The Tied Man by Tabitha McGowan

night.  Three times now I had heard the low chug of Henry’s little boat, followed by a distant dull thud as the oak doors of Albermarle Hall closed behind its latest guest. 
    Apart from my morning run, and a couple of surreal smalltalk-filled meals with Blaine, I deliberately tried to stay in my studio or my room, but I had caught a glimpse of one middle-aged, affluent couple and a man in his early sixties, who had given me a guilty glance before scurrying into his guestroom.
    Finn had been at one of the dinners with Blaine , and had said all of ten words to me.  He also hadn’t eaten anything except a bread roll that he had picked away at throughout the meal.  Other than that, we met at breakfast if he was still awake, and how talkative he was depended on whether or not there were guests staying: the morning after I had seen the shame-faced man, Finn had simply sat at the kitchen table with his head resting on his arms as if asleep, his ubiquitous cigarette dropping ash onto the table an inch at a time.  Henry told me that Finn spent as much time as he could in the gardens or the Victorian greenhouse if he wasn’t needed for ‘work’, and other than that he stayed in his own room, wherever that was. 
    Part of me was glad that our meetings were so brief, but I was painfully aware that for the first time in my life I was using avoidance to deal with a situation so huge that there was nothing I could change.
    When I got to the kitchen Henry was already at his post, standing at his chopping board as he began to prepare breakfast.  He turned to face me.  ‘Oh, you look absolutely dreadful, dear.’
    ‘Why, thank you Mr Masterson, you silver-tongued charmer.’
    ‘I didn’t mean it like that, and you know I didn’t.  It’s just that you’re hardly your usual effervescent self, are you?’
    ‘Arthritis flare-up.’
    ‘Aren’t you a little young for that?  I thought it was only us old farts that had to worry about such things.’  Henry set down a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice for me as he bustled about.
    ‘I broke my collar-bone when I was fourteen.  It should’ve been pinned, but I ended up leaving hospital in more haste than was good for me.  It didn’t heal well.’  I kneaded at my neck in a futile attempt to release the knot of muscle.  ‘I don’t suppose you could give my shoulder a pummelling, could you?’
    ‘I wouldn’t want to hurt you.’
    ‘You won’t.  Don’t worry.’  I shrugged the bathrobe off. ‘Anyway, I promise I’ll scream good and loud if you do.’
    As soon as Henry began to rub my back, I knew he was going to be too gentle to be of much use.  ‘You need to get really stuck in,’ I advised, then just as he was beginning to get a little braver, I flinched when he accidentally hit the spike of rough bone that Nat had learned to avoid.
    ‘Oh my goodness!’ Henry leaped away as if stung.  ‘What on earth is that ?’
    ‘The break.  I told you it was a bit of a mess.’
    ‘I don’t think I’ve got the temperament for this, I’m afraid.  Perhaps Finn could do a better job?’
    On cue, Finn stalked into the kitchen, Bran at his heels.  ‘Better job at what?’  He gave us both a glare of pure malice. ‘We’ve already ascertained that our esteemed artist here isn’t into the kind of services I provide.’
    Before I could respond, Henry stepped up to Finn and peered at his face. ‘Finn Strachan, are you drunk?’
    Finn brought a near-empty vodka bottle out of his back pocket and waved it at Henry.  ‘I should fuckin’ hope so.’
    ‘Oh, Finn, it’s only seven o’clock -’ Henry began.
    ‘Henry, rearrange the following words into a sentence.  Off.  Fuck.  So, what’s the problem?  Painter’s cramp?’ 
    ‘No.  As I was explaining to Henry before you made your graceful entrance, I broke my collarbone when I was at school.  Well, strictly speaking someone else used their hockey stick to break it for me.’
    Finn gave a superbly