A Vagrant Story (34 page)

The man had since given up in his endeavours to pass the escalator, instead sitting on a nearby bench.

Alex took his chance, inconspicuously nearing him one step at a time. Reaching within arm length distance, Alex placed the bag on the floor and kicked it under the bench to the man’s feet. When he reacted, Alex quickly slinked away and watched from a distance.

The man at first startled at the sudden re-appearance of this familiar bag, glanced about for another owner before diving straight into it. First item he pulled out was the receipt of house slip, which he smiled for. Then he mulled over all those leaflets with an air of curiosity. He paused on one of them, which Alex couldn’t make out due to random group of nattering people getting in his way. Whatever the man had seen in the bag it got him standing with a strong show of thought. He pondered there a time before heaving the bag over shoulder.

A curious spectacle followed as the man returned to the crowded escalator without pause, pushing and slamming people aside to form a tunnel straight down. Reaching the bottom he didn’t stop to look back but merely kept going, straight for the entrance and out to the storm.

The wind whooshed in with the door he opened, and silenced after other people hurried to close it.

Alex stood along the second floor railings overlooking the fiasco. “Maybe it’s his lucky bag,” he said to himself, sighing for the loss of it. Nothing forced him to return it save conscience so in retrospect the deed was an utterly pointless one, as he figured any truly good deed should be. Maybe that sheer pointlessness brought him to do it. If karma were an angel watching over him, he’d certainly gained some credit. With any luck it would aid him in his final spree to the finish. For that instant it made him feel unstoppable.

The instant ceased and Alex succumbed to sudden light-headedness. He fell into a hunch, clutching the railing for support. He began coughing roughly, forcing it down to avoid drawing attention. It didn’t stop people from looking so to avoid their notice he rushed shambling to the nearest bathroom.

He collapsed through the doors and again atop the sink. Removing hands from mouth he found blood on them. Perhaps psychologically, the sight triggered a second coughing fit from which he nearly collapsed.

It eased almost as quickly. Like a man woken from a dream he stared up into a mirror to find his face paler than it had been. He expected as much. His skin always became a little paler following each bout of coughing. This would be his fifth and strongest one so far.

Up until now he’d only managed to hold it back thanks to the pills given to him at the hospital. They gave him one case of pills and he had long run out already.

It would only be a matter of time until the next fit. He could only wait. In the meantime he did what anyone would. He splashed his face and returned casually outside.

Fortunately nobody in the crowd appeared to be looking at him. Those who had noticed the coughing seemed to have forgotten the moment he left their vicinity. He’d made the right move running into the toilets. And the wrong move when he walked straight into Rum.

“You throw up?” Rum asked. “You look sick, like you threw up.”

“Just tired. So you decided to shift your-”

“You see Sierra anywhere?”

“She didn’t seem in the mood for company.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Alex paused to take note of Rum’s dim, hanging expression. He looked highly alert yet stuck half asleep, like a man waking into a long due hangover. No need for metaphor that’s exactly what it was.

“Speaking of looking sick … You sure you should be walking around like that?”

“Like what?”

“Well … sober, I suppose.”

“Sober?” he said. “Sober … is that what you think of … Forget it.”

“I just meant…”

“I know what you meant.”

“And you’re arguing?”

“I can’t argue. That’s the problem.”

“Look … I didn’t mean to … I’m sorry, Rum.”

“That ain’t my damn name.” He began turning away. “I’m gonna go find Sierra.”

He didn’t intend to, and if he did he’d likely give her the same treatment. Right now he just wanted to be alone with his sorrows in case he spilled it on anyone. He tended to have a mouth to run when drunk and a conscience to leak when sober. The first could be forgivable but the latter unforgettable. He’d lost enough pride this week without looking like a wuss.

These were the things Rum thought of as he scampered through the crowd. The constant thinking, while doing little for his sanity, did help him deal with those most abundant eyesores, some people called them families. And in this place, they were everywhere.

Mothers and sons. Fathers and mothers. Mothers and daughters. Brothers and fathers. Families. Rum hated to see families all banded together in their little co-existing units. Sure he’d seen them on the streets, passed them regularly. But he never had to hear their petty arguments. He never had to look at them for more than a fleeting glance.

He could avoid these things on the street, not in these closed in walls. He hated families. Every one of them, no matter how different, reminded him of one family, a mother and son gunned down due to the arrogance of one wretched old man. He shook this thought away the moment it hit the front of his mind. As with the booze, he began seeking out distractions to purge the thoughts.

In his wanderings Rum found himself standing at the base of a large notice board. There was an advertisement for the new private hospital being set up in the city. In the poster’s lower right corner the company’s logo had been printed. It was small, designed to avoid the eye while still creating presence. Most people wouldn’t notice that little ‘c’ surrounded by a hexagon shield, but Rum knew where to look. The symbol on the poster helped transform him into a well to do person. It once offered hope, dreams and the ambition to take it all. He did just that.

A long time ago this logo allowed him to conquer everything he targeted. The logo allowed him to take everything, until it took the lives of a loving wife and a baby too young to know better. This is the logo that ruined everything. This is the symbol that made him the man he is today. If not for this logo he wouldn’t have to hide away down here in the gutter.

In his melancholy he found his eyes dropping to a different, smaller poster bearing a different symbol. It was a crucifix. The words on the poster ranted on about redemption while begging for donations. A mixed message likely to turn the competent away. Rum, however, paid more note to the address line.

“Church. Well, it has been a while. Pretty close to where we’re going too. Might be worth a…” Rum leaned closer to look for the pastor’s name. “Pastor: Daemon Crawford. Crawford, is it? Looks like I’ll have to pay you a visit.”

Chapter 26

The storm didn’t end quickly as most would have liked. It simply died down little by little until those brave enough dared to venture out. Those more fearful stayed until the strong howling ended and the snow diced into emptying drips. The homeless group decided to leave somewhere between the two.

There didn’t appear to be much movement on the street, save people clearing snow from cars. Wasted effort since even if they did remove the popsicle coating, the roads had become filled above curb height. Futility could be seen in all their faces, yet still they tried.

Walking on what would once have been mid-road, Alex kicked a fallen orb decoration out of the snow. “All those decorations gone to waste, at least they don’t have to worry about taking them down now.”

“Who cares? Christmas is over. Decorations are dead, time to bring on the New Year booze,” Rum said.

“And they’ll be drinking it right where we live,” Sierra said. “Every year they have that big ass New Year celebration in Middle Park. People come from all over the city just to get locked on our doorstep.”   

“And last year a good few of them decided our shack would make a fine kicking post,” Rum said.

“Then you decided they’d make better ones,” Sierra added.

“Ah yes, I kicked a few heads that night.”

“Only after I bailed you out,” Alex stated. “Might want to mention that part.” Alex looked back when the old man didn’t retort. “Rum?”

He’d wandered down a turnoff in the main road, a smaller alley like lane leading to a red bricked estate. In soothing echoes the sound of seaside waves drifted out.

“This is the place, Appleglade estates,” Rum said, pointing to a massively notable sign reading same.   

They followed through the lane to where it opened into a wide expanse of a parking lot overlooking a harbour like portion of the sea. There were a few boats anchored, small like those for the lower-upper class. A red bricked wall ran alongside which seemed to border the estate from the outside world. Entryways into the different sections of the estate opened in the wall at regular intervals. They looked like checkpoints without barricades.

Sierra wandered to the harbour line, drawn by the smell of salt air and thrashing waves under a sublime winter mist swirling over the water’s surface. She decided to let the others plan behind her while she reacquainted herself with this old joy she hadn’t seen since her days playing on the beach as a child.

“Classy place,” Alex noted. “They even have this car park for people who don’t live here. Looks like it could be patrolled by a security guard too. Have to say, not what I was expecting from our John.”

“This place looks big,” Henry noted. “Really, really big.”

“Appleglade must be the name of the complex,” Alex said. “It’s split into smaller housing areas. The ex must have forgotten to mention that part - bitch. This could be tricky.”

“Morons,” Rum said, walking to the end of one of the ten entryways into the different sections. “This is a company estate. Company estates always list their residents outside. Each entryway has a list of names and addresses outside, pick a listing and look for John Regal. Simple.”

Rum led by example. He chose the listing nearest to the alley from which they entered then moved to the next listing board on the next entryway. Alex and Henry took heed and checked the remaining signs. They did so until finding one address listed under Regal. But

not their Regal. This one was listed under Joseph and Marissa Regal.

“What do you make of it?” Rum asked Alex.

“His ex-wife did say he inherited the house from his parents. It’s possible they never got around to changing the name.”

“Works for me.”

“One thing though,” Alex said. “How did you know this was a company estate? For that matter how did you know where it was?”

“Look around, you’re supposed to be the perceptive one. Their logo’s all over the place.” Rum pointed to a symbol on the nearest address board, a copyright C within a hexagonal prison. “And I already told you, I don’t need a special reason to know something. This place is pretty well known anyway. It’s where the company holds up a lot of its executive workers. In a sense, the company provides for their lodgings so they don’t run away. Technically all these people own their own houses, but the company offers to maintain upkeep on the homes and the area. It places border walls like this one and security cameras like that one.” He indicated a previously undisclosed camera set atop the wall.

“John’s parents must have been on good terms with the company to live in a place like this.”

“Quit admiring the sights and let’s get moving.” Rum looked to Sierra by the harbour. “That goes for you too!”

She snapped to them while they were crossing the line, through the driveway gateway and past those red bricked prison walls - though they really were quite nice to look at.

It was a straight single road walk to a dead end drop into the ocean where waves splashed straight onto the road. Bungalows ran along both sides down, all equally similar in their thatched roof white wall appearance, all equally parallel in their placement, all equally complacent in their success.

The estate appeared to be so eerily even-sided trash cans might have been placed parallel, if there were any to be seen. To call it conformist would be something of an understatement. Even as they walked further and further down this long road the bungalows passed like pictures on a repeating film reel. Their snow crunching footsteps mixed among the bare silence of the neighbourhood did little to dispel the image.

“John’s parents must have held executive positions,” Sierra said. “At least now we know where he got all that gambling money.”

“We don’t know that,” Alex said.

“It’s typical of people like that,” Rum said. “Drunken gambler feeds off his parents’ gains all his life, even when they’re old, even when they’re dead. We don’t know it for sure but it’s sure safe to assume.”