with restless and halting slumber and the heat was even more draining. Work at the steel mill left me hollowed by the end of the week. Come Saturday I had to humbly ask the old glass maker if I could skip my shift. He grunted that I looked like a stiff wind would blow me over. Figgins who overheard our conversation said he would happily take an extra shift and work hard enough for two. The old glass maker gave him an odd look but then nodded agreement anyway.
I thanked the old glass maker for his understanding and as I did, I spied for just a second Figgins replacing the shipping label on a package with one for the Delicatessen. I should have said something, but he had me at that point, so I pretended not see and instead went to find a shady park to rest in from the sun with the family.
That afternoon I pulled my wife in close for a kiss and told her about the money. She was shocked and suspicious not wanting a criminal for a husband, but I told her plain the money was mostly honest and not to fret. I had been thinking all week about what to do with it and told her my plan. That Monday we would put on our church finest head down to the bank to open an account for our son. With the money we had now we could buy him an apprenticeship. My boy would not become a beaten down steel worker. No, he would be a clerk or a bookkeeper. Who knows if more opportunities came up to make extra cash on the side we might even be able to afford for him to become an accountant or even a lawyer. Ezekiel had always been good with sums and letters and what parent does not want more for their child then they had.
They say bad things come in threes. Good things seem to come in an unlimited number but when things go bad, they go bad fast. So, it was only natural I suppose that in the early hours of Wednesday morning poor greedy Figgins met himself an unfortunate end. I could not get a clear understanding of the story no matter how many times I heard it but apparently it had involved a gold ring, and too much whiskey down by the train track. Why he was there no one was quite sure. Yes, he had been in the Fox and Beaver that night everyone was agreed. He had consumed several shots in a row while looking constantly at the door he seemed in a panic. His few mumbled words other than whiskey where about that tapping. He just kept saying that the crooked shadow and sound of a cane followed him wherever he went.
When the old glass maker entered the pub, Figgins ran out the back so fast that young Billy did not even have time to shout about his bill. The old glass maker simply asked for some roast chicken and stayed to enjoy a pleasant meal on his own. While all that happened, Figgins had been running as if chased by the devil himself. A few people from the steel mill saw what happened next distracted by his ravings as they worked to load the latest shipment.
By then he was drunk and incoherent they could not make out much from his slurred speech he simply sat shaking on the ground by the tracks. Not wanting to fall behind and not sure what else to do they left him to his mumblings. At some point he began to sober up and that it was things went badly. Two of them witnessed Figgins reaching below the train car for something. Before they could call out a warning that the car was moving it rolled out over his outstretched hand severing it cleanly. Figgins screamed and blood gushed everywhere he collapsed there on the tracks clutching his stump and crying out in pain.
The men rushed to his aid while others rain for help. It was terrible accident for sure and they did what they could but there just so much blood. By the time the train yard cops and officials showed up things were in even more of an uproar. Figgins was mostly gone. No one was sure how exactly he had run off or to where. They only took their eyes off him for a moment they swore but in that time Figgins had vanished.
With the morning light they found a trail of blood leading out of yard until it got lost and confused with the rest of the city’s filth. Where Figgins went and what became of his body was mystery. All that remained was the blood and the severed hand clutching a gold ring so tightly they had to pry it open.
I hoisted a whiskey with the others that night in Figgins memory down at the Fox and Beaver and the landlord young Billy joked that it was just typical of Figgins to die without paying his tab. We all had a good laugh at that and tried to explain to ourselves what could have happened to man. It was a good gossip and there was lots of speculation over the next few days. But in all honesty, I was too tired to care.
It must have been that one good night sleep when the ice block was in the apartment that had done me in. For my body had just been all out of sorts since then I was more tired and irritable with each day and I take no pleasure in saying that I snapped at my wife more than once and she at me. By Sunday I was too exhausted even for church and simply collapsed back into bed the moment we got home. I watched my darling little Abby and her friend playing one of those silly little games children do. Singing nursery rhymes and clapping along. They both looked so gaunt and pale, and I could hear them singing a new song as sleep overtook me.
“I saw the crooked man, he steals from you your dreams, and feeds them to his nightmare friends while you scream and scream and scream.”