A Vagrant Story (14 page)

The white man pronged himself onto Alex’s back. Hanging on tight, he fisted the side of his head. Alex simply crashed backward into the white van a few times until the parasite lost its grip.

Alex took the opportunity to deliver a kick square to his face. That did it for the white man. He crawled away to safety amidst a moan of damning words.

Rather than go head on, the black man tossed the syringe like a dart. Alex simply stepped aside allowing it to glide unimpeded into the ruins.

The black man hesitated to continue. He grabbed his accomplice, carrying him back out the alley. Both men cursed Alex until vanishing from sight, their words boasted victoriously.

A safe wave of silence dawned over the alley. Alex took it as a sign to fall to his knees. Though unlikely to show such during a fight he couldn’t handle real blows like that. He was used to fighting, not getting hit. And he didn’t have the stamina to keep it up for long. When it came down to it his only form of defence relied on all out offence.

In curiosity Alex found himself wandering after the syringe. It had been tossed into the ruins. Hopping over a shattered knee high wall, he picked up the needle from amidst rubble. He stared into the tube though he couldn’t know what liquid it contained. He only knew this little contraption had been intended for someone else, an innocent woman whose life they wanted to destroy.

He smiled. It felt warm knowing what he knew, that every step had a purpose, that every step would lead him to the right place. For the second time since starting this journey he felt the infrequent satisfaction of self-worth. He regained a piece of himself.

Smashing the syringe with a rock, he stood to leave. He stopped dead as though snagged by a loose nail. It returned to him then – that feeling of deja-vu he’d felt since coming here. It all came at once, focused into this one building. Images flashed in his mind’s eye. He saw this building as it was in its prime, before the fire took its paint. He’d been here many times before. The whole area had changed so much he barely recognised it.

This is where he did it. This is where it started. He tried to run far away but only circled back by chance. These tired old ruins once belonged to a literary agent, a man of grand promises. This is where his old dreams died.

Chapter 9

Henry, Rum, and Sierra waited patiently for the nurse to finish her duties. She buzzed about the room, handing out food and laying down warm blankets. Patients who could still move their mouths uttered groans of thanks. For the others who couldn’t she bowed and smiled as though none were needed. Despite it all she would stop in parts to make sure her visitors didn‘t feel neglected.

“So why all the interest in John anyway?” she spoke from the rest area. “Are you cops?”

Rum laughed. “Cops? We look like cops to you?”

“Hard to tell to be honest. There have been a lot of them coming around these parts lately. Could be anyone.”

“Around here? No wonder you thought that. They must all be deep undercover,” Rum said.

“They don’t care about our problems to bother going on patrol. It just happens we’ve had a string of high profile problems recently. First the cops came here looking for some underground brothel. It’s a real high profile case. Nobody’s ever found it, so it’s become something of an urban legend. People say they’re just waving a bone for the media.”

“But at least you get a bit of protection from it, right?” Sierra said.   

“Women … girls get kidnapped in this area all the time and the cops don’t let it bother them much. They’re just showing up here now to bite a piece out of the brothel mystery. Once they come up short they’ll turn around and forget about those girls. They won’t change anything.”

The nurse buffed a few pillows then made way to the television area. She handed out soup bowels to some receiving hands. On wiping her forehead, she posed in concentration.

“Where was I? That’s right - the police. The other reason they’re here is … Do you know about that serial killer?”

“Sure, hard to miss him,” Sierra said. “We can’t sit near a telly without hearing a news flash about him.”

“He’s killed six women now. It was nearly seven, or so they say. He attacked a woman near here recently.”

“Really? Are they sure it was actually him? I mean, this place is…”

“He used the same methods. He drugged her, then pulled her into a side alley. He started taking photos when a passer bye saw the camera flashing. But he got away. She didn’t see his face – said she couldn’t remember much. It’s so scary.”

The nurse jolted to attention when an elderly patient groaned for food. At once she went to him, laying down a bowl.

“Sorry Mr. Earlwin. I got lost in conversation.” She looked to Sierra. “I don’t get much time for chitchat normally. I must be boring you with all this.”

“It’s all very interesting. You’ve helped us a lot.”

“Let’s hope John is as pleased.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you really friends of his? I never listened to him half the time and I know more about him than you.”

Sierra formulated her thoughts to come up with an answer. When none came she subsided for the truth, at least half of it. “Okay, well … we found something belonging to him.”

“I suppose that’s okay then, so long as you’re not up to no good.”

The nurse hurried back to Mr. Earlwin, stabilizing his soup dish before it slipped from his hands. She held it steady over his mouth for him to take a sip.

“Will you still need that cheque … You know, since you’re breaking up with him and all?” Sierra asked.

Rum’s interest peaked at this point.

The nurse shrugged. “It is made out for the retirement home. And he did want us to have it. It might be wrong to take it … but look at this place, it’s a mess. We really need all the cash we can get. We’re in debt to a lot of people, not all are so forgiving.”

“I understand. It … does belong to you anyway.”

Rum’s legs nearly collapsed in disappointment.

“It’s not just me,” the nurse continued. “I run this place together with my brother, Sam. He works hard to bring in money, but he’s been down on his luck lately. If we don’t pay back the debt by next month they’ll take the premises. Sam’s becoming desperate. You wouldn’t believe the plans he’s come up with.”

A cold push of wind flushed through the building. It stopped on the sound of a door shutting. A man bundled up in thick woollens entered via backdoor. He approached them, scrunching woollen cap in hand.

“What’s this, more deportees? Or just dropping off your luggage?” he said.

The nurse relieved him of his damp hat. “Sam, you’re back early.”

“Never a good sign." Sam stared down the tramps. “Can’t you see we’re full? Try taking care of him yourself before dropping him into a place like this.”

Rum frowned curiously, pointing at himself. “Is he talking about me?”

“No Sam,” the nurse impeded. “They’re guests – friends of John. You remember John?”

Sam nodded understanding. He stood with shoulders held high, displaying no desire to apologise. “We’re closing soon.”

“We are?”

“I have to talk to you. They’ve narrowed our deadline.”

Sam stormed into a backroom behind the makeshift reception. Everything about it indicated his sister to follow.

Sierra shrugged inwardly. It seemed they’d been demoted from honoured guests to basic hindrance. “It’s okay. We really should be going.”

“I’m sorry. This is just bad timing. Goodbye and good luck.” With no more conversation to have she hurried after her brother.

Left standing unattended, Rum sighed in relief. “Finally. I thought she’d never shut up.”

“I thought she was nice,” Sierra replied.

They’d taken not one step toward the exit when quarrelling voices sounded from the backroom. As the content of the argument vocalised more, it became clear this was something no idle standing citizen could resist listening to.

***

Alex sat on a broken piece of wall, staring at the ruined structure in awe. If not for those would-be attackers this building would have gone unnoticed to him. He didn’t concern himself thinking of that coincidence, rather he thought back to a time long ago.

Before he ever came to the streets this building acted as a computer arcade. When its success dwindled, the owner set his sites on other means of income. One of these was representing young, and therefore naïve, artists. Since Alex never saw any other clients he might have been the only one to fall for it. He walked straight in without questions.

Alex thought back to the first time he entered this building:
crossing the thresh-hold, experience slips clutched eagerly in hand. It was his first time seeing that dim room lined with desks of no practical use save what’s left for spiders. The desks still remained, now broken down, concealed by debris. Cobwebs remained as though those same spiders never moved.

Back then, he’d almost turned to leave before noticing a man sat in front his computer screen. The screen glowed blue against his thick spectacles. His image together with the shroud of darkness gave him the look of a modern voyeur. He was the clerk. His name was Leon, and he introduced Alex to his agent to be.

Their first meeting was an awkward one. The agent received his experience slips with a careless lack of impetus. The only paper to fancy his eye bore a dollar sign and two zeros.

The agent’s desk was raised higher and placed under a sun window. Alex sat on an inferior rickety stool, shading his eyes against the glare.

The agent scuffled busily through papers. “So you found out about us on the internet. Good reviews I hope.”

“Actually I couldn’t find any, but you are located near my college.”

“We’re new.” He put down the papers. “Before we start you should know we normally charge monthly. Since this is your first time I’ll let your first payment cover two months – like, you know.”

“Thank you very much.”

“I don’t want you to feel under pressure. Like, you know, I read the manuscript you sent in. You’ve put a lot of hard work into your writing, and at the end of the day, that’s all that matters. And it’ll also be 20$ for the reading fee. But worry about that later.” He penned it on a notebook.

Alex propped his shoulders up with a smile. “Do you think I could really be successful?”

“It’s not what I think you can do. It’s what you think you can do. Can you do it?”

“I think I can.”

“Like, y’know - that’s good, most writers don’t have your confidence. They’re all dreary and down on themselves. What the world needs is more writers who won’t change no matter what anyone says. Confidence – that’s what separates you from the others I’ve interviewed. Always have confidence.”

“Confidence.”

“We’ll just have to see if you have that same confidence in the rest of your writing. Did you bring some other work I can look at?”

“Other work? I didn’t think I’d need to.”

“I see, that really is a shame.”

Alex nervously put his hand into his back pocket and took out a CD coated in a laminate see through case. “I do have them on this though.”

“Good. Leave it with me.”

“Sure … but…”

“Problem?”

“I … it’s my only copy. I don’t have a computer so I write in the library or college and store them on this.”

“What are you saying? You don’t trust me yet? Like, you know, trust is a big part of confidence and I’m watching it fizzle away right here.”

“Trust? Okay … I’ll leave it with you.”

The agent reached over and snatched it away. With one quick turn in his swivel chair he popped it into an open safety box then shut it tight. “See that, locked away safe until I need it. Everything’s fine.”

***

Alex cursed the memory, though he’d been cursing it endlessly for some time now. He’d always told himself the agent robbed his writing to steal the stories. In reality he probably never even looked at them. At least the lie indicated they were worth stealing.

Week after week Alex requested the writing back. Week after week the agent said he was still reading the stories. By the second month that first freebie seemed trifle.

Alex found himself drawn to the beaten in hollow that was the agent’s office, attracted by the rhythm of water dripping from a support beam. One drop clung to the beam with everything it had, only to let itself go and splash to tiny particles. With whatever piece of his poet’s subconscious remained he compared the struggle to his own life, which might have been just as quick in the grand scheme of things.