AUTHOR: Richard Bachman

EMAIL: bachman_rchard@hotmail.com

SITE: nope

FEEDBACK: Oh Yes! Absolutely.

Part I Going Under

8.

By the time Higgins' rear end started farting a concert of Bach for our amusement and Bradbury was hopping on the cots, stripped completely starkers except for his pair of glasses and his socks, I decided that I really needed a fag in the clear evening air, and fled the room with a slightly queasy feeling in the stomach.

Even I had my bloody limits.

The frost had not settled in yet, and the cobblestone streets were wet and slippery. I made my way through the stinking alleys with the dimmed lights and the drunk yells, where at every corner there was a whore looking for business. I stepped over puddles of rainwater and horse piss, ducked beneath wash-lines heavy with rags, and almost stumbled over a beggar who was fighting a skinny dog over a rotten meat-bone. I searched my pocket and tossed him a crown, letting the mutt get away with the bone.

"Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you!" Blurted the old man, and grinned a grateful, one-tooth grin.

"No thanks mate." After a giving it a second of thought, I added cheerily. "Complements from my dear friend Bradbury here!"

I wandered off with an inward chuckle while I imagined Old Brad's face if he knew I had just wasted another five shillings on some poor old homeless hag. I doubted that he would still keep calling me Darling Dashing Will or Willie o-Dearie after that, which was all the better, actually. Come to think of it, perhaps I should tell the crazy old goat.

I reached Cable Street, which marked the end of the miserable maze of poverty that was the Whitechapel district, and crossed the road with its busy traffic of handcarts, carriages and wagons down into The Highway, where a long strip of promenade was looking out over the bend of the Thames. I strolled along for while, with my hands deep my in pockets, and my collar tugged up to my chin, clouds fuming out of my mouth and nostrils with every breath. The sun was setting, darkening the high sky. In the west, a shimmering glow dipping into the glittering water was all that could be seen. The London docks with its high cranes, boat-houses and gigantic steamers, and the mighty Tower Bridge at my right, the entire south side of the city across the river, they were no more but a series of shades in a yellow smoulder, impressions of the real things lying hidden inside the pervasive fog. Always that soddin fog.

I leaned over the banister and lit myself a fag, blowing rings of smoke to join the haze. From out of the low mist that drifted over the dark water like a ghost rose a ship, old and battered, blackened by the fumes that pomped out of the two massive chimneys. My lazy eyes followed it as the big ugly thing made its way to the west, its bow splitting water while it rear left a trail of froth and flocks of bickering seagulls in its wake.

It was simply impossible, I thought. The whole idea could easily be considered outrageous, un-bloody-believable and completely nutters to the point of getting toenails-chewing paranoid. I knew that the professor was right. There was a sun up there during the day, and it would actually show itself sporadically. Even in bloody London with its numerous coal-fumes spitting chimneys of fancy residents, slumps and factories alike, I knew the bloody thing should be there and that it should shine from time to time. It's just that I couldn't remember that I've ever really seen it happen before.

How long was it? Three-four months ago? Must be something like that, because I clearly remember the snow. Four months ago, I woke up in the frozen ditch of a foul back-street alley near the St Giles. Without money, without a shred of decent clothing, and without a soddin clue of where or who I was. I was beaten and bleeding. There were cuts the size and shape of whip-lashes running all over my back, and on my chest some sick-minded git had carved scary little doodles with a knife. At the right side of my heart, just below the collarbones, was a scar the shape of a star from which arms of reddened and extremely painful tissue spread like a soddin nimbus. Pete and Bradbury found me like that, cringing on top of a pile of crates; a frightened, weeping, shivering ball of misery, desperately trying to get away from the hungry pack of mutts that was snapping at my legs. I was so maddened by the pain and fear that I actually bit poor Pete in the finger when he tried to drape his coat over my shoulders. They took me back to the doss-house, looked after me, and gave me a straw mattress to sleep on and a roof above my head. Pete was wonderful. He shared every little bit he had with me; from every crumb of moulded bread to every shred of moth-eaten clobber. The wounds all healed over the weeks that passed, except for the star-shaped scar and that large gaping hole in my memory. I could remember nothing about my past but perhaps my name, about which I was actually not completely sure of either. I knew nothing beyond that frightful moment that I opened my eyes, my body stiff from the night's cold with the spire of the St Giles winking down at me through a grey fog. I didn't have a place in this world.

To Bradbury, that problem was easily fixed; he simply offered me his own. So I was taught the secrets of his trade. How to spot my victims and the coppers. How to snatch and steal, to lie and deceit. How to live another day in the East End and not to become grub for the bloody strays. And over time, I found myself getting better and better at it, not only with the pocketing, but also with dealing with all of it. The guilt, the fear to get caught, and the dread that somewhere out there were people who loved me, who were actually worrying sick about me, but who I had simply wiped out of my sodding memory like a swab of dirt from one's shoes.

Eventually, the rhythm of daily slur lulling me into acceptance, and so all these months I lived my life underneath this hazed sky, going to bed and rising up with the poor in the East End, and robbing and deceiving the rich during the day in the flamboyant districts in London's West End. At each of these days that I could remember the weather was always the same. The sky was the same. Always this impermeable fog, this yellow watery glow, this grey, gloomy sky. Never did even a single sunbeam break through from behind those bloody clouds. In all of my memories of these long months, the sun was absolutely dominating because of its persistent and wholly absence.

So maybe, it wasn't really there after all?

"Will, you're getting bug-shagging crazy." I muttered to myself, tapping off the ash-cone of my cigarette into the Thames. "You really are gradually getting your brains replaced by black pudding, don't ya?" Footsteps sounded behind me, coming into my direction.

"Penny for your thoughts, Will."

I grinned and huffed a string of smoke out of my nose.

"Silly thing to offer. You know they're not worth a bloody grain of dirt."

Pete jumped onto the railing, and sat on the broad stone rim, facing me with his back toward the river.

"What the bloody hell are you here for, mate?" I asked, lighting him a fag. "Thought you said you would stay put and finish the wine."

The young lad shook his head and took the cigarette between two fingers, sipping on it cautiously. "Didn't fancy the way Higgins was turning our doss into a gigantic gas pocket, and did you even see Brads? The way he bounced around with his whole wrinkly old package dangling in the brisk air, it was absolutely horrific!"

"Do please stop reminding me. My stomach has just settled back into the proper position."

"It was just cruelty on your part to leave me at home with them! Pure wickedness!"

"Oh dear!" I exclaimed, doing my best haughty upper class imitation that lifted my normal voice a whole octave higher. "I've just added child-abuse to my long list of felonies! What is to become of this sinner?"

The steamer rolling by in the river beneath us boomed twice with his foghorn; low and hollow sounds that echoed against the invisible buildings behind the mist. They resonated through my body like the pulse of a second heartbeat. Pete took another careful sip of his fag, his eyes already glossy. When he spoke, his voice sounded raw and strained.

"You missed a bit of excitement when Mr Collin came to collect the rent."

"Have I?" I asked, amused.

"Yeah, the old grumpy goat thought we were all faggots after Brads answered the door in his birthday suit. So doc called him a large ass closet wanker and a dirty old secret child-molester before he threw a chair at him."

I had to chuckle, and stared at the boy with a lifted an eyebrow.

"Well, it's true! You know how he gets when he's pissed."

"All overly friendly and very vomety close, if that's what you're pointing at. But not furniture-hurling mad. That's nothing like him, really. Now the offensive part! That I can agree on. He doesn't need any booze to know how to get someone's dander up."

"He still did throw that bloody chair." Pete shrugged. "Missed Collins though. Knocked a dent in the wood of the doorframe instead."

"So I figure we're still going to be kicked out by that vindictive old hag?" I said, sucking the glowing cone till up the tip of my fingers.

"Nope. Though Mr Collins was furious, of course. Brads settled it by offering him a not very well-meant apology, saying he was pissed and didn't know what he was doing. Offered him another ten shillings to keep the landlord from polishing his boots to kick our arses out in the streets."

"He paid him another crown?" My breath caught in my throat and I started coughing. And I thought that I was excessively generous one here. Pete nodded and started joining in with the wheezing. I snatched the fag from his mouth and threw it over the banister.

"Hey!"

"No more smoking for you, lad." And then, thinking, I added with a grin. "I'm just reminded that you're under-aged."

"Bloody unfair. I was enjoying it!"

"Obviously." I muttered, rolling my eyes. "So the old prof didn't mind digging deep in his pocket this time? God, he really must be incredibly far off, bet his brains are all pickled, ready to be stuck in a pot and put on a shelf."

"He said we could always go back tomorrow to the National and score ourselves another ten quid, perhaps even double the lout if he and Higgins came along too."

I glanced at him over my shoulder as I was leaning over the railing toward the river, which had turned completely black by now with only pinpoints of lights at the shores to guide the passing ships.

"What you reckon, Will?"

"Sounds dangerous. That bloke with the tailed coat and the walrus whiskers, he saw us didn't he? Bet he can recognize us as well if we bump into him again."

"So it's not so clever, then?"

I took a last lung full and hurled the fag-stump into the Thames. The glowing amber of its tip disappeared quickly into the dense fog. "It's without a doubt the most backward plan ever concocted by of Brads' greedy overripe brains." I said, curling my lips into a cocky little grin. "Bet it'll make much for fun, though."

Pete undoubtedly recognized the mad twinkle in my eyes.

"So you're in for it, then? We're going back tomorrow?"

"Definitely, wouldn't want to miss a chance at a bit of excitement, now would I?"

Pete smiled broadly. "Bloody wicked!"

We stood a bit there a bit longer in silence, keeping our own thoughts to ourselves but still enjoying each other company. The sky was a veil of darkness, no stars or moon to light the dark ribbon of water looping through the grey city. There was only the gusty wind playing with our coats, and the sounds of horns and passing ships and the quiet rustling of waves breathing out on the banks.

"Will, tell about that nightmare you had this morning."

I frowned at the boy. Guess there goes that single peaceful moment of quiet for the evening. Should have known it wouldn't last with the boy around.

"Oh no, not that again!" I shook my head firmly. "You're not going to trick me into another round of story telling before your bedtime!"

"Ah, come on! I like a good scary tale before turning in. It's not like I cannot sleep from it!"

"Yeah? It just happens to spoil my own night's rest to get thinking about my nightmares before I go hit the sack, did you ever consider that?"

"Will, you promised! We had a deal, remember? You tell me your worst ones and I go wake you up every time you start trashing in your sleep. You must have had a good scare this morning, b'cause you were all yelling these loopy things and screaming like a bloody bir -."

I shot an ugly look at the brat.

"I mean you just screamed. Very manly, didn't sound like a woman at all."

"And that was to encourage me to start telling?"

Pete grin widened into a cheeky smile.

"I kept my end of the bargain, didn't I? Now it's your turn to pay up!"

I sighed and goggled my eyes. Spoiled little brats, aren't they just the sweetest.

"All right." I growled. "But mind you, if I'm gonna have another one tonight b'cause of this, you better be there to wake me up or else I'm gonna spend some good time tomorrow morning, mashing you into a bloody pulp."

"Wicked!"

"And for the record, I didn't scream. It was like more like a roar. A pitch or two too high perhaps. But definitely a roar, very manly indeed."

"Yeah." Pete rolled his eyes at me. "Whatever. So, was it about that mountain with those pitch-forked demons and that scary girl again?"

"No!" I sniped, bloody irritated. "And please don't start helping me to remember the exact details of what the hell that was all about. Already busy trying to dig up some very nasty stuff here, just for your bloody entertainment. Don't need more frightening memories, thank you so much."

"Right." Pete shrugged. "I don't mind, was getting bored with that musty oldie anyway. Now get to your new story already!"

TBC