A Vagrant Story (27 page)

“Yeah,” Alex said. “Looks like you’ll have to spite us some other time.”

”Don’t bother me none, the longer you took, the longer my break. I suppose we’ll have to follow her before she goes too far – and she probably would.” Rum directed them to Sierra, stammering away into distant fog.

“Our leader’s getting away,” Alex said.

All at once they hurried after, following Sierra until the next block over where she needed to recalibrate her direction. Judging her surroundings, she nodded to herself then carried on in her chosen way.

“This sidewalk should take us the whole way there - if I remember correctly.”

“So … you said you were from this place, Blondie. You born here or something?” Rum asked.

“I don’t know where I was born. I had a lot of different homes. This was just the place I lived longest.”

“Don’t seem to know your way around all too well.”

“This part of the city’s changed a lot since I was a kid. The buildings are higher and I don’t remember any of the stores. They even tore up the old estates and slapped down these clunky apartment blocks. Looks disgusting. They were starting construction around the time I ran away, I can’t imagine what it looks like now.”

“Still beats a cardboard box any day.”

“This whole city seems to hate old things. I’ve sometimes wondered what I’d be going back to if I ever did. I probably wouldn’t recognise the place if I saw it. Maybe if I recognised something it wouldn’t be so hard.”

“You recognised that blonde woman on the train, the one you hid from. She was like a neighbour or something?”

“Her? No, she was someone else. I’d rather not talk about it.”

A number of police cars drove by blaring sirens for the empty road. They couldn’t help but skid as they drove, but couldn’t help driving in this weather either.

When the commotion ceased, Sierra found her eyes casting upward into distance. There, over rows and rows of rooftops, stood a church steeple perking highest of all.

“Wait! That’s the place!”

She leapt into a sprint toward the church. The others followed in a lazy jog. After much rushing they arrived at the base of the church steps, with much tired panting and groaning. Only Sierra herself seemed unaffected.

Rum rested hands on knees for breath. “You want to warn us before you run off like that again?”

“What’s the matter, need time to stretch your calves?”

“The church ain’t going anywhere!”

Rum wallowed his way over to the bottom step, planting down like a man finished for the day. He stayed there while the others got their bearings.

The church itself stood at no great stature, save for its high steeple which, in retrospect, stretched no higher than those surrounding apartment blocks. It, the church and steeple, merely stood out unique from everything else around.

It seemed smog and general neglect had done their fair share of damage. The walls were noticeably cracked and what paint jobs done had been applied sloppily. The main arched door had been sealed, bolted heavily against an obvious crime problem. The church in acting as representative of the neighbourhood, boasted the first sign of enmity here.

In its placement the church could be seen clearly for some distance. It had been positioned on a turnpike of a wide river, which ran directly straight from the churches view. The river split this neighbourhood into two banks, joined only by a stone rigid frame bridge. Light from apartment windows ran along each bank, flickering upon the rippling water surface as though candles lay beneath. Windows ran the whole way along up to the eyesore called horizon, where stood heavier apartment blocks dominating all save the full moon in a night blue sky.

Snow fell down like a panorama of celebration, framing the scene in a deceiving coat of tranquillity. It tumbled like glitter, falling without sound, sparkling without shine. It could make a traveller gasp to lose his breath, and on noticing its defacement, hurry forth and wander more.  

“I remember this church,” Sierra said. “And that bridge. I thought they’d be gone by now. It’s amazing how this place changed so much, yet this same church is still standing. They’re the last pieces of my old town.”

“It’s a dump,” Rum said.

Sierra fobbed Rum off, wandering over to balustrades lining the river side. She leaned over to look in, and found the church steeple reflection staring back behind her own.

“We’ve been to this river before. Do you know when?” she spoke to the whole group in general.

“Enlighten me,” Rum yelled from his camping post.

“Remember when we went to the Grey Oaks retirement home? This is the same river from there. It runs the whole way up here - funny how they’re connected like that.”

“That’s not funny,” Rum replied.

“I guess both places have taken a beating in their old age. They say rivers bring fortune, maybe this one’s cursed – some witch from the Dark Ages wasn’t allowed on the ferry, or something.”

“There’s more than two places along this river, Blondie. Not everyone who lives along it is prone to mismanagement.”

“The neighbourhood started going like this around the time I left. They weren’t running out of funds or anything, more the opposite. A lot of locals had more money than they knew what to do with. Some started buying second homes and renting out the old ones. In time the owners stopped coming back and let them out all year, year after year. Families, college students, tourists - locals never saw the end of them. In time we started noticing all the houses getting torn down, or revamped. Turned out all the owners in one area had cashed off their property. Before we knew it, up went the first apartment block. Silly fools didn’t know what was coming. But they did it to themselves in the end. The remaining locals started moving out around then. I doubt anyone I know still lives here.”

“I doubt anyone above welfare line does,” Alex said, also moving to lean on the balustrades. “So this is where our mystery family lives. The place looks so empty I’d swear it was abandoned.”

“Nobody who lives here goes out after dark. Before John, my foster dad died, he started stopping me from going out at night, and he’d never stopped me before then. I didn’t understand at the time, and we used to fight about it, but now days I understand he was worried about the kind of people coming in.”

“A little ignorant of him,” Alex replied.

“Protective. He was protective.”

Behind them, on the church steps, Rum arose with an attention grabbing yawn. “So everything’s different than you remember. Then where does this leave us, you know the way to this woman’s house or not?”

“You weren’t listening to me,” Sierra replied, facing Rum. “There aren’t any ‘houses’ left in this area. They’re all apartment blocks. And I might not recognise them but I really don’t need to. The address we’re looking for is, ’Bridge View Block, room 13.’”

Sierra wheeled round to look straight down the river at the old style bridge. She pointed over the bridge to the only apartment block with a view of it. “Pretty self-explanatory. Our lady’s there.”

They followed by way of her index finger, past the bridge toward the intended building. The closer they drew the more it became apparent that this promised ‘view’ of the bridge was some distance from it. In reality, the building stood buried behind corridors of alleyway wrapped outside apartments of similar structure. One could easily become lost for the monotony of the sights. Unsightly, decaying, and dull all seemed to have become the basic epitome of the modern structural complex. Even the lanes were so tight a squeeze the four bums had to walk in single file.

The laneways twisted round like maze walls, collapsed sections the only distinction between social outcrops and some inescapable labyrinth. In essence, this neighbourhood and a labyrinth promised similar kinds of damnation, many people trapped forever, never moving on.

These four tramps were already far below that level of damnation, but at least their damnation allowed them to leave this labyrinth when finished with their business.

Henry kept at the back of the queue, behind Rum. “I can’t imagine anyone would stay here given another way out.”

Rum glanced back to Henry. “When someone hits a place like this, the only way out is a solid fall through to the streets.”

Their travels took them to an open space bordered on all sides by the walls of different apartment buildings. The space was small but looked big enough to park a few cars in, if not for the lack of a driveway.

Sierra ran up to the only door around. Next to it, there was a battered door sign poorly nailed to the wall. It bore the building’s name, or at least half of it.

“This is it. This is where his ex-wife and kid live,” Sierra said. “I guess we should go in.”

The door light flickered once, and on a second flicker stopped dead into darkness. For a moment the four stood still, as if using this darkness as an excuse not to move. There would be no hurry since they didn’t know what to say anyway.

Back from the way they came, the church bell struck a chord for seven O'clock. It acted as a mark for twilight hour, the true moment of nightfall when all the street lights shimmer up their fire. They did so consecutively like dominoes until hitting one lamp in this small space. It became brighter than the door lamp could have made it.

In new lighting, Rum sighed of joy despite the toppled bin cans and vocal alley rats busy in this area. “Seven O' clock. My favourite time of day.”

Alex eyed him wearily. “Seven O clock? What’s so special about it?”

“You don’t remember?” Rum looked at Sierra and Henry for follow up – none came. “Fuck off then.”

Alex pondered the thought. “Seven’s when the lights switch on in winter … but aren’t you a little too old, and crabby, to take pleasure in something like that?”

“That’s not it. I just like it, but never mind.”

“For once I think we should listen to Rum,” Sierra stated. “No more stalling. It’s a bit late as it is to be banging on people’s doors, let’s not make it later.”

Sierra pushed the door open. It had been loosely closed and opened with a moaning creak. At once they became overwhelmed by a smell of damp accompanied by a stench oozing from a stagnant mop bucket. It only exemplified the need for haste.

Sierra first boarded the un-carpeted stairwell, footfalls banging like an echo in an old manor. Again they found themselves moving in single file, this time more as a security precaution.

“Room 13, room 13,” Sierra muttered to herself in fear of each up-coming corner.

Alex picked up on her worry, and tried adding another. “Any idea what we’re going to say to her?”

“The truth,” Sierra replied.

“The truth? You mean: ‘hey, how’s things? I know it’s late and all but I’d just like to tell you that your ex-husband is going to kill himself. It’s probably your fault but don’t feel so bad.’ Something tells me she’d slam the door in our face.”

“Not exactly how I’d phrase it, but we’ll see when we get there.” Sierra entered the second floor hallway and stopped. “We’re here.”

They inched closer to the door with subdued eagerness. Before they could prepare, Sierra banged trice on door thirteen. They waited.

“Wouldn’t it be funny,” Rum said, “if the cheque we stole from that Jack Matters guy turned out to have been made by an entirely different person. I mean, we could be tracking the wrong guy right now.”

Sierra silenced Rum with a kick. Alex and Henry added some ill-appreciatory groans.

“What?” Rum asked. “I thought it’d be funny.”   

Rum’s anecdotes aside, three of the four made some effort to appear respectable. The other one just leaned against the wall, head tucked under trench coat collar as if to snooze.

Illegible whispers came through from the other side, growing nearer until the door creaked open with a hint of wariness. A red haired woman peeked trough the opening, hand clutched to the frame in anticipation to slam. A broken locking chain suggested she had good reason for apprehension.

Each of the bums sighed some relief. It was indeed the woman from the photo.

Her pale face peeped through the crack like a frightened mouse, her voice could use the same description. “Can … can I help you?” she asked.

The four late night callers failed to respond beyond a show of scattered mutterings.

Her eyes shifted over each visitor until freezing on the eldest of the bunch, who concealed his face. She balled her hand in trepidation and the door would have slammed then.

“Wait!” Sierra called. “We were … we were looking for John Reagle?”

Her retreat stopped and eyes flared with awareness. “John Reagle? My ex-husband?”

Sierra sighed relief.

Suddenly the door tore wide open. She stood before them in full sight, less a mouse and more a giant. “Bullshit. Nobody ever wants to see John. That worthless piece of shit doesn’t have any friends!”

Sierra flushed red with embarrassment. “We … need to talk to him about something.”

“What about? I get it, the cunts in debt again, right?”

“Well … he might be in a bit of trouble and we were-”

“Good!” the woman leaned lazily on the doorframe and began, or resumed, filing her nails. “Cheap bastard should just die already and leave me the insurance. Almost tried to finish himself once, but as his luck would have it, he wound up with the only decent doctor left in that entire hospital. To think I could be out of this dump by now. Now I’m stuck sharing all his debts and everything that comes with them.”