Louis MacNeice
Autumn Journalist
Chapter 3 - Gary comes clean?
As daylight caressed his pallid face, Trevor walked lithely upon the makeshift suspension bridges that crisscrossed the City's shantytowns in the steep ascent from seaside to riverbank. Selecting a suitable route in his head, he hopped onto a makeshift path, and tried to remember the map of Lun Dun streets... It had been years since he last ventured to the surface. The melanin in his skin struggled to boost its B12 levels, after years of anaemic deficiency... Stinking, noxious fumes oozed from all directions, wafting towards his nostrils where they mixed like rancid perfume, made him cough and sputter.
- 'Welcome to the city, my friend', he thought and walked on, unflinching.
He knew, from what last night's cryptic phone conversation had told him, that his friends weren't dead. He knew the rumours of their death had been just a smokescreen, a necessary scam to hide the goings-on. He knew Cornelius, too, was out there somewhere- waiting, observing, like he himself waited and observed... Things weren't always as they seemed. That much he knew.
On his way through the boat-towns, shantytowns, mechatowns, past yurts and makeshift treehouses, traveller's wagons and ancient high-house ruins overgrown with ivy and lovingly renovated by local bolos, he noticed one thing. The residents, no matter where you looked, were uncannily quiet. It was as if, before he arrived, something very strange- perhaps terrible- had happened near these quarters. Perhaps... No, it couldn't be. The Chronomaster was dead, wasn't he? But his adherents may still be here.
Out here, trying to restore the age-old order of hierarchy and power. He shuddered.
Approaching an ancient 'tube' station, his mood brightened. 'Mornington Crescent', the solemn sign read. He darted down into the greyness of the dimly-lit stairs.
He knew about the tribes of Feral Children, inhabiting these abandoned stations. Their business was a peaceful one- Unlike the more quarrelsome 'street' gangs who got their synaesthetic kicks from psychedelic wobbleberries , this was strictly Herb territory. If only he... Owch!
A Feral child just bit into his finger.
-'YUM, LOLZ', the kid laughed with a toothy grin, and stuck its tongue out rudely in his direction.
-'Watch it, you little critter', he laughed hearthily and followed the little fella as the kid pointed further down and waved in a 'come with me' gesture.
As the distant campfire lights got brighter, the heavy bass of jngldub music hit his diaphragm like a friendly punch. Joyful cheers and claps and furious recitals of SMS poetry (he knew they were fond of Shake-a-Spear, the ancient bard, or was it Burning Spear?) welcomed him as he entered the hallowed out subterranean dome functioning as the Feral's camp HQ...
The high, distant ceiling was beautifully lit from friendly fluorescent fungi, but the campfires and lanterns he saw scattered around the place kept a certain old-fashioned cosiness to the place, he pondered.
On seeing him enter, the music died down in a flash.
A hundred mud-streaked faces turned towards him.
His mind whirled, the thoughts moving and twisting around, as he struggled to make sense of the scene before him. The child he had followed scuttled off away from him, looking back towards him and smiling, thumb stuck defiantly in to its dribbling mouth.
The figures before him had stopped moving, and he could feel the caress of their eyes. He had to remember. These must be the grund lings, the ones who would sit and recite sms poetry, gently rocking their bodies back and forth as they sought to remember the words of the Shake a Spear, the rythmn of the words bouncing along - tut-tut-a-tut-tut. The five, the ten, the beat was there, waiting.
There was a greeting. He remembered. The small room. The reckoning.
Trevor felt his throat constrict, as the words began to take shape. It could not be Mor-ley or Mar-ley, and he could never utter the Jon-a-son.
What then?
"Eggs it per pseud!" He called to their upturned faces.
"Buy a beer!" The familiar reply came back.
The music returned along with the claps, the shouts, the dancing and the furious poetry. The feral child was back at his side, tugging on his sleeve, pulling him in. Together they moved into and through the crowd of joyous bodies; it was only as they were nearing the far edge of the throng that Trevor noticed the dome's other occupants. A group of maybe a dozen, they sat quiet and still around a glowing red brazier. The child continued to pull him forward towards what Trevor now realised was a waiting group. His pulse quickened as the seated figures shuffled apart to make a space by the fire.
- Have a warm.
- Thank you.
- Got a story to share in return?
Yes he had a story. Was he willing to share it? No way; at least not all of it and not yet. But he was happy to spin a believable yarn.
As daylight caressed his pallid face, Trevor walked lithely upon the makeshift suspension bridges that crisscrossed the City's shantytowns in the steep ascent from seaside to riverbank. Selecting a suitable route in his head, he hopped onto a makeshift path, and tried to remember the map of Lun Dun streets... It had been years since he last ventured to the surface. The melanin in his skin struggled to boost its B12 levels, after years of anaemic deficiency... Stinking, noxious fumes oozed from all directions, wafting towards his nostrils where they mixed like rancid perfume, made him cough and sputter.
- 'Welcome to the city, my friend', he thought and walked on, unflinching.
He knew, from what last night's cryptic phone conversation had told him, that his friends weren't dead. He knew the rumours of their death had been just a smokescreen, a necessary scam to hide the goings-on. He knew Cornelius, too, was out there somewhere- waiting, observing, like he himself waited and observed... Things weren't always as they seemed. That much he knew.
On his way through the boat-towns, shantytowns, mechatowns, past yurts and makeshift treehouses, traveller's wagons and ancient high-house ruins overgrown with ivy and lovingly renovated by local bolos, he noticed one thing. The residents, no matter where you looked, were uncannily quiet. It was as if, before he arrived, something very strange- perhaps terrible- had happened near these quarters. Perhaps... No, it couldn't be. The Chronomaster was dead, wasn't he? But his adherents may still be here.
Out here, trying to restore the age-old order of hierarchy and power. He shuddered.
Approaching an ancient 'tube' station, his mood brightened. 'Mornington Crescent', the solemn sign read. He darted down into the greyness of the dimly-lit stairs.
He knew about the tribes of Feral Children, inhabiting these abandoned stations. Their business was a peaceful one- Unlike the more quarrelsome 'street' gangs who got their synaesthetic kicks from psychedelic wobbleberries , this was strictly Herb territory. If only he... Owch!
A Feral child just bit into his finger.
-'YUM, LOLZ', the kid laughed with a toothy grin, and stuck its tongue out rudely in his direction.
-'Watch it, you little critter', he laughed hearthily and followed the little fella as the kid pointed further down and waved in a 'come with me' gesture.
As the distant campfire lights got brighter, the heavy bass of jngldub music hit his diaphragm like a friendly punch. Joyful cheers and claps and furious recitals of SMS poetry (he knew they were fond of Shake-a-Spear, the ancient bard, or was it Burning Spear?) welcomed him as he entered the hallowed out subterranean dome functioning as the Feral's camp HQ...
The high, distant ceiling was beautifully lit from friendly fluorescent fungi, but the campfires and lanterns he saw scattered around the place kept a certain old-fashioned cosiness to the place, he pondered.
On seeing him enter, the music died down in a flash.
A hundred mud-streaked faces turned towards him.
His mind whirled, the thoughts moving and twisting around, as he struggled to make sense of the scene before him. The child he had followed scuttled off away from him, looking back towards him and smiling, thumb stuck defiantly in to its dribbling mouth.
The figures before him had stopped moving, and he could feel the caress of their eyes. He had to remember. These must be the grund lings, the ones who would sit and recite sms poetry, gently rocking their bodies back and forth as they sought to remember the words of the Shake a Spear, the rythmn of the words bouncing along - tut-tut-a-tut-tut. The five, the ten, the beat was there, waiting.
There was a greeting. He remembered. The small room. The reckoning.
Trevor felt his throat constrict, as the words began to take shape. It could not be Mor-ley or Mar-ley, and he could never utter the Jon-a-son.
What then?
"Eggs it per pseud!" He called to their upturned faces.
"Buy a beer!" The familiar reply came back.
The music returned along with the claps, the shouts, the dancing and the furious poetry. The feral child was back at his side, tugging on his sleeve, pulling him in. Together they moved into and through the crowd of joyous bodies; it was only as they were nearing the far edge of the throng that Trevor noticed the dome's other occupants. A group of maybe a dozen, they sat quiet and still around a glowing red brazier. The child continued to pull him forward towards what Trevor now realised was a waiting group. His pulse quickened as the seated figures shuffled apart to make a space by the fire.
- Have a warm.
- Thank you.
- Got a story to share in return?
Yes he had a story. Was he willing to share it? No way; at least not all of it and not yet. But he was happy to spin a believable yarn.
keep it coming.
