Dirtier, part 7

[rabidsamfan]

He swung up the street, trying to think only of where to place the crutch tips on the uneven pavement. It wasn't working. There were too many other things clamoring for his attention. First and foremost, where was he? And when? All the other questions depended on those two, really, even though he was beginning to wonder if he really wanted to know the answers.

If only he could get his memories to lay down in order! It would all seem clear enough, until he tried to remember what had led up to being in hospital, and then even simple things seemed to go awry. He was sure of his name, sure of Gran and the Aunties, and of being at sea, his leg hooked around a stay for safety as he searched the horizon for the first glimpse of land from the topmost reaches of the mainmast, while the sails bellied out beneath him in the friendly wind. Sure too of an odoriferous alley and of fighting to keep his stomach in its place while blood ran hot across his hands, the blood of a man whose face refused to be recalled.

He came up to the telephone booth and dug into his pocket for the change that Steed had given him. He'd call Auntie Mabel. She'd tell him the truth, plain enough, the way she told everyone the truth whether they liked it or not. But the coins felt odd in his hand -- right and not right -- strangely shaped and yet familiar. Fifty new pence? Ten new pence? The lone shilling in the lot seemed out of place. The telephone didn't have a proper dial, either, just a series of buttons. After a moment's hesitation he thumbed the zero and waited.

"Operator." The voice on the other end of the line was young and brisk and bored.

"Please... could you tell me... is EASt 4321 still listed to Mabel Horrocks? Mrs. Alfred Horrocks, I mean?"

"East 4321? Hang about." He heard her voice, muffled, as if she'd covered the headpiece, "I've got a man asking about East 4321 -- do you know what he means?"

Another voice, still female, but older, took over. "East... that would be 327 4321. Poplar, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Missus. The Isle of Dogs." The sweat on his hand made it hard to keep his grip while he waited, and he shifted the receiver around to his other hand and ear so he could wipe his palm against his trousers.

"I'm sorry, that number is no longer assigned. Did you have a name?"

"Mabel Horrocks, or Alfred. H.O.R.R.O.C.K.S," he said, feeling the knot in his gut get tighter.

"I'm sorry, there's no listing for a Mabel or Alfred Horrocks in London."

He heard himself thanking her from a distance, put the receiver back on the hook through a fog.

After a time, someone tapped on the glass impatiently, so he wiped at the tears on his face and extracted himself from the booth, smiling and nodding at whatever it was the old lady was saying to him. He moved up the street, trying to remember what he was meant to do next. A newspaper. That was it.

There was a shop on the corner, with a stack of newspapers on a wire rack near the door. He picked one up and held out his handful of change to the man behind the counter, as if he were in Cairo again, or one of the islands where the local languages had clattered around the markets like the arguments of gulls and sparrows. The shopkeeper looked at him oddly, but took a coin from the rest and said something polite and vague.

He meant to go back then, back to Steed and the green racing car and Purdey, because he couldn't think what else to do and at least they seemed to have some idea, but as he emerged into the slanting afternoon light he caught sight of a man in a grey overcoat ducking back between two buildings. It was just a glimpse, but it was enough to send a cold grue up his spine.

I can't go back that way. The misgivings he'd had about Steed's intentions had been small silly things compared to the purely physical fear he felt now. Adrenalin cleared the worst of the fog, sent the pain of his knee and head off to Coventry, to be ignored until he had time to allow himself to notice it again. He tucked the newspaper into the paper bag with the rest of his worldly possessions and headed up the street, no longer caring if a crutch tip slid a little as he swung forward. He didn't have time to fall.