All Good Things

Patrick and Emily Rothwell stood shivering in the restaurant entrance way, waiting to be seated. It was cold outside, and their skin still prickled with goosebumps, but the interior of the restaurant was decidedly warmer. Patrick shook, but more with anger than cold. That little, snotty nosed brat who lived at the end of their street had run out into the road again, chasing his runaway football. And once again, Patrick had been forced to brake hard in an effort to avoid him. He was getting fed up of it now. Fed up that this boy’s parents hadn’t taught him proper road safety and fed up that a perfectly pleasant night out was now overshadowed by such a stupid occurrence.

Emily was shaking, too. The shock of almost hitting the boy still played over in her head, along with her husbands’ angry tirade, which had carried over from then all the way to the restaurant parking lot. Patrick had wanted to cut the night short and march straight over to the boy’s house to speak with his parents. Emily had managed to stop him, telling him to do it tomorrow.

Reluctantly, he agreed.

Patrick and Emily were both in their forties. Set in their ways and not overly keen on change. The restaurant they were in – neither of them could pronounce the name correctly – had recently opened and they decided to try it out. Only minutes in, and Patrick’s face was soured with uncertainty. He looked around him, finding the whole place a bit gloomy and dim. He could see the outlines of the other diners but found it hard to see their faces. Everything seemed to be either a burnished gold, or a dark, rich red colour. The podium in front of them was also a dark wood, and it held a thick leather-bound book.

‘Looks a bit fancy to me,’ said Patrick. ‘Probably a week’s wages to have a main course. They’ll all be posh upper-class snobs in here, you watch.’

‘Don’t talk daft’ said Emily, reproachfully. ‘Anyhow, we hardly get out as it is. Let’s just enjoy it.’

Patrick grumbled in silence.

‘Where’s the bloody waiter?’ he asked, none to quietly.

‘Shush!’

As if summoned, the waiter appeared, gliding in and giving a slight bow. Not used to such elegant treatment, the Rothwell’s merely stared. The waiter greeted them politely then opened the huge book. He scanned the interior, running his long finger down the page.

‘Ah, here we are,’ he said, finally. ‘The Rothwell’s. We’ve been expecting you. Please, follow me.’

He produced two menus, seemingly from nowhere and led them to a table for two, plucking the ‘RESERVED’ card from the tabletop and seating them both. He handed them a menu each.

‘I will give you both some time to decide what you would like to eat. In the meantime, I will go and fetch the wine list.’

He swiftly disappeared into the gloom, leaving Patrick and Emily mightily impressed and bewildered in equal measure.

‘Very polite service,’ remarked Emily.

‘There’s that,’ said Patrick, ‘but I have to ask, did we actually reserve a table?’

Emily was about to answer in the affirmative, when she suddenly stopped and thought about it. ‘You know,’ she replied, ‘I’m not sure we did.’

Confused, they were about to discuss the matter further when the waiter re-appeared. He handed each of them a copy of the wine list, then stood patiently, pen poised over pad, waiting for an order.

‘I can take your food order now, if you like?’

Patrick and Emily had been too distracted by the events of the evening thus far to have even looked at the menu. Patrick eyed the confusing list of foreign names for the wines and promptly gave up trying to decipher them.

‘Now listen,’ began Patrick, looking up at the waiter, ‘we don’t really go in for the fancy beverages. Just give us a nice, uh, reasonably priced white wine.’

The waiter smiled and took back the wine lists. ‘Very good.’

He disappeared again into the shadows.

Suddenly, a football rolled along the floor and came to rest against Patrick’s foot. It had no great impact, but the sight of it made Patrick start.

‘What on earth?’

Emily glanced down to see what he was looking at. ‘Oh my, where did that come from?’

‘Those tables over there.’

He was about to bend down and retrieve it when a small boy appeared at the edge of the shadows. He said nothing at all to Patrick or Emily, only stared, as if afraid to speak.

Patrick glanced down at the ball. ‘Oh, so this is yours I take it?’

The boy did not answer.

Annoyed, Patrick kicked it gently back over to the small figure. When it landed at his feet, he quickly grabbed it and ran off. Patrick shook his head, ruefully.

‘Charming,’ he snorted. ‘Just shows you, as well-off as they might be, they can’t buy manners.’

Emily waved his complaints away. ‘Oh, leave him be. That’s all kids nowadays.’

‘He looked familiar as well,’ said Patrick, more to himself than his wife.

She was about to speak when the waiter re-appeared, carrying a bottle of wine. Without waiting to be asked, he poured it into the waiting wineglasses. However, instead of the white wine they were expecting, a deep, dark red wine emerged.

‘Oh, um, I don’t think this is what we asked for.’ said Emily, politely.

The waiter carried on pouring.

‘I say, garcon,’ said Patrick, huffily. ‘We asked for white, not red.’

The waiter smiled at them both like nothing in the world was possibly wrong, then left as quick as he arrived.

Emily’s eyes widened. ‘Well, I never.’

‘Might as well have been talking to the bloody wall.’

After a brief conversation about what to do next, they both decided to keep quiet and complain at the end of the meal, the consensus being that they may get some money off. In the meantime, they both took a sip of wine and decided, rather quickly, that it was delicious.

Eventually, they decided to pick up the menus and look at them. The menu covers were like black leather, with the name of the restaurant – Aeternitas – emblazoned on the front.

‘I mean, look at that,’ complained Patrick, yet again, pointing at the word. ‘How the hell are you supposed to say that?’

They both scanned their menus for a few moments.

‘There’s no prices on this.’ said Emily.

‘No there isn’t, is there? That’s a bad sign.’

‘Why?’

Patrick looked directly at her. ‘Why? Because when there’s no price it means everything is bloody expensive. And I’m not talking about things being a bit steep, I’m talking you’ll have to sell your soul for piece of chicken kind of expensive.’

Emily shook her head. ‘You do like to exaggerate.’

‘Never mind if I’m exaggerating or not.’

The waiter emerged from the gloom once more, brandishing a notepad and pen.

‘Are we ready to order?’

Patrick cleared his throat ‘Could I just ask…?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘My wife and I have noticed that there aren’t any prices on the menu. It doesn’t say anywhere what the food costs.’ He started to go red. ‘What I’m saying is, we don’t know if we can afford it. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

The waiter smiled. ‘Of course. But please, do not worry. I guarantee you will be able to pay the price.’

‘You do?’ asked Emily.

The waiter nodded. ‘Indeed. Please, take as long as you need to choose. I will be back in a few more minutes.’

After he left, Emily leaned across the table and spoke in a whisper.

‘Should we leave, do you think?’

Patrick thought about it for a moment. ‘I think we should stay.’ he said, finally. ‘I’m interested to know how it’s all going to play out.’

‘You won’t be saying that if we have to wash up all the dishes at the end of the night.’

‘If it comes to that, we’ll just do a runner.’

They both smiled greedily upon returning to their menus, eventually choosing the Chicken Cordon Bleu (for Emily) and the Filet Mignon (for Patrick). They both also had a refill of (red) wine.

Before the meal was brought out, the incident with the football was repeated. It came rolling from out of the dark, and the small, silent boy followed. Patrick again tried to speak to him and was again ignored.

‘Do I need to speak to your parents?’

Again, no response.

‘Oh, just give him the ball,’ said Emily. ‘It’s pointless trying to get through to him. You’re wasting your time.’

And so, it proved, when the boy picked up the football and ran away.

Patrick shook his head. ‘Kids these days,’ he said, reproachfully.

Emily picked up her wine and drained the glass.

‘No respect,’ she hiccupped.

‘There’s still something about him, though.’

‘Ay?’ exclaimed Emily, her speech a little slurred.

‘That kid. I swear I’ve seen him before. Strange. He looked scared of something. All quiet like that. Not natural.’

Patrick drank the rest of his wine. When the last sliver of liquid slid down his throat, the penny dropped.

‘I think he’s the kid who lives on the end of our street.’

‘No, it isn’t, is it?’

‘I swear,’ said Patrick, passionately. ‘He’s the one always playing bloody football. I’ve almost had an accident in the car more than once swerving to avoid the little bugger. I’ve tried to get a good look at him before, but when I stop the car to get out, he always does a runner.’

Patrick mulled the idea of going over to the boys table and speaking directly to his parents. Once again, it was Emily who talked him out of it, not wanting to spoil the night. He still craned his head over to the direction the boy had gone.

Then the food came, and the boy, at least for the moment, was forgotten.

‘Bloody hell, that was quick.’

The waiter placed the food reverently before them. After requesting another refill, they dug in.

After the food had gone and the plates were covered only with streaks of sauces, Patrick and Emily sat back, wiping their faces and rubbing their full, contented stomachs. The plates were swiftly cleared away and thoughts turned to the cost.

The waiter was refilling the glasses again when Patrick asked for the bill.

He looked at Patrick, comically confused.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

Emily cocked her head like a confused puppy. ‘Are we… sure?’

‘Do you feel you have had your fill? You feel satisfied with what you have had, and are ready to pay?’

‘Yes,’ replied Patrick, gruffly. ‘We feel satisfied and are ready to pay.’

The waiter nodded. ‘Very well.’

The waiter exited, presumably to fetch the bill.

‘Honestly,’ exclaimed Patrick, ‘I don’t get this place at all. It’s very strange. Usually, when you ask for a bill, you get a bill. It’s not a negotiation.’

Emily drained another glass of wine. ‘Maybe we should ring for a taxi.’

‘A taxi? What for?’

‘Well, I’m just thinking, we’ve enjoyed the vino a bit too much haven’t we.’

Patrick drained his own glass. ‘Oh, come on. It’s just wine. It’s not like I’ve been downing pints.’

‘Maybe, but accidents happen.’

Patrick shook his head. ‘How long have we been married?’

‘Thirteen years.’

‘That’s right. Thirteen years. And how many accidents have I had in thirteen years.’

‘None.’

‘Exactly.’ Patrick said, smugly. ‘A pretty good streak, if I do say so myself.’

'If you say so.'

Patrick could feel an argument brewing. He was about to respond when the football rolled along the floor once again.

‘Oh, God, not again. Will this bloody kid never learn. I’m going to see his parents.’

‘Just leave it, will you.’

Patrick got up from his chair. He was a little unsteady. He reached down and scooped up the ball. This time, he was going to escort the boy back to his table and finally have it out with the parents. He noticed the boy approaching.

‘Right, kid, this is the last time…’

Suddenly, he noticed something different about the young boy. The child had been wearing a pristine white shirt. Now, it was covered in blood. It was as red, redder, than the wine in their glasses. The boy's face was distorted in shock and pain, the skin pale and mottled.

‘What the hell is… Oh my God… Emily, look…' He dropped the ball, but it didn’t bounce, instead it fell like a ton weight. 'I think it’s… it’s blood!’

Emily stood, pointing at some unseen object.

She screamed, the sound piercing. ‘Watch out!’

Emily staggered back, collapsing onto the floor, lifeless.

Patrick stumbled around, confused. ‘What the hell is going on? Emily? Emily?’

Patrick knelt beside her, shaking her, trying in vain to wake her up.

‘Emily. Come on. What is it? Emily!’

Patrick stood up, his hands feeling strangely warm. He looked at them. They were covered in blood.

‘But what is this? What is it… Oh, wait. Wait. I remember something. I do. Driving. I remember driving.’

A sound began to grow in the surroundings of the restaurant. The sound of laughter. Unpleasant laughter. Cold and mirthless. It began quietly, then grew and grew.

Patrick began to cry. His voice came out choked. ‘We were going home. And he…the boy... He ran out into the road.’

The horrible laughter continued, while the boy stood like a spectre, silent and staring.

The waiter entered for the final time, unphased by the chaos and noise of the hellish surroundings.

‘Are you ready to pay now, sir?’ he asked, pleasantly.

Patrick didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He was too engrossed in the horror of his own memories. ‘He was after his ball. I tried to swerve but I couldn’t… I… I think…I hit him. My god, I hit him. Then… then I did swerve. And then…’

‘Sir,’ interjected the waiter. ‘You must pay.’

‘There was a tree…’ continued Patrick, the memory alive in his mind. ‘My god.’

He looked at Emily’s lifeless body, then at the boy, then at his own blood-covered hands. He looked at the waiter, finally registering his presence. The waiter smiled, even as Patrick’s panic grew.

‘It’s time to pay,’ said the waiter once more.

Suddenly, the lights began to dim, and darkness enveloped them all, and still the laughing continued.