The Devil's Cellar
by
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Even in his state he realised who was responsible. Nevertheless he screamed for help - but he knew no one could hear him. As the water lapped around his knees he planned his revenge. Benjamin smirked as he remembered the coal hole cover above him. He pulled the steps to under the cover but even on the top tread and on his toes, he could not touch the cast iron cover. The table would not budge - he had ensured that is was screwed down tightly together with the wine racks. Frantically he pulled at the racks dislodging the bottles which, as they fell into the water they smashed into each other, breaking and spilling the vintage nectar into the rising mass of water. The broken bottles sank to the floor and at every movement Benjamin made another piece of glass lacerated his legs. He tried rack after rack, each time more bottles falling into the deepening pool below. Eventually one rack showed signs of movement and with every ounce of effort he managed to pull it away from the wall. Eileen became flustered as she remembered the electricity. She couldn’t let him be electrocuted; that would not do at all. The fuse box was in the hall cupboard and as soon as she located the trip switch for the cellar lights she flicked it off plunging the cellar into darkness save a tiny beam of light which shone through the slotted keyhole in the coalhole cover. Benjamin allowed a string of expletives to flow as he tightened his hold on the rack and dragged the unit across the floor, ripping his trousers on the raw edges of the broken bottles as he moved but the cold water numbed his legs and he felt no pain from the cuts. He leaned the rack against the opposite wall so it was below the beam of light and began to climb, trusting that the custom-made oak rack would take his weight, until the cover was above his head. He became aware of the smell of the wine as it filled the cellar with a heady scent. Pushing it open took all his remaining energy, most of which having been taken by the exertion of pulling the oak rack from the wall. The water was lapping at his chest as he poked his head into the daylight. He yelled for help. Only two people were in earshot. One could do nothing; one would do nothing - for the moment anyway. Benjamin forced his left arm out along side his head with the consequent realisation that there was no chance of him pulling himself through the opening. He screamed and screamed for help. But Benjamin had been clever when he chose the house - it was secluded and at least a mile from his nearest neighbour. The water was now overflowing from the cellar and lapping around Benjamin’s neck and his chin. He was freezing cold and bleeding. His screams turned into sobs. Eileen went into the shed and carefully unwrapped the yellow fibreglass- handled pickaxe that she had bought from Frank’s shop. As quietly as she could Eileen walked over and stood to the right side of him holding the pickaxe as if it were one of his favourite golf clubs. He had heard her approach and tried, unsuccessfully, to turn his head towards her. Her back swing seemed effortless, notwithstanding her frailty. Benjamin opened his mouth to speak; but no sound came out and he closed his eyes in disbelief as he realised what was about to happen. His left eye was opened for him by the point of the pickaxe as she completed her swing, and the follow-through saw the point of the axe reappear from the centre of his skull. His arm went limp from the elbow, his hand falling over his head and over the shaft of the weapon as if in a weak farewell wave. The water continued to flow out of the cellar having turned a dark crimson - just like his favourite burgundy, thought Eileen. The devil had died in his cellar
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About the Book
The title of the book, The Devil’s Cellar, is the translation of Casillero del Diablo, a fine Chilean wine produced in the central region of the country. The wine (a 2006 Merlot) and the story are inexorably linked, creating a symbiosis of alcohol and words to produce the perfect environment for the reader by stimulating four out of the five human senses. Only the sense of hearing remains untroubled. But did you hear that noise from behind you? Is it the Devil waiting for your soul? The wine weaves its way through the book becoming a witness to the events within each chapter and although it is never opened, the souls of the characters are, and their varying emotions too often spilled. Ultimately, the unopened bottle is used as a murder weapon and the hunt for the perpetrator intertwines with the journey of the bottle from suspect to suspect, thus linking the stories and creating the spine of the novel. The reader experiences, in turn, love, lust, jealousy, murder, suicide, revenge, hatred, greed, theft, intolerance, blackmail, mental illness, drug abuse and religious bigotry, to name but a few, often under the watchful eye of Beelzebub himself. There are more twists and turns in the novel than there are in a corkscrew.
About the Author
If a novel is written from the soul and the heart, then the outpouring of words leaves a void in the mind. The clichés of a 60 year-old Financial Director in print. If only words were numbers then, no doubt, he would have completed his hundredth novel by now, immaculately presented with decimal points in the correct places. But alas, and notwithstanding the lessons enforced on him by his much-lamented English teachers, writing does not come easily to him. His teachers were, surprisingly enough, the same ones who taught such famous alumni as Harold Pinter, Steven Berkoff, Sir Michael Caine and Lord Michael Levy all of whom preceded him at Hackney Downs Grammar School in East London. It was probably the best school in London in the late 50’s and early 60’s but sadly deteriorated during the following decades only to be dubbed as the worst school in Britain in the 90‘s, culminating in its closure in 1995. With a clutch of A Levels he moved on to The City University and then into a career in accounting. One good thing about the accountancy profession is that it gives one a whole world to explore outside the financial field. He explored. An incursion into radio broadcasting, acting, writing modern opera and poetry, oil painting, as well as the usual hobbies that come to us all in our mature years. His flamboyance is tempered by his finesse; his exuberance by his reticence and his confidence by his self-doubt, but his joie de vivre remains un-bowed.