~ Chapter Two ~ The King of Forty Thieves.
Leaving home was a huge turning point for me. I'd always been the smart kid who lived with his mother and was going to be a professional web site designer. Never the angsty teen that suddenly decides to disappear into the night without the slightest word of warning. I could imagine what the neighbours would be saying over the next few days . . .
As my feet hit the dull pavement of the suburban cage that had kept me captive for so many years, I could hear them in my head. That nosey old bat from number twelve would be peering through her net curtains, as the woman from number six and the fellow living at number eight were leant over the garden wall whispering to one another. Whispering about how they'd always known "that there was something about that boy" and how they "knew he was a bad egg as soon as he hit ten years." But they knew nothing. They were simply judgemental old fools that needed new hearing aids and a good kick up the . . .
The streets were like I'd always known them to be, deserted and quiet. In the glittering darkness, the sillhouettes of the familiar houses that I had grown up around looked peaceful and at rest. In Wikemsburg everything always seemed asthough somebody had placed a huge blanket over the entire town, secluding it from the harsh reality which raged beyond. That was one of the things that I hated. Everybody in town acted asthough the world was always happy and there wasn't one minor thing wrong with the state of the human race. When deep down inside they knew that they were just hiding away from reality. Ushering themselves and their children away into a world of make-believe where they thought that they were safe.
Anyone looking out of their window into the clear night would have been somewhat surprised to see a young boy wandering through the starlight alone. Nobody in Wikemsburg ever ventured out after eleven PM. And I guess that it was the thrill of doing something that I had never done before that urged me onwards, stepping on through the serenity of my home to reach that one place that awaited me.
I shivered. It was the back end of July, but the weather had decided to take a funny dart in the opposite direction that night and drop cold. But then, I guess that's just England for you. I pulled my jacket tighter about me as I hurried along, hoping that I wouldn't suddenly come face to face with my mother. I didn't know where she did business so it was just like my luck for me to turn a corner and see her there. That would be something that'd cut right through me. Something I wouldn't be able to forget no matter how much I tried.
As I turned onto the main street that led down into the train station that I was so hopefully bound for, I began to wish that I'd brought a warmer coat. The thin denim jacket, that I'd thrown over my shoulders in the rush to get away, wasn't doing a very good job of defending me against the splintering breeze that had suddenly picked up and I quickened my pace.
I realised that I'd also missed out the fact that I should have brought some more clothes with me. But I dismissed the thought as quickly as it had appeared, afterall, I was rebelling against the world. I didn't need a change of clothes. A lone wanderer with nothing but a pocket full of money was more respected than a lone wanderer with a pocket full of money and a bag full of clothes, right? And even if I did have clothes with me, it'd have made me look like I'd been kicked out of the house instead of doing a runner. And I was determined to make people see that I'd run away - that I wasn't scared of leaving home without anyone's permission except my own. So my lack of possessions was a good thing, or so I thought anyway . . .
The train station was almost completely empty when I arrived. An old drunk was sat against the wall between the male and female toilets with a brown and somewhat crumpled hat at his feet. He had an almost empty bottle of, what seemed to be, a cheap version of Bacardi clutched in one hand. That one hand was now being thrust in my direction as I wandered past. "Ay ol' shap! Sh'couldn't spare a bit of change sh'could ja?!" he slurred, large eyes rolling in his black sockets. But I simply kept on going. Feeling somewhat glad that my mother hadn't turned out like that, or at least to my knowledge she hadn't, I scowered the rest of the station.
A man in a conductor's uniform was boarding a train on the platform nearest me and, unsure of where I actually wanted to go, I shuffled over to him to ask for help. Ignoring the consistent cries of the drunk some way behind me, I called out to the conductor. "Errm, excuse me." Instantly the man turned to me, young face all friendly despite his notable tiredness.
"Yes?" he said, trying his hardest to sound as cheery as he could. Suddenly he noticed the drunk and frowned, "Is that man bothering you?"
I shook my head. "No, no it's fine. I was just wonderin' where I could catch a train to a more err . . . lively city?" The man looked at me asthough I was quite mad and scratched his head. It was clear he'd never been asked that sort of question before. "What do you mean by, lively?" he asked. "You mean like nightclubs and city life and things?" I shrugged, "I guess so." I replied, not entirely sure myself where it was that I was intending on finding my new life.
"Well, if I were you I'd go to Ebbford. But the train for that stopped an hour ago. In fact, a lot of the trains have stopped now." he took a glance at his wristwatch and then back at me, "The last train for Fernshaw leaves in five minutes if you want to catch that one. If not, you'll have to wait until morning."
"Where do I get it?" I asked quickly, for there was no chance that I was putting my escape off until tomorrow, especially since I had come this far.
The conductor blinked at me asthough he couldn't believe what it was that he was hearing. "Are you sure you want to go there?" he asked in bemusement, "You do know about the sort of people that live down there don't you?" But I couldn't care less about the sort of people that lived there, I just needed to get away, and fast. Nodding, I motioned for him to hurry. "Yes, yes." I answered, urging him on. "Just where do I catch it?"
He gestured to a platform at the far end of the station marked "9" and in the same instant I had thanked him and run off down towards the train. Only now I wish that I'd listened to that train conductor. For he was certainly a whole lot smarter than I was . . .
Two and a half hours after my departure I arrived at my destination, tired and cold. It had rained slightly and my jeans and my jacket were both heavy and wet, but I wasn't at all put off. You hear those stories about kids who run away from home and then when they get to where they were running to, they find that it wasn't what they expected and they go back that very same night. But I wasn't one of those kids. I had pride. I knew that if I went running back then, I'd never be able to stop calling myself a coward and a coward was something that I, Kimberly Black, certainly wasn't.
Stepping across that border that seperated the suburbs and the city was like walking through a door into an entirely different world. The familiar streets had been uprooted and replaced with sinister looming buildings, flashing neon lights that made your eyes go all blurry if you watched them for too long and . . . People . . .
If one thing in particular surprised me about the city, it was the amount of people that were about in the middle of the night. In Wikemsburg nobody dared step outside their front door at half one in the morning, let alone wander about the streets at that time. But there, it was like the city thrived at night.
Groups of teenagers tottered about, laughing and joking with each other. Drunken women swayed along the pavement, singing and staggering from one club to the next. Cars raced up and down the roads with their windows wound down and their music shattering the night. It was almost magical . . .
I'd done it. I'd run away to the city.
My mother would be returning home to find me gone and a small note on the table, while here I marvelled at the towering architecture and the bustling life that my new home had to offer.
But there was just one minor thing that I hadn't planned and that was the appearance of Jack Rydon . . .
I awoke the next morning with a pounding in my skull. It'd been too late to find a hotel that night and so I'd wandered around for a while and then ever so gladly taken to curling up the doorway of a closed down shop. It wasn't the best place in the world to go spend the night, but it was better than nowhere and I had fallen asleep almost instantly. I regretted it now though. My neck felt like it had been snapped in two and my poor head felt like an elephant was trying to tap dance on it. Groaning, I shifted out from beneath my jacket, which I'd been using as a blanket, and rubbed the back of my neck with a shakey hand.
The sun was beaming down at the world from its smiling position in the blue sky and I squinted, trying to adjust myself to the brightness of the morning. To say that it'd been raining the night before, the day was setting off to an incredibly sunny start. Shading my sensitive eyes with one hand and clutching my jacket in the other, I slowly pulled myself to my feet.
Blinking, I lifted my gaze to the lively street ahead of me. Hundreds of people were filing past, their voices mingled in the chattery air. Twining this way and that way around each other like scurrying ants. Finally, somewhere that was actually alive!
My nose wrinkled, I could smell the scent of petrol and the unearthly aroma of freshly laid tarmac. Over the chatters of the passersby I could hear the roar of traffic and the faint tinkling of music from a shop nearby. The city was just how I expected it to be and I gazed around wildly, taking everything in.
Two men brushed past me, talking to one another. One was taller than the other and had black hair with an electric blue stripe striking right down the centre and for a moment his eyes flickered over me, before returning his gaze back to his companion. Feeling rather uneasy I stepped off into the hustle and bustle of the street, deciding that it would be best for me to seek out a public toilets where I could freshen myself up in order to start my search of a place to stay.
I stopped for directions and a business man, carrying a rather large briefcase, pointed me in the direction of the closest toilets. I nodded, thanking him and scuttled off the way that he had gestured. Soon enough I found myself stepping into the graffitied shelter of the public bathroom.
Taking a deep breath, I wandered over to the sinks, dreading the appearance of my reflection in the mirrors placed ahead of them. I placed my jacket on the wash basin next to me and turned on the tap, watching as warm swirling water danced around the chipped cream ceramic.
Lifting my head I let my own eyes brush over the figure that gazed back at me from the mirror. A short teenage boy, edging around perhaps five feet and six inches. Scuffed dark blonde hair fell unorderly over his tired grey eyes and his skin was pale, giving him a rather sickly appearance. I never said I was pretty . . .
Running my hands through the tousled lengths of my hair, I sighed and bent my head closer to the sink, splashing water onto my face in an attempt to wake myself up a little. When I lifted my eyes back to the mirror I was surprised to see another figure in the reflection.
He was leant against one of the cubicle doors behind me. One hand in his pocket the other fiddled with a lighter as he bent his head to light the cigarette that was placed between his lips. He was a tall fellow, compared to me anyway and I watched him through the mirror as he slipped the lighter into one of the many pockets that adorned his rather fetching black plaid bondage pants. "Where do ya come from?" he asked suddenly, running a hand through his black hair, ruffling it slightly so that the blue streak that ran down the middle stuck up on end and I suddenly realised that he was the guy who had stared at me earlier.
I frowned, still watching him through the reflection as I reached for my jacket. "Don' worry kid, I aint gonna 'urt'cha." he added, an amused look playing about his face.
"Wikemsburg." I answered shortly.
The guy grinned, taking a few steps closer so that he was now looking over my shoulder. Adjusting his red neck tie in the mirror he spoke again, "I'n't that that lil' sleepy town a few miles north of 'ere? Full o' snobs?"
I nodded. "Yeah. I guess you could say that." I replied, as I slipped my jacket on and turned to leave.
"Why did'ja run away?" I halted. "Don' look so surprised kid. I see thousands like you everyday. All from broken 'omes. Pity really."
"What?"
"You 'eard me." the stranger answered, moving off across the sinks, still fidgeting with the tie around his neck.
I frowned again, peering at him. He looked around the age of twenty-one and I began to size him up, trying to calculate whether or not I'd be able to take him on. "Who are you?" I asked, folding my arms across my chest, trying to make myself seem important.
The guy turned to me, taking a puff of his cigarette. He held out a hand, "The name's Jack. Jack Rydon." he told me confidently, smirking as I hesitated, "An' you are?"
"Kimberly Black." I answered, taking his hand. Jack's face screwed up into a wierd combination of hysteria and perplexity and he blinked, nodding at me, "Ya mother not like ya or summat?"
He took another long drag from his cigarette and blew a gentle plume of grey smoke into the air above my head. "Ya look like ya could do wi' somewhere to stay, mate." he said. I stared at him and he pulled a packet of cigarettes out of a pocket on his pants, offering them towards me, "Wanna fag?" I shook my head and he shrugged, putting the packet away again. "Do you know any cheap hotels?" I asked.
Jack blinked on at me in surprise and placed a hand on my shoulder, "'Otel? Ha! I know jus' the place. Come wi' me." And with that he walked off towards the door, turning back one last time to ruffle his hair in the nearest mirror before gesturing for me to follow.
Every mother in the world always tells their kids never to talk to strangers and I can truthfully confirm that mine certainly didn't break that chain. Everytime I stepped out of the house, up until my father died, those were the first and the last words that she'd say to me. "Be careful and don't talk to any strangers." Of course she meant well. The world's a tough place and she didn't want me to get hurt or kidnapped. That's just a mother's way - the same as they used to kiss your knee better when you fell, or told you to "be good" when they dropped you off at school.
When my father died all that motherly care seemed to stop. I was sixteen so of course she no longer tucked me into bed at night or checked to make sure that I'd brushed my teeth, but she used to make me a mug of hot chocolate before I went to bed and used to rent out a dvd on a Friday night so that me and her could watch it while my father worked late. And when he died it was like a huge part of her had been ripped away by giant unearthly claws and that was the part which enabled her to show human emotion.
It was like she had become almost robot-like in that last year that I spent with her. She'd sleep all day while I was at college and then when I came home she'd be sat in the living room watching t.v. I'd ask if she wanted anything to eat and she'd say no. I'd make myself something and then wander off to my room to do coursework, or whatever else that I'd planned for the evening. Then, at eleven PM she'd leave the house. I'd wake up in the morning and find some cash on the coffee table with a short note attatched. "This is for your dinner". And everyday was the same.
So, when Jack asked me to go along with him, I went. I'd forgotten the whole "Don't talk to any strangers" thing long ago and what did it matter if I did get hurt? Who was there to care? My mother wouldn't and that was a fact. Why should she care then when she never cared before?
"Where are we going?" I asked, falling in step beside the stranger. Jack, however, didn't turn to look at me as he answered, only continued to stare warily about, his dark eyes flickering this way and that, in a manner that made me feel somewhat uneasy, asthough he was waiting for something to happen. "To a lil' place in the middle o' the city where ya can stay the night."
I frowned. "A hotel?" I asked. I think I can safely say that I wasn't such a bright kid when it came to street life.
"Hell no!" replied Jack, an edge of mocking laughter slipping into his voice at my expense. "Wha' would any of us lot wan' with a fuckin' 'otel?" He said this in a way that seemed to suggest that I should already know what he was talking about, but I still somehow managed to find myself confused.
It was a while before I asked Jack anything again though. I seemed to get the feeling that he disliked having to answer for himself and even at the age that I was and being the type of kid that I was, I knew better than to fuck with those more arrogant than myself.
For a long time I walked on beside him in silence as he led me through the bustling streets of the city, pointing out friends of his now and then and stopping a few times to speak with some about things that I couldn't altogether make out. As far as I could tell, Jack was some sort of ringleader and he'd pissed of some guy named "Tar".
Finally, as we turned right onto a street that seemed so unlike the rest of the city that I'd come to know, a street that was completely deserted apart from the shape of a rather battered green car whose model I couldn't dechiper, I turned to glance up at him again. "So, you live in a flat then?"
Jack shrugged, slowing his pace a little. He kicked a stone with one boot clad foot and I watched as it bounced away down the kerb. "I guess ya could say that." he told me blankly. Again I frowned and then waited a moment, blinking on at the graffitied walls that surrounded us, before asking, "What d'ya mean?"
There was a prolonged silence that seemed to last forever and I began to wonder whether I'd said something wrong when Jack's boot came into contact with another, larger, stone, sending it in the direction of the dented car. There was an echoing "CLANK" as the object hit the metal and then more silence. To my surprise, no car alarm went off.
"I mean wha' I say, Kimberly." was the guy's sudden reply and I was just about to ask him if he'd mind talking properly and not in riddles, when he went on again. This time, however, I managed to understand. "We 'ave a flat jus' 'round the corner an' come an' go as we want. Ya welcome to stay as long as ya need to." He brought another cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his lips, lighting it hesitantly as we turned left at the end of the street onto yet another long avenue that was decorated with colourful graffiti.
"And, these others, they wont mind me staying?" I asked.
"Look kid." he began, leading me to an open door next to, what seemed to be, quite a run-down Chinese take-away. He turned to me, leaning in the doorway and taking the cigarette from his mouth. "Gimme a break will ya. They wont say nuffin, nuffin at all. An' as for them, mindin', dude, they 'ave no choice."
I watched as he flicked a bit of ash onto the floor and then brought his free hand out to rest firmly on my shoulder. Leaning in close he added, "I call the shots 'round 'ere. An' wha' Jack says, goes. Got it?" I nodded quickly, half afraid that he might whack me one there and then if I didn't and he grinned. "Good. Now no more of this politely askin' questions shit. If ya wanna know summat, ask bluntly an' ya'll get a blunt answer. Twirl 'round the point like a nancy boy an' ya'll get a loada crap. Keep that in mind an' ya'll do well 'ere."