Taking Flight: Celtic Myths

Chapter 1 - Tara

W hat the hell is this ? Mal’s voice came from inside the kitchen as Gwyn caught the last sack of flour the delivery guy threw at him. It hit him in the middle with a thump and he was breathless in the cold rain for a moment before he could haul it onto his shoulder and turn to face his boss.

Flour delivery? he said tentatively. It should be obvious.

Who ordered this much? Mal replied.

Gwyn opened his mouth to tell him he’d just rung through what Chef had put on the list, but before he could, Chef was there behind Mal, scowling.

I left him to do the orders yesterday, he said. Idiot. How much do you think we use?

I just ordered what you wrote down, Gwyn said, moving past them to dump the sack with the other eleven on the counter inside the door and then turning back to the delivery guy where he was swinging down from the back of the van and proffering the chitty.

I’ll take that, Mal said, snatching it out of the man’s hand before Gwyn could reach for it.

Thanks, mate, Gwyn said to the guy. He was a regular. We’ll sort this out our end, don’t worry about it.

The guy nodded and flashed Gwyn a smile. See you next time, he said with a wink. Gwyn couldn’t help a quick grin back. He was a nice bloke.

Mal saw him though, glancing up at just the wrong time from where he was frowning at the invoice.

Are you flirting with him? he asked, face darkening. You’re not here to tart around during working hours; doing whatever you do at home.

Jesus, Mal! It was just a smile. It slipped out before Gwyn could stop it. Let it go!

Mal scowled some more. You’ll have to work this off, he said, gesturing with the invoice. Or pay for it. This is an over-order.

It’s not like it’ll go off, Gwyn replied. And I’m sure they’ll take it back if it’s wrong. He glanced over at Chef, who was now going through the rest of the dry goods order Gwyn had unloaded onto the counter beside the flour. I only ordered what was on the list, anyway. It said twelve twenty-five kilo bags. That’s what I ordered. That’s what’s here.

He gestured at the pile.

Chef glowered at him. The older man didn’t like being called out when he messed up. How much he messed up depended on how much he drank and how much he drank depended on how well his love-life was going. At the moment his wife was on a long visit to her sister down in Dublin and he was slashed most of the time.

We don’t need this many, Chef said. I wouldn’t have put twelve on the list. We don’t use this many in a week, even during high season!

Mal glowered at Gwyn. "So it’s your fuck-up, Gwynnie-boy."

His eyes were narrowed and the implicit threat in his voice made Gwyn take a step back. He raised his chin though, and met Mal’s eyes. He was tired of being frightened of him. Not my fuck-up, Maly-boy, he replied in the hardest voice he could manage.

He was half expecting it, but Mal’s back-hand across his cheek still came as a shock. The blow turned him half around and the sudden, shattering pain that jabbed across his cheek and nose made him cry out as he stumbled against the door-frame.

Don’t give me lip, you disgusting little bitch, Mal growled. Get on with your work—put this stuff away—and keep your mouth shut. You need some sense knocked into you and I don’t mind doing it whilst you’re staying here.

He turned away. Come on, he said to Chef. We need to go through the new-starter paperwork.

They both exited through the kitchen and out of the door that led to the office.

Gwyn leaned against the door-frame in a daze and felt his nose carefully. Shit, that hurt. It was bleeding, too, and he fumbled in his pocket for a tissue to mop it with. Arsehole, he thought. Fucking arsehole.

What was