These Days - Part 2
Second installment here. I really hope you enjoy it.
It was clear from the man’s face that he had never held a gun before. He was tall and strongly built, but his entire body was rigid with tension. His shoulders were taut. His arm was quivering with small tremors. His eyes were shot with fear.
“Who are you?” the man demanded.
“Who are you?”
“I asked first.”
He flexed his fist; the knife jolted. “I asked second.”
The man’s face drained of colour. He looked down at his weapon. “Howard Moon,” he said hurriedly. “Now you.”
He frowned at that. He hadn’t heard his own name in a long time. He forced it to his lips and when he said it, it felt strange in his mouth. “I’m Vince.”
Now that he looked closer, it was clear that the gun was an antique. He couldn’t imagine it being used for anything other than decorative purposes, what with the filigree brass embellishment underneath the man’s - Howard’s - fingers. He doubted it had been loaded for years, let alone shot. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he lowered his hand and retracted the blade. Howard didn’t loosen his grip on the weapon.
“What d’you want?” Vince hissed. “You following me?”
“I think you’ll find you were following me, sir!” said Howard indignantly. “Who are you?”
“I just told you; I’m Vince!”
Howard shook his head. “Who are you with?”
Vince frowned. “You what?”
“Who are you with?” Howard repeated, finally lowering his gun with fractional jolty movements.
“I’m not with anyone, you plum!”
“I don’t mean…” A gust of wind shot by and Howard flinched, the metal rattling against his fingers. “Not right now. I mean, where’s your group, your base, whatever you call it? The safe point.”
Vince frowned. “Are you ill?”
“No, I’m not!” Howard growled. “I’m hungry and exhausted and I know there are camps around here, so can you just stop mucking me around and tell me where I can find one?”
Vince rested a hand on his hip. “You could try over the river, I suppose.”
“What?”
“Well, there’s no one up here. S’just me. But like I said, you could try over the river; I ain’t ever been down there.”
Howard had visibly paled. “You’re lying.”
“I ain’t!” said Vince indignantly. “Swear on Jagger.”
“There are people here. There have to be.”
“Like I said, you could try over the river. The bridges fell down pretty quickly so you’d have to go around. Might take you a couple of days, I dunno. But if you’re looking for camps then you’re wasting your time. There’s no one around here but me.”
“I don’t believe you.” Howard’s teeth were clenched.
Vince spread his arms out. “Why would I lie?”
The silence that swelled between them was symphonic; set Vince’s teeth on edge. A sharp wind stung at the back of his neck, sweeping his hair out and flattening it again.
“Where’ve you come from?” he asked.
Howard’s head twitched upwards. His eyes darted around as if he found it impossible to fixate on any one thing. “Leeds,” he said. “I walked.”
He was so pitifully despairing that Vince couldn’t help but smile.
“I don’t see what’s funny!”
“Alright, cool your boots.” Vince rubbed his numb hands together.
“I’ve been walking for a week!” Howard snapped. “Down the motorway. This guy told me there were people left in London and it’s just the same as everywhere else - worse! Do you know what it’s like on the motorways?”
Vince didn’t reply. Everybody knew what it was like on the motorways.
Howard choked out a sigh through his thick beard and pulled his coat tighter around him. “Why are you here?”
Vince shrugged. “Didn’t really have anywhere else to go.”
“Fuck.” Howard kicked at the curb and then hid his face in his empty hand with a hoarse groan. “What do I do? What am I going to do?”
He stood there for a moment, buried in his palm and embalmed by the wind, before dragging his hand down his face with a resigned sigh. Vince looked at the stranger, taking in his worn hands, his overgrown hair, the dry crevices in his face. Howard - if that was his real name, how could you tell out here - was breathing shallowly, like a hunted fox. Vince watched him for a moment before sighing and biting his lip. He’d been alone too long.
“Look, it’s not that bad,” he murmured. “I found a place. It’s got clean water, beds, stuff like that. You could stay there a night: try over the river in the morning. I mean, no offence, but that ‘tramp’ look isn’t really working for you.”
Howard blinked dully. “Stay with you?” he muttered. “You might try and kill me in my sleep.”
“Well, yeah,” Vince said. “But then again, you’re the one with the gun, aren’t you?”
Howard’s earthy eyes locked onto his and didn’t let go.
***
Once there had been birds in the trees that sang for the arrival for spring with a cacophony of relief at being alive.
Vince had given up on keeping track of time relatively quickly. One day he had just simply woken up and not known what day of the week it was. At first he had thought that this realisation should frighten him, until it slowly dawned on him that there really was no point in thinking about this new age as a continuation of what had been, when the sky was fenced in with darkness and the birds had flown away.
So when Howard turned to him, just as he was balancing on a piece of uprooted concrete, and said, “How old are you?” he nearly keeled over in surprise.
“You what?”
“How old are you?” Howard repeated, looking down at his feet and his torn boots with intense concentration.
Vince considered this question for a moment, screwing up his face and trying to remember. Had he ever really celebrated his birthday, even in the old days?
“How old are you?” he retorted.
“Thirty-two years, eight months and nineteen days,” said Howard, kicking a small piece of rubble aside with a satisfied crack.
“How d’you know that?”
“I keep track. A man’s got to know things. You’ve always got to be prepared.” Howard rubbed at his eye with a dirty fingernail. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Oh.” Vince pondered the question for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Same as you, I guess.”
“What? You’re ten years younger, at least!”
“Maybe. I dunno.”
Howard frowned and looked as though he was about to say something more but Vince quickly interrupted him: “This is it.”
He pushed tentatively at the fragile glass door and tried not to be irritated by the responding tinkle of the bell; in that moment, it sounded almost smug. He dumped his rucksack back in the corner, sending a mushroom cloud of dust billowing into the air, and turned around. Howard was standing tentatively in the doorway looking warily around the shop as if worried he would never be allowed to leave once he placed a foot inside. Slowly he shuffled in, shuddering a little, whether with cold or with fear Vince wasn’t entirely sure.
He didn’t speak for a long time until his eyes widened fractionally and he croaked, “Is that Miles Davis?”
He was looking towards the pile of LPs. With shaky movements he crossed the room towards them and lifted one off the stack, with movements more delicate than Vince could have imagined those calloused hands could create, gazing at it as if it was a worldly treasure.
“It is.” And then he smiled. “Miles Davis. Look. Where did you find this?”
Vince shook his head. “It was just here.”
Howard’s eyes were reverential. “Is there a record player?”
“Yeah.” Vince frowned. “Who’s Miley Davies, anyway?”
“Miles Davis is one of the greatest jazz players in history.”
Vince raised an eyebrow. “Is he really?”
Howard slid the disc out of the cover and gazed at it. “I used to collect all his stuff. I had a cardboard box of them in my sitting room.”
He didn’t say anything else. The implications of the life left behind ballooned and swelled. Vince looked down at his dirt-caked shoes and said, “Let me show you upstairs.”
Upstairs the light crept in through the skylight that led up onto the roof, softening the darkness of the flat with its glow. Howard sat down on the sofa, heavy as a rock in water, and looked around the room with a nervous eye. Maybe he still thought he was being led into a trap. Soon enough, though, his eyes began to flicker and he sank desperately down into sleep, sprawled across the length of the settee. Vince watched him for a moment, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and sighed. It looked like he wouldn’t be able to move on for a couple of days.
His throat was dry, so he stood up and wandered into the bathroom to drink some water from the tap. The bath was still half-full of grey water, and his matted brown jumper and his black jeans, forgotten, were still soaking in the midst of the scum. He gazed at them for a moment, before reaching down to unhook the plug and watching the water swirl away into nothingness.
Next chapter here.
It was clear from the man’s face that he had never held a gun before. He was tall and strongly built, but his entire body was rigid with tension. His shoulders were taut. His arm was quivering with small tremors. His eyes were shot with fear.
“Who are you?” the man demanded.
“Who are you?”
“I asked first.”
He flexed his fist; the knife jolted. “I asked second.”
The man’s face drained of colour. He looked down at his weapon. “Howard Moon,” he said hurriedly. “Now you.”
He frowned at that. He hadn’t heard his own name in a long time. He forced it to his lips and when he said it, it felt strange in his mouth. “I’m Vince.”
Now that he looked closer, it was clear that the gun was an antique. He couldn’t imagine it being used for anything other than decorative purposes, what with the filigree brass embellishment underneath the man’s - Howard’s - fingers. He doubted it had been loaded for years, let alone shot. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he lowered his hand and retracted the blade. Howard didn’t loosen his grip on the weapon.
“What d’you want?” Vince hissed. “You following me?”
“I think you’ll find you were following me, sir!” said Howard indignantly. “Who are you?”
“I just told you; I’m Vince!”
Howard shook his head. “Who are you with?”
Vince frowned. “You what?”
“Who are you with?” Howard repeated, finally lowering his gun with fractional jolty movements.
“I’m not with anyone, you plum!”
“I don’t mean…” A gust of wind shot by and Howard flinched, the metal rattling against his fingers. “Not right now. I mean, where’s your group, your base, whatever you call it? The safe point.”
Vince frowned. “Are you ill?”
“No, I’m not!” Howard growled. “I’m hungry and exhausted and I know there are camps around here, so can you just stop mucking me around and tell me where I can find one?”
Vince rested a hand on his hip. “You could try over the river, I suppose.”
“What?”
“Well, there’s no one up here. S’just me. But like I said, you could try over the river; I ain’t ever been down there.”
Howard had visibly paled. “You’re lying.”
“I ain’t!” said Vince indignantly. “Swear on Jagger.”
“There are people here. There have to be.”
“Like I said, you could try over the river. The bridges fell down pretty quickly so you’d have to go around. Might take you a couple of days, I dunno. But if you’re looking for camps then you’re wasting your time. There’s no one around here but me.”
“I don’t believe you.” Howard’s teeth were clenched.
Vince spread his arms out. “Why would I lie?”
The silence that swelled between them was symphonic; set Vince’s teeth on edge. A sharp wind stung at the back of his neck, sweeping his hair out and flattening it again.
“Where’ve you come from?” he asked.
Howard’s head twitched upwards. His eyes darted around as if he found it impossible to fixate on any one thing. “Leeds,” he said. “I walked.”
He was so pitifully despairing that Vince couldn’t help but smile.
“I don’t see what’s funny!”
“Alright, cool your boots.” Vince rubbed his numb hands together.
“I’ve been walking for a week!” Howard snapped. “Down the motorway. This guy told me there were people left in London and it’s just the same as everywhere else - worse! Do you know what it’s like on the motorways?”
Vince didn’t reply. Everybody knew what it was like on the motorways.
Howard choked out a sigh through his thick beard and pulled his coat tighter around him. “Why are you here?”
Vince shrugged. “Didn’t really have anywhere else to go.”
“Fuck.” Howard kicked at the curb and then hid his face in his empty hand with a hoarse groan. “What do I do? What am I going to do?”
He stood there for a moment, buried in his palm and embalmed by the wind, before dragging his hand down his face with a resigned sigh. Vince looked at the stranger, taking in his worn hands, his overgrown hair, the dry crevices in his face. Howard - if that was his real name, how could you tell out here - was breathing shallowly, like a hunted fox. Vince watched him for a moment before sighing and biting his lip. He’d been alone too long.
“Look, it’s not that bad,” he murmured. “I found a place. It’s got clean water, beds, stuff like that. You could stay there a night: try over the river in the morning. I mean, no offence, but that ‘tramp’ look isn’t really working for you.”
Howard blinked dully. “Stay with you?” he muttered. “You might try and kill me in my sleep.”
“Well, yeah,” Vince said. “But then again, you’re the one with the gun, aren’t you?”
Howard’s earthy eyes locked onto his and didn’t let go.
***
Once there had been birds in the trees that sang for the arrival for spring with a cacophony of relief at being alive.
Vince had given up on keeping track of time relatively quickly. One day he had just simply woken up and not known what day of the week it was. At first he had thought that this realisation should frighten him, until it slowly dawned on him that there really was no point in thinking about this new age as a continuation of what had been, when the sky was fenced in with darkness and the birds had flown away.
So when Howard turned to him, just as he was balancing on a piece of uprooted concrete, and said, “How old are you?” he nearly keeled over in surprise.
“You what?”
“How old are you?” Howard repeated, looking down at his feet and his torn boots with intense concentration.
Vince considered this question for a moment, screwing up his face and trying to remember. Had he ever really celebrated his birthday, even in the old days?
“How old are you?” he retorted.
“Thirty-two years, eight months and nineteen days,” said Howard, kicking a small piece of rubble aside with a satisfied crack.
“How d’you know that?”
“I keep track. A man’s got to know things. You’ve always got to be prepared.” Howard rubbed at his eye with a dirty fingernail. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Oh.” Vince pondered the question for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Same as you, I guess.”
“What? You’re ten years younger, at least!”
“Maybe. I dunno.”
Howard frowned and looked as though he was about to say something more but Vince quickly interrupted him: “This is it.”
He pushed tentatively at the fragile glass door and tried not to be irritated by the responding tinkle of the bell; in that moment, it sounded almost smug. He dumped his rucksack back in the corner, sending a mushroom cloud of dust billowing into the air, and turned around. Howard was standing tentatively in the doorway looking warily around the shop as if worried he would never be allowed to leave once he placed a foot inside. Slowly he shuffled in, shuddering a little, whether with cold or with fear Vince wasn’t entirely sure.
He didn’t speak for a long time until his eyes widened fractionally and he croaked, “Is that Miles Davis?”
He was looking towards the pile of LPs. With shaky movements he crossed the room towards them and lifted one off the stack, with movements more delicate than Vince could have imagined those calloused hands could create, gazing at it as if it was a worldly treasure.
“It is.” And then he smiled. “Miles Davis. Look. Where did you find this?”
Vince shook his head. “It was just here.”
Howard’s eyes were reverential. “Is there a record player?”
“Yeah.” Vince frowned. “Who’s Miley Davies, anyway?”
“Miles Davis is one of the greatest jazz players in history.”
Vince raised an eyebrow. “Is he really?”
Howard slid the disc out of the cover and gazed at it. “I used to collect all his stuff. I had a cardboard box of them in my sitting room.”
He didn’t say anything else. The implications of the life left behind ballooned and swelled. Vince looked down at his dirt-caked shoes and said, “Let me show you upstairs.”
Upstairs the light crept in through the skylight that led up onto the roof, softening the darkness of the flat with its glow. Howard sat down on the sofa, heavy as a rock in water, and looked around the room with a nervous eye. Maybe he still thought he was being led into a trap. Soon enough, though, his eyes began to flicker and he sank desperately down into sleep, sprawled across the length of the settee. Vince watched him for a moment, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and sighed. It looked like he wouldn’t be able to move on for a couple of days.
His throat was dry, so he stood up and wandered into the bathroom to drink some water from the tap. The bath was still half-full of grey water, and his matted brown jumper and his black jeans, forgotten, were still soaking in the midst of the scum. He gazed at them for a moment, before reaching down to unhook the plug and watching the water swirl away into nothingness.
Next chapter here.