Emperor rory, p.1
Emperor Rory, page 1
Hadwin Fuller
Emperor Rory
Copyright © 2023 by Hadwin Fuller
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Hadwin Fuller asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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Contents
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
38. Chapter 38
39. Chapter 39
40. Chapter 40
41. Chapter 41
Epilogue
1
Chapter 1
The dull yellow glow of the ceiling bulb did little to brighten the drab back office of ‘The Codfather’ fish and chips shop. I leaned defensively against a peeling promotional poster of the ‘Ultimate Cod Combo’. The fish’s eyes, which were meant to lure customers in with their merry sparkle, looked more accusatory to me now. Between the intermittent buzz of the light and the muffled chattering from the kitchen, I found myself cornered by Mr Jenkins.
Mr Jenkins, with his ever-reddening face - whether from years of exposure to the heat of the fryers or simply because of his rising temper, I couldn’t tell - held a wodge of crumpled pieces of paper like a weapon. “This is absolutely bonkers, Rory!” he thundered.
He waved the papers in front of my face, and, against my better judgement, I took a few and read the first.
‘Fish tasted like tyre rubber that had been marinaded in Gordon Ramsey’s arse crack.’ I placed the paper down on Mr Jenkins’ desk and read the next. ‘Mushy peas had all the texture and consistency of cat vomit.’
I stifled a laugh, attempting to defend myself, “That’s from Mr Baxter, isn’t it?” I shook my head with disbelief. “He really is a wanker, isn’t he?”
Mr Jenkins wasn’t amused. “And here,” he thrust another paper in my face, “This one says they found a miniature ship’s wheel in their mushy peas. How do you explain that?”
I raised an eyebrow, genuinely perplexed. “Maybe the miniature ship was looking for a port in a storm?”
Mr Jenkins’ eyes, which I swear turned a shade darker, locked onto mine. “This isn’t a bloody joke, Rory! This isn’t some stand-up gig down at The King’s Head!”
Gulping, I shuffled my feet on the threadbare carpet, trying to think of a suitable response. “Look, Mr Jenkins, I…”
“I don’t want to hear it, Rory!” he bellowed, cutting me off. His face had reddened further, if that was even possible. There was an intensity in his eyes that I hadn’t seen in all the years I’d worked for him.
“Ever since you started here, it’s been one thing after another. It’s always someone else’s fault or some absurd explanation. Did you ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, the problem starts with you?” Mr Jenkins jabbed a fat finger in my direction. The greasy paper with the customer complaints rustled in his other hand.
“The burnt chips, the mixed-up orders, and now…” he waved the paper for emphasis, “…ship wheels in the peas? Rory, I’ve had it up to here with you!” He raised his hand, palm facing the ceiling, so high above his head it looked like he was trying to reach for the stains on the tiles. “You’re supposed to be the manager, but from what I can tell, you couldn’t manage an orgy in a liberal arts college.”
I opened my mouth, but words failed me.
“I’ve given you chance after chance, thinking you’d finally step up, but you never do. You just keep ducking responsibility, hoping it’ll all go away. Well, Rory, it won’t. Not this time.” His voice was lower now, tinged with a mix of exasperation and what might have been disappointment.
My heart sank, sensing what was coming next.
“I’m sorry, Rory,” he said, suddenly sounding weary. “I’m going to have to let you go.”
I blinked, disbelief clouding my vision. “Mr Jenkins, please… I need this job.”
Mr Jenkins leaned back in his chair, the old leather creaking under his weight. The room seemed to close in, the dim light casting shadows that danced eerily on the walls.
“I know it seems like I’m not taking things seriously,” I continued, my words rushing out, “but I can change. I promise. Just… give me another shot. I’ll work extra hours, double shifts even, anything to make this right.”
Mr Jenkins looked at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. For a fleeting moment, I dared to hope he would reconsider.
But then he sighed, his face etched with lines of regret. “Rory, it’s not just about the hours. It’s about responsibility, about stepping up and owning your mistakes.”
I swallowed, the lump in my throat growing larger. “But this is my livelihood, Mr Jenkins. I’ll… I’ll be lost without this job.”
The weight of the room’s atmosphere seemed to thicken, the tick-tock of a wall clock the only sound breaking the silence.
Mr Jenkins rubbed his temples, the greasy paper with my mistakes crumpled in his grip. “Rory, I genuinely wish it didn’t have to be this way. But you’ve been given chances, again and again. If I let this slide now, it’s a disservice to the other employees and to the good name of The Codfather.”
He leaned forward, his voice softening. “Sometimes, a fresh start is what a person needs to truly find themselves. Maybe this will be yours.”
My heart was pounding, but I could see the finality in his eyes. There was no swaying the chubby old prick this time.
2
Chapter 2
The creak of the door announced my entrance into The King’s Head. The comforting aromas of aged oak, lingering ale, and a hint of tobacco-soaked clothes welcomed me. The familiar hum of conversation, softened by the age-old walls of this local haunt, was momentarily disrupted as a few patrons glanced my way briefly before returning to their pints and tales.
The pub, with its age-old beams and slightly uneven floor, had been my go-to for as long as I could remember. Especially after days like today.
Mick, the barman who seemed as old as the pub itself, caught my eye from behind the bar. His gaze, which always seemed to be assessing the patrons, locked onto me. “Oi, Rory. You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, mate.”
“You could say that,” I replied with a half-hearted grin. “Jenkins gave me the boot, Mick.”
Mick whistled low. “You? I’d have thought Jenkins would have sacked the fish before he’d sack you!” As he drew a pint, he added, “On the house. For old times’ sake.”
Gratefully, I took a sip. It wasn’t going to solve my problems, but the familiar bitterness grounded me for a moment. “Just some daft complaints, Mick. And that tosser Jenkins… I reckon he’s had it in for me since day one.”
Before he could reply, a voice interrupted. “Rory? That true about the job?”
It was Dave Seakens, an old schoolmate, looking at me with a mixture of disbelief and concern. His messy mop of hair was as unkempt as ever, his lanky figure draped casually over the adjacent stool.
“Yeah,” I muttered, then took another swig from the pint. “Too many complaints and, well, Jenkins saw his chance.”
Dave clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Well, if Jenkins doesn’t appreciate you, that’s his loss! Let’s make an night of it. You could use some cheering up. We can get plastered and go throw to that new strip club on Aylesb ury Street. There’s this girl there who does this amazing thing with a pineapple.”
“Thanks, mate,” I said, “but I think I need some alone time.”
Dave’s eyes softened. “Alright, mate. If that’s what you need.”
Nodding a thank you, I navigated through the uneven tables and settled into a corner booth, the leather cracked and worn from years of patrons seeking the same refuge I now sought. The dim, golden light from an overhead lamp cast shadows over the wooden table, deepening the grooves and scars etched into it by time.
I leaned back, letting the ambient noise of the pub wash over me. Conversations about local football matches, recent holidays, and weekend plans formed a familiar tapestry of sounds. But instead of drawing comfort from them, I felt detached, like an observer from another world.
Thoughts of my uncertain future spiraled in my head. Just a few hours ago, I was sure of my place, sure of my routine. But now? The thought of waking up tomorrow with no job to go to, no responsibilities to dodge - that was terrifying.
I’d never had to think about another job; ‘The Codfather’ had been it for me since school. The job was familiar, easy in its own way, and I’d never imagined needing another one. I drummed my fingers on the table, my mind whirling with all the questions I wasn’t ready to face.
How would I pay rent? How long would my savings last? Did I have any transferable skills? What would people say when they found out I’d been let go?
The pit in my stomach deepened, and a wild swirl of irrational fears began to consume me. What if word got out and the entire town turned against me? I imagined the whispers, the pitying glances. Would they think I was useless, a joke?
I could see it now, the landlord evicting me from my flat, and me, forced to wander the streets, wrapped in newspapers for warmth. I’d become a cautionary tale, the one parents would tell their children about when they didn’t want to study or get a job. “Don’t end up like Rory,” they’d say with a shake of their heads.
It might even get so bad I’d have to resort to selling a kidney on the black market, hoping it’d buy me a few more months of shelter and sustenance. Or maybe I’d have to become one of those male prostitutes, forced to sell out the various orifices in my body to make enough money to buy the massive quantities of vodka I’d need to blank the memory of all those terrible activities from my mind.
I gripped the edge of the table, feeling the weight of these imaginary scenarios pressing down on me. A single tear threatened to escape, but I blinked it away, desperate not to lose face in public.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to steady myself. “It’s just a job,” I muttered under my breath, though it didn’t do much to soothe the storm inside. The hardwood of the booth felt unyielding beneath me, every crack and split in the worn leather an echo of the fractures forming in my confidence.
The dimly lit pub had started to feel like a safe cocoon, shielding me from the world outside. But that all changed with the sudden creak of the entrance door, which announced the arrival of an odd figure. This wasn’t just another patron out for a pint; there was something decidedly peculiar about him.
His attire was a mishmash of styles: a sharp, tailored business suit paired unexpectedly with bright neon trainers that looked as though they belonged at a rave rather than beneath the pressed trousers of corporate wear. But what took the prize was the farmer’s hat perched jauntily atop his head, casting a curious shadow over his eyes.
The pub regulars turned their heads almost in synchrony, eyebrows raised in amusement or disbelief. Whispers circulated, and I could catch snippets: “Who’s that?”, “Looks like he’s lost”, “Maybe he’s heading to a fancy-dress party?” and “No, he’s just a bloody Yank”.
But as the stranger moved further into the pub, I felt an undeniable charisma radiate from him. He walked with a confidence that suggested he was very aware of the incongruous nature of his appearance and didn’t give a toss about it. It was as if he was challenging the world to accept him as he was, farmer’s hat, neon trainers, and all.
Watching him was like witnessing a play unfold in real-time. He approached the bar with the kind of exaggerated strut one might expect from a performer on stage. With a theatrical slap on the counter, which startled the old barman, he boomed, “Barkeep! A liquid refreshment for this parched traveller!”
Mick, who had seen it all in his many years behind that counter, just blinked up at him in bemusement. “A what now?”
“A… liquid refreshment!” the stranger repeated, rolling the words around his mouth as if tasting them for the first time. “You know, the… um, the quenching potion you humans imbibe to hydrate and feel… jolly?”
A murmur of laughter spread through the room. A few of the local lads exchanged knowing glances, winking at the obvious ‘out-of-towner’. Mick, ever the professional, managed to keep a straight face. “You mean a drink? Ale, beer, wine?”
The peculiar man’s eyes brightened, as if a bulb had been lit inside his head. “Yes, yes! That’s it! An ale-beer-wine. One of those, please.”
Mick sighed, pouring a pint of the house ale. “That’ll be four quid.”
The stranger then proceeded to pull out a handful of what appeared to be foreign coins, shiny buttons, and a small, luminescent rock. After a few moments of trying to discern their value, Mick, with an air of resignation, waved him off. “On the house. Just… try to keep it down, will you?”
The neon-trainer-wearing, farmer-hat-donning man looked utterly thrilled, holding his pint aloft as if it were a trophy. “To hydration and… jolliness!” he declared, before taking a tentative sip, his face scrunching up in a mix of surprise and confusion. “Ah, yes, quite the… taste.”
Taking a moment to survey the room, the newcomer’s eyes landed on my secluded booth. With the same exaggerated strut, he made his way towards me. I instinctively drew back, pressing into the corner as if trying to become one with the worn leather.
“Good evening, fellow human,” he said cheerily. “May I accompany you in this… sitting activity?”
3
Chapter 3
“I’m not really in the mood for company,” I replied, my tone brusque.
The newcomer tilted his head to the side, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Ah, but this booth is quite spacious, and you occupy such a small portion.” Without waiting for another rejection, he slid into the seat opposite me, placing his drink carefully on the table. “See? Plenty of space!”
I sighed, rubbing my temples. “Look, I’ve had a rough day. I just want to drink in peace. No offence.”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “Offence? None received. I simply seek interaction. You see, I’m new around here, trying to… blend in.” He gestured at his odd ensemble with a proud smile, seemingly unaware of just how out of place he looked.
“You don’t say,” I replied dryly.
“Indeed! And who better to interact with than someone with such… vivid emotions?” he said, his eyes gleaming with a mix of curiosity and excitement.
I blinked. “Vivid emotions?”
“Yes! They’re practically radiating off you. Like a… what do humans say? Ah, yes! Like a lighthouse in the dark.”
While his words were strange, there was an earnestness to him. It was hard to stay annoyed. I took a deep breath. “Alright, if you must stay, at least tell me your name.”
With a bright grin, he responded, “You can call me Jack.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Jack?”
He nodded eagerly, “Yes! Jack. It’s a common human name, yes? Suitable for blending in?”
I couldn’t help but smirk. “Sure, ‘Jack’. Welcome to Newcastle.”
I tried to engage in some light conversation with Jack, figuring that if he was going to intrude upon my solitude, he might as well provide some entertainment. As I did, I couldn’t help but notice the peculiar way his hands moved - or rather, the way they didn’t. The fingers seemed stiff, and the overall motion lacked the fluidity I’d expect. Each time he attempted to pick up his pint, he fumbled, his fingers sliding off the cold, condensation-slicked glass.
“Er, Jack,” I ventured, nodding towards his hands, “having some trouble there?”
Jack glanced down, then laughed, the sound echoing strangely in the dim pub. “Ah, these? Yes, they are not the most… efficient, are they?”
