Small Talk
by A.D. Dawson

But words are things...
Lord Byron

Would you like to sit down" Said the waitress as she ushered us to our seats. She pulled back the chairs slightly to allow our easy access.

Life doesn't get any better than this for me, I thought at the time. Out celebrating my 42nd birthday with my beloved wife, J. and our two dearest friends, P. and his wife, H. The waitress duly returned to our table bringing with her the menus for our perusal.

Are you ready to order." She asked, without using the correct punctuation for the second time that evening.

We replied in the negative and ordered drinks instead.

"She's a bit keen," said P. as he pushed away an imaginary breadcrumb from the tabletop.

"She's young," I explained, "She'll learn in time."

"That's very philosophical of you, A.," said H., still fresh from her psychology A level course.

The waitress returned with our drinks and expertly placed them down onto the table.

"Bravo, bravo," said P., with glee. "Not a spot spilt just then."

"She is truly a good waitress," concurred my caring wife. "And hardly into her prime just yet," She added kindly.

"I would definitely take her on," said my enthusiastic friend in earnest.

"You'd take her on...?" Retorted his wife, fearing a euphemism.

"I would employ her without a doubt."

"Well said P."

The waitress reddened slightly as she bustled away. She returned shortly to take our food orders.

"What is this?" Asked P., indicating towards the menu... “Never mind,” he continued before the waitress could explain, “It sounds good so I’ll have it!”

"That's what I like about you, P.," I ejaculated in admiration, "You're not afraid to try something new."

He was pleased by my observation and refreshed my wineglass. The food began to arrive and we chattered pleasantly throughout the courses.

"It's a splendid building," observed J. as she surveyed the ornate surroundings from our balcony viewpoint. "It...

She was abruptly cut short in her intercourse when the couple at the next table began to argue.

"Tempestas cooritur," I whispered smugly behind my hand in the direction of P..

"You are right," He replied louder than I would have liked, "A storm is rising.

The man became so enraged, we feared that he was going to strike out. P. removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves in readiness of intervention - I hyperventilated. His wife/ partner was no shrinking violet - she threatened to take a carving knife to him as he slept if he ever dared lift his hand to her. Fortunately the Manager was promptly summoned before the unpleasantness escalated into violence. Fearing for the sensibility of the other diners, he asked the couple to leave - which they did without further ado.

My wife resumed her conversation regarding the aesthetics of the building as we merrily took our port.

"It is certainly a Romantic tower I observed as we approached in the car," I said to everyone's agreement. "Byron himself would be well at home up in there."

H. suggested that I should ask permission to climb the tower - after all it was my birthday. Before I could nod my accord P. was snapping his fingers to attract the attention of the waitress.

"I'm very sorry," She stated upon her arrival, "No one is allowed up the steps because of insurance reasons."

"Poppycock," retorted P. loudly, "this is A., the writer... he gains great inspiration from such things as dark towers."

The waitress was visibly shocked by his verbal outburst and I held his elbow gently in order to pacify him.

"I demand to see the Manager right now." He bellowed rudely, to the amusement of the other diners.

"I'll fetch him for you, Sir." She replied professionally.

I was quite taken aback by my friend's abrupt manner: he is usually so calm and amicable - a most surprising Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde character, I thought.

"He (the Manager) had better come around to my way of thinking too, or I'll take out his d____d eye with this cheese knife..." ranted Hyde.

"Are you feeling well, P?" Inquired my wife softly.

"Never felt better J., and you?" Continued Jekyll.

The Manager was directed to our table - a large ugly barman lurked close by. He asked if we had enjoyed our meal. We complimented him upon the splendid cuisine...

"...It is my friend's birthday," P. started, "and as a treat he would like to go up to the top of the tower."

H. moved the cheese knife from her husband's reach. The Manager spread his arms wide and offered his apologies:
"I'm afraid the tower is out of bounds..."

"... Out of bounds? Have you something lurking up there that you'd rather us not see... Is the hunchback, Quasimodo up there waiting for his release?" Said P. with humour.

The Manager smiled agreeably and proceeded to tell us about a rare breed of bats that lived in the tower. He refreshed our drinks from his own pocket before he left - the Barman winked hideously before he made his way downstairs.

"I can never understand why someone would want to venture into a strange dark tower after dark anyway: like they often do in a horror movie for example." Exclaimed J., in dismay.

"It is because the tower becomes the dark recess of their own mind," I replied knowingly.

"So therefore," said H., as she drained her glass noisily, "when some one goes into a dark tower, they are in fact being involuntarily drawn into the unexplored regions of their own subconsciousness?"

"Precisely."

P. burped his disagreement.

Noticing her husband's declining manner, H. suggested that we should be on our way.

"He is not himself this evening," She said out of his earshot.

We waited at the table as the ladies went about their toilet.

P. rhythmically drummed his fingers down onto the wood of the table to illustrate his impatience at our spouse's delay.

"I tell you, A." He said suddenly, "I need to get inside that tower tonight."

I felt a sudden chill down my spine as I no longer recognised the look to this person sat to my side - as he had done so amicably many times in the past.

"Come," He ordered, effortlessly hoisting me from my chair with the strength of a madman.

I was overcome with surprise and he easily led me towards the back door as if I was a helpless child.

“What of the women?” They won't know our whereabouts." I winged.
"To H____, with them," He raged demoniacally.

I started to cry as he pushed me heavily through the door. He sent a stinging blow across my cheek to check my pathetic emotion:
"Stop blubbering you fool." He raged as he smashed through the oaken doorway to the tower as if it was matchwood. He suddenly released his grip in the utter blackness therein and I fell heavily to the floor. In the dark, I heard his heavy footfall shifting up the stone stairway. I lay perfectly still for a few moments; hardly daring to breath. Safe in the knowledge that I had not heard his return, I eventually lit up a vesta with which to find my way out to safety.

"Where is the d____d doorway," I uttered as the flame burnt near to my finger ends.

I found myself to be surrounded by stonewalling - any doorway that had been, appeared to have been absorbed into the very masonry of the tower. I found a candle on a ledge and I lit it before the vesta burnt itself out. Within the renewed illumination I discovered that there was no other way to go but up the stone stairway. I took a deep breath and pushed my reluctant tread onto the first step. Once at the top of the tower, I thought, then I would be able to shout down below for help. I was very pleased at my resourcefulness. However, it was with severe dread that swept through my body, that I remembered that I would have to encounter my estranged friend at least once more before I could achieve my desired objective. I noticed that something lay before me on the step - it was an envelope and I bent over to pick it up. It was addressed to me, so I ripped it open and took out the letter within - it was written in P's neat hand. It said simply:
The man wasn't pushed down the stairway... P.

What the deuce was he trying to imply within the sentence? I took a few more steps upwards before I came across some more words scrawled about the dark wall in an illuminating green paint.

The man wasn't pushed down the stairway... P.

It was the same as before. However, I noticed that he had brought emphasis to the word: pushed this time. Fear drained from my body as I became drawn into the intrigue of the situation - there is nothing better than a play of words, I thought, as I pushed boldly on up the stairway... after all, I am a writer for goodness sake!

Head down and onward I went, my eager legs pushed me bravely up the steep stairway and onto the first landing.

"You've come so far already my friend," raved P. as he suddenly jumped from out of the shadows.

Before I could reply, he picked up a wine bottle and heaved it aggressively towards yours truly. Fortunately for me, I lost my footing and slipped backwards. Instead of it hitting my head - which I fear he hoped it might, the missile caught me square in the heart. I fell onto my back gripping the bottle, otter style, to my chest. I found myself in darkness once more, the candle had thrown itself from my grasp as I had tumbled, and I frantically searched through my pockets for my box of vestas.

Locating the box I lit up at once - P. was nowhere to be seen. The candle was near to hand and I promptly lit it up. My right shoulder, which had took the brunt of my collision, throbbed like the D____l. My write arm hung uselessly to my side. Despite my agony, I noticed a scrap of paper sticking out from the neck of the wine bottle - much like a message in a bottle thrown to the sea by a castaway. I pulled it out and clumsily unfurled it with my left hand. I smiled as I read:
The man wasn't pushed down the stairway...P.

Before I was able to go on, I took the scarf from around my neck and secured my deadened arm against my torso. I bit my lip and continued in my quest.

At last I came to an oaken door at the top of the stairway - similar to the one that P. had smashed asunder below. I turned the handle but the door would not open. I pushed my good shoulder against but still it would not yield. I dashed the palm of my hand against the wood in frustration and the door unexpectedly swung open. I stepped cautiously out into the biting cold night air. It was a clear night and I could see for miles around over the fields and into the light pollution from the nearby town of M____. P. stood sneering with his back against a stone pillar.

The man wasn't pushed down the stairway - he bellowed maniacally, heavily accentuating the word: stairway.

Notwithstanding that I found myself at the top of a dark tower faced with a deranged lunatic, I was able to stay remarkably calm. I attempted to indulge him.

"A good puzzle that... what does it mean?"

"It means nothing."

"It means nothing?"

"They are only words..." He continued theatrically, "... and words are but things."

I casually cast an eye below hoping that someone might be passing to whom I could call out.

"No one will come by," stated P., realising my intention.

"Of course they will, this is the favoured restaurant of many."

"I beg to differ... It is not written in the narrative."

"It is not written in the narrative?" I replied, becoming cross at his senseless twaddle. "What narrative is it to which you refer?" I added with venom.

"The narrative which you cannot complete because of your incapacity."

"I'll be d____d if I'm going to stand here and listen to your ravings all evening," I said as I leant forward in readiness to call out. He leapt forward and caught me on my dislocation just as I had opened my jaw to shout. The beginnings of my words ended into a pathetic whimper as I fell to the stone floor clutching at my shoulder. However, despite the grief of my tumble, the shoulder clicked painfully back into its socket. I undid the fastening and flexed my arm before standing up to my full height:
"It seems that my incapacity is no longer."

"You are weak," he raged, "Take this..."

...I caught him off balance as I dodged his wild blow. Without further ado I sent my write hand crashing into his unguarded groin. He fell ponderously backwards, winding himself against the parapet. As a result of his deserved misfortune, he stood precarious and in distress - tottering near to the open stairway.

"Finish him," said an uncouth voice to my side.
It was the barman... the ugly barman. He leapt onto P., howling like a banshee and with murder on his mind...

...The man wasn't pushed down the stairway...

My scriptible text I give to you, Dear reader, the emphasis is with you... choose well.

Adieu. A.