THE APPRENTICE’S TALE

By: Jennifer Gifford
September 10, 2008

When asked why I did it, revenge was the only motive that came to mind. I did not want to appear as someone who is deranged, babbling on irrationally, trying to prove my saneness to others. I did not want to appear as someone who uses the weakened condition of their mental capacity as an excuse for the crimes they have committed. The things that I have done seem minuscule to the punishment for which I will undoubtedly receive. I can honestly say that I have no fear about dying, only that when I do, I will have no place to go.

My twisted tale starts off much like any other. Up until that moment in which all common sense escaped me, I had led an average and ordinary life. I was an accounting apprentice for Farley and Beckett, one the oldest and more prestigious firms in all of London. It was a position that I had strove for, for nearly two years, and several dozen letters of inquiry, before being taken on as an apprentice. I was learning a trade from one of the best in his profession, though I was merely a gopher for his endless errands and chores. But I did not belittle myself to these subservient tasks for the measly salary itself, no, no. I studied him, copied his every movement, just waiting for the one moment in which all of my tutelage and observance would pay off.

You see my mentor, Charles Edwin Farley, a well known and prestigious man in the community, was more than a mere accountant. He was a genius. Equal parts charming, deceitful, and cleaver, the man knew what cards to play when it came to getting what he wants. His actions went beyond mere swindling and blackmail. Mister Farley, as only a few of close friends ever dared call him by his name, and it was always Charles, never Charlie at that, was a magistrate of injustice. He took it upon himself to balance one vile act out with another. Mister Farley was a master chess player, and his players were his business and social colleagues who were mentally or financially inferior.

I envied him in many ways; and emulated him in nearly every aspect of my daily routine. He bought his suits and hats from Suttleby’s on the Square, the finest clothier in England. While I could never dream to ever make such an extravagant purchase from them, I was able to obtain older, gently worn pieces from a second hand clothier near the small one room flat I rented in Wellington. I styled my hair in the short and clean cut manner as Mister Farley. I read from the same paper; I ate the same foods whenever I could afford them.

“You learn their secrets, and they’ll scratch your back whenever you demand it of them, my boy,” he would cackled, peering over the edge of silver spectacles as he wrote from the leather bound journal he kept. Oh, that blasted book! On more than one occasion I vowed that I would secretly read his memoir, those thoughts of a mad genius. Every occasion on which I displeased or angered him, he would take out that leather-bound journal with the gold faced edges and scribble furiously without relent.

This is where my life, my simple and ordinary and not bad in its entirety, took a turn for the worse. I became obsessed with my performance, always making sure that my figures were accurate and my records were neat and up-to-date. But there was always something, some meticulous detail in which he would seek out and convey it to those blank pages. That book mocked me. I’d watch his fountain pen dip into the ink well, tap the glass rim, and the anger would then pulse through my veins with such hatred that it took all my strength to control it.

And my obsession grew. I found myself constantly peering over my shoulder, wondering if I would find the old man glaring at me, picking apart the way I worked much like the way a vulture picks apart a carcass. On and on he would ramble about decimal points, percentage rates, interest compounded daily, long term liability, on and on until I thought my head would explode! In those last few months, as I walked along the cobbled streets out of the posh neighborhoods of London towards my humble dwelling, my head would throb with an unyielding pulsation. And the more he needled me, the more my concentration became unfocused.

Then one day he left the office so inexplicably that I had not realized his departure until his return. It was late in the month of October, when the winds were turning colder, announcing winter’s approach. I remember looking out the small paned windows of the office, as a fine mist drizzled throughout the morning. I must have spent a few hours staring out the window, looking at the black gates with the ornately sculpted iron that surrounded the property. There were very few passersby that morning, and we had no appointments. My mind started to wander as soon as I sat at my desk and began to work. The hard slam of the massive oak door startled me out of my reverie.

“Sir,” I said to him, “This bitter wind and drizzle is not ideal traveling weather. If you need an errand made, or require something specific, I would be most assuredly glad to take it upon myself to fetch it for you.”

“You have become so slow witted as of late, Barnes.” He always called me by last name, never my first, and never a Mister, either. To him, my existence was nothing more that the surname from which I had derived.

“Sir, I am,” I stammered but he held up a hand to cut me off.

“For your information, Barnes, I have just returned from an errand to Bedforshire. It was something I had to do myself.” Putting his cane into the umbrella stand, he reached inside his lapel pocket and handed me an envelope.

Trembling, I took the envelope, my fingers skimming over the soft feel of the luxurious card stock. My mind whirled at the thought of its contents. A raise? An invitation?

“Finish out the rest of the day, and first thing tomorrow morning, you’re to be at the address listed inside. It’s all there, black and white.”

“Am I to assume that I will be setting up a new client tomorrow, Sir,” I inquired, too nervous to do anything but clutch the letter furiously.

“No, your services here are terminated. You’re expected at the offices of Beemer and Brown first thing. They’ll explain when you get there,” he smiled his crooked teeth grin at me.

The arrogant swine! The nerve to smile back at me, as if ripping away my future livelihood was some great accomplishment!

“But, Sir…” I managed to stammer. What could I possibly say to convince this madman that I was an earnest and worthy apprentice? “Sir, just look at all my accounts. They’re neat, always up to date. I can assure you that…” But the old geezer cut me off, shaking his hands madly.

“Never you mind about that. I have seen what you consider quality work, and its all in here” he patted his leather journal that he had picked up from his desk, “and I do not wish to discuss this matter any further. That is all, Barnes.”

And at that moment, at that very instance, my life changed forever. I snatched that leather-bound journal from his wrinkled hands and sung wildly, trying to focus all my anger toward him.

The first blow knocked him over, making his head hit the corner of the oak desk with a sickening crack. His eyes rolled up in his skull, and he gasped his last breath. But I was not content with the death of my mentor, oh no. I wanted to hurt him more, but the task seemed impossible for no life remained in his body.

I started shouting at him, “See what you made me do! Well I’ll show you! Is this,” I whacked him again, “up to your standards of quality?” With that, I began to beat him about the head with the corner of his journal several more times, until I was satisfied that not only did I batter his body but also his soul as well.

I sat back at his desk, smiling somewhat, much the way an artist admires his latest work. My hands trembled, but my eyes did not move from his corpse. And that’s when I noticed an official letter, from the tyrant himself, sitting on the top of his desk ready to be mailed. Not giving a damn about what the old man might have thought, I snatched the paper and read it.

My hands shook and tears welled in my eyes. It was a letter of recognition to Beemer and Brown, praising my high standards of workmanship, and saying what a regret it will be to lose me, however Mister Farley stated that the personal accountant to a firm of well known and wealthy barristers was a far more prominent position than a mere apprentice.

Imagine my horror! The wretched tyrant, my beloved successor, had made a personal appearance to secure my new position. His bluntness at my termination was an attempt at humor. I was traumatized beyond belief.

With my head throbbing from all the crying I commenced to do, I laid my head upon the leather journal and sobbed uncontrollably. Yet as I lifted my head, I was once again filled with rage as I looked at the blood stained cover of the man’s journal and wondered what vicious and ugly comments he had wrote about me. Carefully I opened it, to find sketches of houses, country scenes of little brooks with flowers along the bank, and several still life’s of animals, mostly birds, perched upon long sinewy branches. Black and white sketches of the still life around him. Nothing, not one single word about me, my performance, not even a mention of the accounting firm itself.

So now I write the only entry in this journal, testifying to it as actual fact. I killed my mentor, Charles Farley. I shall live with the guilty shame until my maker banishes my blackened soul to roast in the fires of hell for all eternity.