These Days - Part 1
Fic here. Do enjoy!
He just managed to get inside before the rain started to fall. Hard and sharp as fibreglass, it jabbed at the window as black clouds sizzled overhead, stretching on as far as he could see. The sunlight had withered away. He watched the scene through the cobweb-shattered glass and thought it might be something to paint, if he still had his brush and his canvases.
The shop he had hidden in was dusty and ancient, falling apart at the seams. He pulled his torch out of his rucksack, and slung the bag over his shoulder. The pallid gleam crawled forth, and through the thick layers of filth that rose up around his feet he could make out old colours: flashes of dark purple and crimson that had once, he supposed, been brilliant. He ran his hand along the rack of clothing, the cold fabrics yielding to his touch. Ignoring the old records stacked neatly in a corner he made his way quietly towards the closed door, turning the knob and pulling it quietly open. It was an old stockroom, dustier still than the main shop and full of old bits of useless rubbish.
He should have known he wouldn’t be able to find anything here.
The slam of the rain outside accompanied him as he wandered up the stairs with his torch held out in front of him and squeaky floorboards under his heels. Out of habit, he paused near the top of the stairs to listen out for any movement, but the flat was as deserted as the shop below. It was devoid of all light save for his torch, and he stumbled a few times on the objects that had been knocked onto the carpet. He blew a cloud of dust off of the sofa and mourned the dulling of such bright patterns.
Feeling his way along the wall he found himself in what had once been a kitchen, and rummaged in the cupboards for any leftovers, finding only a few jars of mouldy jam and a box of stale crackers, which were just about edible. There was an odd smell coming from the fridge that made him gag when he opened it, so he quickly slammed the door again before getting too close a look. He tucked the box of crackers under one arm and kept going.
The doors he tried were stiff, unbending. He forced them open, finding first a tiny, morgue-like bathroom, and then a bedroom filled with upended bits and pieces and with various articles of dusty clothing strewn about the place. It looked as if the occupant had simply got up one day and never returned. He didn’t stay there long.
Back into the living room, he drew aside the mauve curtains to peer out of the window. The billowing sky showed no signs of giving way; the rain would probably fall overnight. With a sigh he dumped his rucksack in the corner and pulled out his sleeping bag. He laid it over the patterned sofa, took off his boots and clambered in, zipping himself in tightly against the cold and the dark and the silence.
He listened to the rain for hours before he finally fell asleep.
***
Reality was relative out here.
Sometimes it was difficult to separate his dreams from what was solid. When he went downstairs the next morning the sickly sun was filtering through the windows, and his eye was caught by a shimmer of lilac on the rail of clothes. Now, in daylight, he could see the rack better. He picked up a sheer shirt and let the fabric run over his hands; fine as gossamer and achingly delicate. He folded it neatly and placed it inside his rucksack. After that he went through the whole rail, taking down the velvet capes and the silk jumpsuits that made up the stock of the old shop. None of these would keep him warm, he knew, but somehow he couldn’t quite bear to leave them behind.
The rain had stopped in the night, leaving behind it a barren silence. He left his bag in the stockroom and ventured outside, shivering in his worn-out jumper. The sound of his heels clacking against the blistered pavements followed him around the corner until he turned onto Kingsland High Street. The Arcola had begun to fall down. Pieces of the upstairs studio had crumbled away, leaving a jagged hole in the wall like a mouth. It was hardly surprising - the old building had never been fully equipped for a fringe theatre; construction was hardly halfway through when the world went to shit - but it saddened him nonetheless.
His breath fell out from between his lips in clouds. He wandered up the road, past the Rio and a row of deserted cafes. He went inside the old train station, jumped over the barriers and looked down at the tracks. Inside the office, an empty and unwashed mug was sitting on top of a stack of papers. He picked up the phone from the handle and dialled a few numbers experimentally before putting it back again and running outside.
He had just begun to make his way back when the deer emerged from a side street. He froze, not wanting to disturb it. The deer ducked its head and nibbled at a stem of dry grass that was growing from between the cracks in the pavement. For a moment he watched it, a smile materialising on his face. The deer raised its head and looked at him curiously. Then suddenly it turned its head towards something, before turning and bounding off back the way it had come.
He didn’t know what had spooked the animal. Probably the wind, he reckoned.
There was nothing else to see outside so he walked back to the shop, picking his way over bits of rubble and fallen brick. Most of the houses were beginning to collapse now, what with the constant rain that eroded the plaster.
When he went through the door a little bell tinkled above him. It was rusty and somewhat grating, but even so he pulled the door back and forth a few times just to hear it again. The sound made him laugh.
He climbed the stairs to the bathroom. It was a small box room with a toilet, sink and a tiny bath tucked away in the corner. Clearly it had once been used by someone with a strong appreciation for appearance. When he opened the cabinet it was full of tubes and bottles, most of which had been knocked over in a hasty panic: hair products, razors, foams, boxes of plasters, toothbrushes. In most places that he visited the owners had taken their utensils with them. He didn’t want to think about what had happened to the owners of these things.
In the mirror he caught a glimpse of his face and paused to look at it: felt the stubble that was overgrowing on his chin; ran his finger along his sallow cheeks.
He stared at the taps on the bath for a long time before trying them. For a moment the pipes creaked and stuttered, and then suddenly a stream of water burst forth - real, clean water. It wasn’t hot - barely even lukewarm - but it was proper water and he was damned if he was going to question its existence. He ran a shallow bath and rummaged in the cabinet until he found a bottle of fragrant conditioner. Then he took off his stinking clothes and clambered in, slinging the water over himself and feeling it trickling down his back. In a dish at the edge of the tub there was a sliver of white soap, and he took it and scrubbed himself until the water was tinged with grey. He washed his dirty, matted hair, enjoying the faded mango scent of the product. Then he climbed out and wrapped himself in a limp towel that was hanging on the door.
He pulled some of his new clothes out of his rucksack and tugged on a pair of spotted jeans and a huge white coat with a fake-fur rim around the hood. He left his old ones to soak in the bath. He would dry them later. He went to the mirror, found an old razor and some shaving foam and carefully removed the beginnings of his beard, before brushing his teeth. He packed the utensils away for later.
He hadn’t felt so clean in a while.
Downstairs he set to work rummaging through the shop itself for anything that could be of use. The shop, when it had still been a shop, had apparently been some sort of knick-knack place: it sold stationery, small toys, vinyl LPs - nothing that was of much use. He blew dust off the LPs and flicked lazily through them, wondering how easily the covers would burn.
There was one that he recognised. He couldn’t read the title, but the picture on the front of a woman hugging two dogs made something well up in him: some distant memory the colour of bleach. He slipped the disc out of its wrapping and onto the record player. The room was filled with a deep, ethereal hum, before the drums kicked in. He grinned and danced around the shop until he was out of breath, kicking up the dirt with his shoes and laughing like the only person left in the world.
The vinyl cut out suddenly on the fourth track, leaving behind a trailing silence and a sudden cold that reminded him he had to move on. The sun was dipping slightly below the buildings. He would go back to Hoxton today, he thought, and see what else he could find.
He sat in a red barber’s chair by the window and finished the box of stale crackers before packing his rucksack with his new collection of things and hoisting it over his back. When he pushed open the red door the bell rang again, but this time he pushed past it, out into the streets of Dalston.
He had just passed the train station when he stopped, feeling suddenly uneasy. He turned to look over his shoulder, but there was nothing there. The sky showed no chance of rain, at least not for a few more days. He thought maybe some more debris had fallen but he hadn’t heard anything. London was as still as it always had been.
He took a few more steps, the heels of his battered Chelsea boots echoing in the great silence, but the uneasy feeling didn’t go away; rather it ballooned in his chest with each passing step. He slung the rucksack off his shoulder and burrowed in it for his penknife before continuing on his way, feeling a little safer with the blade tucked safely in his hand.
As he passed the stranded 149 bus that had become a fixture in the middle of the road he tripped over a rogue brick and stumbled a couple of times. A sound from behind him splintered the air. As sharply as he could, he turned on his heel; pointing the knife unwaveringly at his attacker.
“Fucking show yourself!” he barked, only to find himself staring down into the black barrel of a gun.
Next Chapter here.