A Chance Meeting

A small, shy smile popped onto my face, and I placed my hand in his. 'Jonathan Small,' I replied, 'call me Jonathan, or Mr. Small, or Sir for all I care,' William laughed, instantly I knew he was a keeper. 'Who did you come with?' My eyes darted from his hair to his feet, then back to his face, 'you don't look the sort for pushy academics,' I commented, throwing my voice from the main room so as not to be heard. Yet he was still shaking, and seemed a bit afraid. 'Come on William, don't tell me you're afraid of these people?' He checked himself again, and fumbled around in his pockets. 'I'll be going then shall I?'
'Wait no sorry! Jonathan, Jonathan. I have a favour to ask of you,' he said quickly.
'Ah, a favour from a stranger? Honestly William, we've only just met, what would your mother say?' I added cheekily.
'My mother's dead,' silence. 'Jonathan you're quite easy to scare,' William chuckled and placed his hands on his hips. 'But, the favour is that, well, I don't know how to say this... I'm a big fan of your reviews, and if it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you possibly have a glance at some of the things I have written?'
'Oh, so you know who I am do you? I'm flattered really, but I don't know when I'll have the time... And there's all the legal mumbo-jumbo that goes along with it too; if I was to say they were fantastic then I'd be endorsing you to my publisher-' I stopped at once. 'What's so funny?' I could see William's face buried in his hands and stifled snorts were jutting from between his parted fingers.
'I was asking for an opinion, Jonathan, not a book deal!' He cried enthusiastically, and fell onto the bottom step of the staircase. 'You REALLY are easy to scare,' he continued, and begun to light a cigarette.
I smiled at him once again, and swung myself round onto the step above him. 'Can I borrow your light?' William did not look up at me but laughed again, 'an artist such as yourself? Don't you need one for every day purposes?' He snickered again, and handed me a silvery grey lighter.
'I am not an artist, you should know that, I'm a critic-'
'oh I forget,' he interrupted, 'you're the ones ripping the art to shreds!' And he fell over laughing. Admittedly, it was funny that someone so new to me could analyse my profession so quickly, I suppose this is the problem with these big parties. I fumbled around in my breast pocket and revealed a battered packet of Marlborough Reds, I fished one out and dropped it between my lips, then lit it. 'Those things'll kill ya,' William commented, with another puff of his cigarette.
'Better me than you,' I added. 'So tell me, who did you come here with?'
William stood up, and placed himself against the open door, peering slowly into the ballroom. 'Look at all those people, do you know, I don't know any of them?' He seemed mesmerised in their dances, 'I wonder if anybody noticed that they didn't know me,' he laughed quietly under his breath.
'They're completely ambivalent to newcomers,' I said, 'and you're avoiding the question.'
He paced over to the banister, and turned to me. 'I came alone. It's what I'm most used to, I was born alone, I lived alone, and now I'm here alone. And I can tell you for sure, tomorrow I'll damn well be alone.'
I watched him head out of the corridor, back to the dance floor, and decided it was best to leave him alone.
I wasn't sure what had just happened, or even who William was, but I knew I would see him again sometime soon.

Meeting

The party was now in full swing, couples glided across the laminate floor arm in arm, entwined with gowns and tuxedos, humming to the band high on the stage. I looked across the floor and could not pick up anyone's eye, and quickly glanced back to the barman, shook my glass at him and mumbled 'another straight please', he glared at me, and raising his hand he ruffled his thinning hair backwards out of his eyes. I turned back to the dancefloor and checked once again for somebody I even remotely knew.
Roughly fifty feet from me was an old friend of mine, he stood nonchalantly with his elbow resting on a nearby end table, clutching drunkenly onto his drink with his other arm, and his legs wobbling around madly. This man was not too old; although you wouldn't think so, and not too short; although you wouldn't think so. I'd always say he was in his mid fifties, or sixties, but with people of his calibre it is possible he could even be younger than me. Quite stocky around the belly, his face was also rosy and pig-cheeked. He seemed to be entertaining the few women around him, all of which seemed more interesting in his interesting choice of attire rather than his so-called jokes. His suit was ragged and unbuttoned, and his hair fell straight over his face. Sharply I necked down my fresh drink, and flushed myself from the bar stool. Now it was my turn to horde the cows, and weaving in an out of dancers I scarcely avoided awkward conversation. There were some who wished to dance with me, and some who wished to kill me; I thought it best to keep my head down.
Suddenly there roared a blast, like a steamtrain crashing into halt, from in front of me. 'JONATHAN, you sunnuvabitch, what in God's name are you doing here!' He lurched towards me flailing his arms out, initiating an awkward embrace, I reluctantly complied and the pungent scent of cheap smokes and gin festered in his cotton.
'Ronald I-' I started to say before he quickly interjected with 'oh call me Ron, we've known each other for long enough - now tell me Jo-' he stopped mid-sentence with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. I shuffled in my shoes, and tilted my head towards his. He was still for some time now, although it was possibly only a few moments, it seemed like hours. His drunkenness had captured the whole room. Slowly, Ronald's mouth closed neatly under his bushy white moustache. His eyes thinned and down came his eyebrows. At once I knew what the matter was. I chuckled, and whispered 'Jonathan, sir.' With an explosion of relief he screamed 'NATHAN!!' At the top of his voice. 'Jonathan! I knew it! I knew it! Hah, you must forgive me child, these sort of func-' and he had trailed off again. Having been in this situation many times I employed my usual technique, laughing for no particular reason, usually I laugh for a couple of seconds, and he seems to carry on for the rest of the night. Needless to say, this particular evening was no anomaly.
Skulking away, back into the gaggle of guests, something caught my eye on the far wall. A metal door with a bar across the middle had slammed shut, wondering what it was, I pushed past the dancers and through the door, onto a strange corridor. At one end there was an empty black room, I could see into it because the door had been kicked down it seemed, and at the other end was a small staircase with a boy leaning against it.
I lent back on the door, shutting it, and minding my feet I employed a slight stroll to meet this mysterious person. 'Well well, what're we doing out here all alone?' I jokingly mutter, I am unsure if this is actually rude or not. He flinches and hurries up the stairs with a cigarette and tosses it to the ground, stamping on it furiously. 'I'm s-so s-s-sorry! I didn't know you couldn't smoke out here! I'm sorry I'm sorry! I tried to get out of the front, I t-t-tried! But the man - he was a big man, and he had no hair - he - he told me that if I went out once, I would not be able to come back in! And I would not want that, no, not in the slightest! It's an excellent p-party, really, t-top notch!' He kept ramming his foot onto the cigarette, even though it was already completely out. As he noticed his foot doing this, he began to slow it down, and ever so mechanically, still with his leg suspended above the floor, ready to pounce on any flames, he turned his body towards me. 'You're not the host, a-are you?'
My eyes climbed the stairs and I saw him, standing then looking terrified. I chuckled and smiled at him, 'no of course not. I just came out here for some time to myself. You needn't be so,' I looked his expression of horror up and down, 'ghastly.' He began to laugh awkwardly, 'and also, do you really think this party is that good?' His laughter had picked up, and soon he was against the back wall clutching his stomach with comedy. 'You can come down you know,' I suggested. At once he went to place his raised leg down on the stair but slipped, and came tumbling down into a heap. I had wisely moved out of the way. He scuffled to his feet and hurriedly brushed dirt and dust from his clothes.
Now, clean again, he extended his right arm with an open palm. 'My name's William,' he smiled.

He Looked At Me

'This will be my last letter, it's not to you, it's to anybody. But I have a thrilling secret to share. If you look deep inside yourself, behind those built up walls against society, religion and love, you will find what makes us human; our souls. And whether your soul is God given, built in, or even just a concept, you are like everyone else. And it is our souls that keep us chained to this barren earth and torments us so. And woman, hah, if ever there was proof of an omnimalevolent God, here is one! She, is not of man, she is not of a plain existence. Anatomically incorrect as well, even their hands repulse me, and their sick scent. Beautiful eyes? Beautiful hair? No, it is all false. A trick if you will, something to latch you in, no, I have never loved a woman. And I'm sure if I had known her to this day I would have resented my own shallow born mother. I pity that she was of their kind and suffered from their disease.
Is there anything else? Aye, there is. There was a man I once met, he was the instigator. A fine man, I can scarcely remember how he looked but I knew who held my future in his hands. He did not know of me - and I was overjoyed - and yet, he said I knew him. But I could not place him, I did not know anyone outside your circle, and this man did not know you either. I asked if I knew him from school, he did not know what I meant. He asked me of my line of work, and as soon as I mentioned I was a writer he started to laugh. That's when I knew.
This was he, the man that I had met only once before, in the raging shadows. I attempted to murder him where he stood, but to no avail. I had past a point of no humane return. And I shut my eyes.'

~

'It was there where I saw people I had never dreamt before. Their figures were mismatched, and they twisted and flickered in all directions. But it was not as simple as this, there were thousands at first; and looking at one others spawned cancerously from shades. I had barely time to think this through, and I was faced with millions. Without any warning or yell, the darkened velvet curtain covered the stage, and deafening screams filled the place. I fell to my knees and bellowed 'You! Curtain! Blockade! Rise, show me the players!' And so it did.'

At Once You See The Light

'I spent my years at Rugby under the careful supervision of the older boys and the schoolmasters. They taught me well I suppose, but there was something missing, something I could not begin to comprehend. As you might have guessed, we were very much force-fed the literary greats from the word go. And as much as I admire Keats, Blake and Wordsworth, there is only so much someone can stand. I needed something new and fresh, and that is where I developed this longing for London. Do you remember my earliest letters to you? I had read about you somewhere and sent you sycophantic letters by the boatload. I imagine you didn't look at them though.'

The words end there, it appears as if William had wanted to continue (below there is a scribbled out sentence and a piece has been torn from the bottom) but lacked the will. Or perhaps something had triggered in his thought, and seized his writing hand. Who knows. But what I do know, is that I have been indoors for too long. I need to go outside. Carefully, I folded the letter once again, and tucked it under a weight inside the box. Then, locking the box, I slid it under my bed again.

~

Standing by the window, it was clear to me that the city had not died with him. I wondered just why it was so bright, these sort of Sundays always are though. But it's not a welcoming brightness; no, there is something powerful about a Sunday, they permiate your very self and shudder your bones. Is it boredom? Or is it something deeper, do these days force us to recall our childhoods, and the lazy Sundays we suffered then. No matter what it is, you are expected to feel grief, loss or regret.

It is days like these where we remember the happiest times, the laughter, the tears, the cigarettes and alcohol.
All these play heavy on the heartstrings; I think it's time to go for a walk.

This Life

'For me, it all began a year ago, when I first arrived here. I remember that day all too fondly, it was the start of Autumn I recall, and the leaves around St Pancras were quite golden. I had only ever been to London once before, and it was not best encouraged by the schoolmasters. In fact, I had never been to London properly, I was born there you see. I'm not sure if I ever told you that, but my mother was a Londoner born and bred. Sadly, I never got to knew her. You see, she was born somewhere in East London, New Cross I think, and was destined to live a terrible life. She barely got anywhere at school, and made many enemies whilst failing. Her parents, my grandparents, were apparently even worse. They were your typical working class husband and wife, he - a street sweeper, she - a house wife charged with looking after three terrible children, my mother being the youngest of the girls. Having no skills or qualifications she fell to the street, and that was where my father ran into her. From her letters to him it was clear they were very madly in love, sadly they were not meant to be, he, like me, was educated at Rugby School and could never be seen with her. This particular letter meant the most to me.'
Hidden inside of this long stretch of paper was another smaller, ruffled up note, as I unwravelled it my heart raced at the thought of reading a possibly great love story.

'Alfred,
I understand that you've not been able to stop teaching for a month now, but this really takes the biscuit! I'm here, in this little shack you have so kindly rented for me, in an unknown part of town, in a lot of bloody pain! I've rewritten this letter a lot of times now, and every time they say the same thing, so I thought it'd best to just be honest. There's not a day that goes by I don't think about us getting married in some far off church, and our first house in the countryside, and children, and a family dog, and whathaveyou. But sadly Alfy, the truth is completely the opposite. As a sort of continuation from your last visit, I am now 'with child'. If you ever want to see him or her, or even me, then you know where to find us. Lots of love, Lizzie.'

'My aunt said that after my mother sent that letter, my father visited her twice every week, if not more. All the while my mother had to pretend that my father was actually just her doctor, and not the child's father. The child in question was me. Finally I was born, and as passionately as I had been conceived, my birth was met with joy and happiness. Everyone told everyone the truth, and much merriment was had. After this, my father went back to lecturing at Oxford and my mother went to work in a factory. They never saw each other again. Nothing was ever said as to why, but aunt Denise hinted at some sort of infidelity on my mother's part. Sad really, isn't it? Anyway, as I got older my mother started to lose more. My grandparents passed away, her sister too, and Denise moved across to Ireland with her husband. My mother was left all alone in that great city. So, I see where you're coming from when you're melancholy. Money troubles started to get to her too, and she was forced to sell the house my father had bought her and move out of London, at long last. It was well overdue.'
'Her travels brought her to the West Country where she met a man she cared for dearly, and he cared for her. They married, and I was proclaimed as his son to avoid any confusion. Thankfully there was no confusion to be suffered by a three year old. Then, suddenly, without any warning, my mother's husband thought it best for them to move back to London, as this where he saw that they would live their lives together. On the journey back, and in quite a shocking move, my mother decided to stop in Rugby and find out whether the school knew where my father was now. Sure enough, Alfred was still hovering about in his loft in Oxford, researching and writing. Did he care about me? Did he worry about me? It was strange to think that he had a hand in creating me, and then just left me to my own devices. He truly was a God. Back in London things took a turn for the worst. My mother contracted an awful case of tuberculosis, which prompted her husband to head back to his home to fetch some things so he could spend all his time in London. My mother had been in correspondance with my father since she went to Rugby, and had told him everything, where they lived, their full names, everything he needed to know. Whilst in Somerset, my mother's husband was trampled by horses, or died in a barn fire. Something on his farm, I don't remember the actual gory details.'
'Well, my mother had sent one final letter to my father, telling him to come to London at once. He did, as this was the first time she had said she had wanted him to do anything. However, by the time my father arrived my mother had sadly passed on. In my mother's will she had given full responsibilty of me over to him, so he took me back to Oxford, he kept me well, he looked after me, I daresay he loved me. I can even recall him telling me tales of my mother, and how he would cry in the night as I read him my goodnight story. He had chosen for me to take on both his and my mother's surnames, such is why I am William Alfred Baker Jones. I was born sans the Baker however.'

A Welcome Opening

'Can you hear them too? Their strange, maddening cries! As I saw them stand in line, and topple under their own weight I too broke inside. The ghosts of the evening held a queer power over me, and it is difficult to admit, but I believe I held a power over them. And yet - how was it, that when I rolled my eyes upwards and away from their sinful eyes, I developed a sense of longing, of foreboding, of sheer inhuman dread! Yes, they knew of my plight; like him, they chuckled at the futility of it all. Holding myself in these arms is too futile, as well as, also, and unnecessarily futile. It seems there is nothing now that will shelter me, I must find refuge in the nocturnal streets and sideroads. The moon, my only friend, I will set with its sleep and rise with its woe. Is this me? Is this him? Is this him? I have grown unsure over the months, and I am left with only one thing to do. Open my eyes.'

The Beginning of the End

An old greying woman sharp of face and language, guided me to this compact office, the walls were a disgusting shade of brown, with strips peeling themselves off, however the rest of the room was not aiming for class. Apart from a large metallic filing cabinet, the only other noticable object was a rusty desk and two chairs on either side, in the centre of the room.
She flicked through her notepad quickly, her glasses drifting to the bottom of her nose as she turned every page, so she would push them back up and stutter. She gestured towards the closest chair, and I sat down reluctantly. She turned her back, and still with her face in her notepad, she scuffled outside back into the hallway. Surveying the room I did notice one other thing, a miniscule wallclock, hung next to the window. I could not see through the window, for the blinds appeared to be broken and would not show me the city.
In the back of my head I could hear footsteps, and turning round I noticed that the woman who had so carefully made sure I was safe earlier, was now standing in the doorframe holding a strange keepsafe. It appeared to be an antique treasure box, the sides were gilded with golden leaves and the rest was fashioned in deepset leather. In the centre of the box, on the front face, there appeared to be a small keyhole, crafted of silver. What was this thing, and why was she in possession of it?
Surely she stepped forward and handed me the strange contraption. I inspected it with my fingers and it really did seem quite small. Looking up at her, I muffled a snigger and asked 'Is this the bill?' She did not seem best pleased and sighed with her lip curled upwards, blowing her pointy fringe away. 'That's it. Apparently there are some other things in his flat that the coroner is still inspecting... I don't know how long it'll be until you'll be able to see those. There is no key for the box. I suppose it can be prized open but I'm not sure I want to be a liability-' she paused, and our eyes caught each other's, she then cracked a smile '- and I'm sure you don't want me snooping around,' and with a flick of her pencil skirt she had darted out the room.
Outside, the night had really come down fast. It was now only five o'clock, but these winters are so dark. So, I tied the box up in a package I had in my jacket pocket, and bundled it under my armpit. Here's where I lost my train of thought, I knew I had arrived somewhere near Euston Square, but that was in broad daylight; now there was nothing but dim lamplights to lead my way, and I was growing uneasy. Sooner or later I came across a back alley that appeared to lead to a main road, and decided to take it.

Halfway through the alleyway I paused, ducked under a ladder, behind a doorway and looked around. I slid the box out from under my arm and began to push the lid open with the back of my cigarette lighter...

Ascention

I stood there, staring at this place, lodged in between two sidewalls and so expertly hidden in such an obvious place. The building itself was giraffe-like, tall, thin, with a heavy base. It was crooked towards the top and the sign read 'The Violet Crow', this tilted, crooked also, neon sign beated at odd times, and with each beat a soft buzz faintly through itself into the night. Clouds, spindly and weaving, held themselves between each displaced wall and pipe. Why was it so strange, this place, it carried an eerie sort of self-worth and self-depreciation, although strangely compelling all the same.

As frost pestered me relentlessly, I decided to duck in for a short spell, warm my throat so to speak. Inside the place was even more enigmatic than I had hoped. The entrance hall was a tiny cramped cupboard, with a rickety iron staircase, with what looked like leather padding on the top of each stair. Red leather, more scarlet actually, with worn dents and scars torn into them. As I ascended the stairs, clutching onto the banister for what I believed was dear life, I noticed etchings on the walls. Somebody had turned their hand to graffiti art. Most of them were people's names, with hearts or knives adorning them, a possible rememberence. But the most interesting by far, was a miniture crucifix, perfectly carved into the wall next to the centre stair. As the building seemed fairly old the walls too carried a noble age. Each wall seemed constructed out of solid steel, and when I placed my palm against them, I did not feel the cold, but a strange sense of warmth. The crucifix however, was an anomoly. The space around it was all knotted wood, with splinters forcing themselves out of the carving.

Slowly, I clambered to the top and arrived at a large empowering tin door. To reassure myself of my safety I dug my fingers into the sides and peered daringly over my shoulder to review the staircase. Suddenly I realised that I had been climbing for some time, and this staircase was spiralled. I had previously perceived it as forcefully vertical. It then came to my attention that the deathly silence I had tolerated on my way up, and faded into something more welcoming. Slow living room jazz was quietly pumping itself under the doorframe, and with each saxophone note a new light seemed to glow from around the door. Carefully, as to not touch any rust, I turned the knob. The door did not seem to respond and I then noticed the doorknob was not attached to any noticeable mechanism. I shuffled my shoulders to the side of the door and positioned my arms across the side of it, then with a great heave, I lunged to the side turning the door on its pivot. It gradually opened, creaking and shuddering with every new push.

Finally, as I staggered out of the doorframe and aquired some loose footing on the sticky floor, it was clear where I was. This was the place he had told me about. I was here at last.