The Missing Hours
Prequel ficlet to Mr Campion’s Curse, Happy Halloween everyone!
It had been a queer seven days. All throughout the week, Mr. Campion had found himself on edge, distracted and brimming with nervous energy. He could pinpoint no distinct reason for this feeling though, by all accounts, his life had been fairly uneventful since returning to London. Could that be it? Barely a moment’s respite and already he was itching for a new adventure? He dismissed this notion after some thought. It wasn’t boredom that was unsettling him, but still he couldn’t name the cause.
By Sunday afternoon, his sense of unease had magnified to the point that he felt himself being suffocated in his sitting room by the closeness of everything around him. Lugg had given up on him hours ago, arguing that if he was just going to climb the walls then he’d leave him to it, and retreated to the kitchen with his newspaper and an armful of socks in need of mending.
With a perfunctory instruction over his shoulder to his friend and knave that he ought not to expect him until late, Campion retrieved his hat from its perch in the hall and fled to the street outside. Perhaps a walk would improve his mood.
He wandered for some time, trying to lose himself in the steady stream of pedestrian traffic, his thoughts as vague and ephemeral as his destination. As he walked, Campion began to perspire profusely. He unbuttoned his jacket and mopped his brow with a handkerchief anxiously. The summer night was warm, but not overly so; he wouldn’t normally have been so affected by the temperature. The notion that he might be unwell began to occur to him. As dusk fell over the city, the street lamps and passing cars around him took on disconcerting bright glowing halos and his vision swam dangerously.
Campion stopped at a corner to collect himself and nearly toppled over. Becoming faintly aware of someone asking him if he was all right, he mumbled something incoherent in reply and staggered onward, the last vestiges of his wits informing him that he was very ill and shouldn’t be out like this. Belatedly, it occurred to him that he ought to have asked for help, as he clearly was no longer in any condition to get himself home.
He spotted the comforting silhouette of a police constable and made for the fellow with the same skill and stubborn determination of a very inebriated man in search of a barstool. The bobby was very young and inclined to conclude that Campion was exactly what he seemed, a reeling drunk, until the lad got a proper look at his face. He shouted in alarm and shrank back from him in terror, abject fear overriding his training.
The outburst startled Campion as well and he fled from the man as quickly as his legs would carry him. The lights and sounds and smells of London overwhelmed him as he ran, confusion and pure panic guiding him. He retreated down an alley to escape the bombardment of his senses, leaning against a building for support. The rough brick under his hands grounded him in reality once more, just long enough for his conscious mind to protest that something was dreadfully wrong with him.
Panting for air, he wondered distantly if he was dying. It seemed likely.
His stomach heaved suddenly, accompanied by a deep, stabbing pain in his abdomen. Every muscle in his body spasmed as one and he fell to the pavement with a strangled cry. Clawing ineffectually at his collar to loosen it so that he could breathe again, Campion eventually felt the fabric tear under his clumsy fingers and looked down to find his hands were almost unrecognisable. He gaped at them uncomprehendingly, until something wrenched inside him and then the world went black.
Several minutes later, a large grey canine form loped out of the alley in a flurry of motion, its nails clicking on the uneven paving stones as it skittered around the corner and disappeared into the night.
It had been a queer seven days. All throughout the week, Mr. Campion had found himself on edge, distracted and brimming with nervous energy. He could pinpoint no distinct reason for this feeling though, by all accounts, his life had been fairly uneventful since returning to London. Could that be it? Barely a moment’s respite and already he was itching for a new adventure? He dismissed this notion after some thought. It wasn’t boredom that was unsettling him, but still he couldn’t name the cause.
By Sunday afternoon, his sense of unease had magnified to the point that he felt himself being suffocated in his sitting room by the closeness of everything around him. Lugg had given up on him hours ago, arguing that if he was just going to climb the walls then he’d leave him to it, and retreated to the kitchen with his newspaper and an armful of socks in need of mending.
With a perfunctory instruction over his shoulder to his friend and knave that he ought not to expect him until late, Campion retrieved his hat from its perch in the hall and fled to the street outside. Perhaps a walk would improve his mood.
He wandered for some time, trying to lose himself in the steady stream of pedestrian traffic, his thoughts as vague and ephemeral as his destination. As he walked, Campion began to perspire profusely. He unbuttoned his jacket and mopped his brow with a handkerchief anxiously. The summer night was warm, but not overly so; he wouldn’t normally have been so affected by the temperature. The notion that he might be unwell began to occur to him. As dusk fell over the city, the street lamps and passing cars around him took on disconcerting bright glowing halos and his vision swam dangerously.
Campion stopped at a corner to collect himself and nearly toppled over. Becoming faintly aware of someone asking him if he was all right, he mumbled something incoherent in reply and staggered onward, the last vestiges of his wits informing him that he was very ill and shouldn’t be out like this. Belatedly, it occurred to him that he ought to have asked for help, as he clearly was no longer in any condition to get himself home.
He spotted the comforting silhouette of a police constable and made for the fellow with the same skill and stubborn determination of a very inebriated man in search of a barstool. The bobby was very young and inclined to conclude that Campion was exactly what he seemed, a reeling drunk, until the lad got a proper look at his face. He shouted in alarm and shrank back from him in terror, abject fear overriding his training.
The outburst startled Campion as well and he fled from the man as quickly as his legs would carry him. The lights and sounds and smells of London overwhelmed him as he ran, confusion and pure panic guiding him. He retreated down an alley to escape the bombardment of his senses, leaning against a building for support. The rough brick under his hands grounded him in reality once more, just long enough for his conscious mind to protest that something was dreadfully wrong with him.
Panting for air, he wondered distantly if he was dying. It seemed likely.
His stomach heaved suddenly, accompanied by a deep, stabbing pain in his abdomen. Every muscle in his body spasmed as one and he fell to the pavement with a strangled cry. Clawing ineffectually at his collar to loosen it so that he could breathe again, Campion eventually felt the fabric tear under his clumsy fingers and looked down to find his hands were almost unrecognisable. He gaped at them uncomprehendingly, until something wrenched inside him and then the world went black.
Several minutes later, a large grey canine form loped out of the alley in a flurry of motion, its nails clicking on the uneven paving stones as it skittered around the corner and disappeared into the night.