DOWNTOWN
CHAPTER I
A gull cried in the distance.
The shrill response of his companion carried over the waves, thinning as it hurtled across the dark surface and eventually enveloped by the cyclical pounds and sweeps of the shoreline. Waves pulled and gathered like so much indigo silk against the rocks, creeping tendrils of pale foamy trim up the bare face before tumbling back down, exhausted from the effort.
Clumps of moss, with wispy antennae-like weeds sprouting from their centers that thrashed wildly in the wind, crouched sulkily in the cracked cliffside. Coarse dark buffalo grass fringed the edge.
The night had set in, and so all was seen as if through a shadowy, monochrome lens. No stars were visible through the thick layer of iron-grey cloud.
Beyond the crash of the waves and the rough whisper of foliage and the wind whistling through the rocks and the lonely calls of the two gulls, was a very faint crackled string of music. It wafted through the cool air like a half-remembered memory of something important: demanding attention and yet not strong enough to inspire recollection.
The source of the song was easy enough to locate: a stretched hourglass of yellow light pivoting upon the narrowest point, sleepily sweeping across the bay as a bottle slowly spins when nudged by a toe. The light was positioned high above the ground, solemnly carried by a tall cylinder of mortar and brick.
The sea thundered, the weeds rustled, the wind and the gulls sang along to the broken tune that drifted through the darkness.
CHAPTER II
To reach Downtown from the edge of the Line was originally a short trip, but over time the deteriorating landscape and crumbling buildings had made the trek lengthy.
To prove the case: despite the encouragingly intact outer ring of buildings and clear streets (save for the burnt-out shell of a school bus on Warrington Avenue), within four blocks the street was impassable, as that was the tomb of a toppled skyscraper. For one educated in history, perhaps knowing the layout of the old city, this was extremely frustrating: it was the halfway point of the original road to Downtown.
The only two possible remaining routes on the intersection were either left or right along Portrush Road. The right would lead straight into the dripping mouth of a curious collection of thugs and villains called the Cutter Clan. Passage was possible, but rare and strictly monitored.
Thus left it was.
This would lead away from Downtown for a good two-mile detour through the ghostly Business District before it was possible to cut across a dried, caked canal bed and turn right again down Lettice Street.
Though the path would again appear to be blocked by fallen debris, the direction was obvious for those who knew what they were looking for. The entrance to the sewer lines is directly behind a large neon hamburger lying on its side in the gravel. It had flickered for years, only recently having fallen dark at last.
The sewer would wind on deep in the dark and dank for a good few miles. It is usually just before the last bend when one gives up hope entirely on ever reaching the elusive Downtown. However, if you had the courage to take those final steps, you would see the light!
Not too many steps mind you, for the light marked the rim of a mile-deep crater called The Abbey (it was said that those who fell in found religion before they hit the bottom).
A rickety zig-zag of 617 twisted metal steps would bring you at last to the 9 block grid located at the top of the cliff: Downtown.
In retrospect it is a very long journey to a place where no one wanted to go, really. A colourful mess of wrappers, cans and cardboard boxes; of hobbling men, hunched women and children scrambling out of second story windows like rats; of burnt out lights and ripped awnings. It was hard to say whether it was heaven or hell.
The layout was simple, as there were very few established institutions. Many of the stores lined the edge of the crater. The view was considered very upmarket in Downtown. There were the mechanics and the scavenge-shops, as well of the few sources of entertainment for the angry crowd. For convenience’s sake, the aptly named World’s End Bar was located a mere two blocks from Dame’s. It was hard to say which was more popular, so perhaps we should ask a regular patron of both houses.
Constantine Thale was a very hard name to pronounce when drunk, thus it was usually shortened to either Mr. Thale or simply Costa. In his rarer sober moods he preferred Mr. Thale, but fairly often he did not have the luxury of being quite so clear-headed. Costa, like so many, hadn’t survived through any special physical skill or higher intelligence: just sheer dumb luck. Indeed, these days he tried to keep himself fit, which was done through a combination of attacking, defending himself and escaping.
Thus Costa had a rather muscular physique from all of this running, hauling, leaping and the occasional punching, and glistening brown skin from the unchecked ultraviolet sunbeams. He had a square, bristled jaw, with dark eyes almost hidden under thick, bushy eyebrows, and a shaggy mop of blond hair. A sweat-stained white long-sleeved shirt, a pair of faded, torn jeans and ancient brown builder boots had been his attire for the past few years, and he didn’t plan on changing his style any time soon.
Presently, Mr. Thale was slowly pulling himself upright, lolling an arm at the furious barkeep who had thrown him onto the dusty street. It was still afternoon, but no one stared. Another drunken mishap joined him on the curb five minutes later. It was a common sight, day in day out.
“Constantine Thale, yer’d bett’r not show yer face ‘ere again ‘till yer’ve got sumtin’ that clinks, y’ear?”
Costa (now on his feet and swaying dangerously), gave the barkeep a very rude hand gesture, which the barkeep ignored, disappearing back into the depths of World’s End.
For a moment or two, he didn’t know what to do with himself. So he stumbled over to the curb and sat down. There he remained to watch the dust motes, illuminated by the afternoon sun, drift through the air in lazy curls.
Perhaps Costa had dozed off, for he certainly hadn’t seen them coming. His eyes fluttered open just in time to see a skinny long-limbed boy soar over his head. Costa was most bewildered by this, and twisted in his seated position to watch the boy skid around the corner and out of sight. Costa blinked stupidly at the place where the boy had vanished, for an instant forgetting the world in which he was living and he wondered what he could possibly be running from.
Another child (unseen by Costa, for his back was to him) appeared, and attempted a similar stunt.
Maybe it was the fact that the boy’s legs were not as long as the first, or that he wasn’t as athletic, but most likely it was because the child seemed to regret his decision almost instantly, losing heart in mid-air.
Whatever the cause the result was the same: the boy’s foot collided rather hard with the back of the drunken man’s skull. Costa fell flat on his face, his head hitting the cement with an audible smack. The child landed heavily on his side but was up again in an instant, scrambling for a foothold as his bare feet slipped over the litter-strewn pavement.
Costa moaned, gingerly raising his head. His vision was blurrier than usual with spots of black and white tainting the image of the boy scooting around the corner. Mr. Thale’s nose was bleeding heavily, a stream of angry red dribbling over his chin and onto his shirt. Just another stain.
“Wotten kith!” he gurgled, mouth full of hot blood, which he promptly spat onto the pavement. Costa swiveled about and hollered across the street: “Two!”
There came no response. What few people were out and about paid him no heed. Instead, they kept their eyes on their feet and shuffled on with their daily lives.
Eventually, Mr. Thale’s mind slowly limped to the conclusion that remaining on the curb was a dangerous idea, and he crawled across the pavement back towards World’ End. There he rested his back against the crumbling redbrick wall and succumbed at last to sleep.
CHAPTER III
“Costa?” The voice came from far above. He tipped his head back and squinted into the blackness. A window was thrown open: a dull yellow square on the third floor.
“Maybe,” he grumbled. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” came the reply. His expression brightened.
“Zeina?” There was a short pause.
“Uh… No. Shahd.”
Costa grunted in disappointment, looking back at the pavement. “Hello.” He stumbled backwards in shock as a crunch split the silence. Someone had apparently jumped from the window and landed a few feet before him.
“Hello,” said the someone.
“That was quite a drop, surely you would have-“
“I climbed most of the way.”
“Oh.” The invisible litter on the ground beneath them crackled as figure took a step towards him. Costa sighed wearily. They had been over this.
“Shahd,” he begun, and she stopped.
“I’ve heard that tone before,” she said glumly. “You’re going to lecture me again.” Costa frowned.
“I’d rather not.” Another telltale crinkle told him she had taken this phrase to mean encouragement. “Look, I’m really not in the mood for this. Could you just-“
“Go get Zeina.” Her voice was cold.
“Go get...” He deflated, pleased she’d caught on quick enough. “Yes.”
“Can’t.” Costa felt a stab of annoyance. She was doing this purely out of spite. Valuable time was being wasted, something which Shahd knew very well.
“And why not?” he asked irritably. The darkness shifted slightly as she shrugged.
“She’s talking to Dame.”
“Dame isn’t in right now, you little whelp!” he hissed. Costa groped blindly before him and she gasped in surprise as his paw closed about her neck. He yanked her about and slammed her against the wall. “You think I’m stupid or something? That I would even be talking to you if he was here? Huh?” She tried to speak, but all that came out her mouth was a choked cough.
Costa swore loudly and released her. Shahd fell against the wall with a heavy thud, remaining silent. Her overcast eyes followed his frustrated pacing.
His fist curled and uncurled experimentally as he considered perhaps beating her into submission, but instead ran his hands down his face. Costa chanced a glance at her through his fingers: a shaft of yellow light cast across her face from the open window above highlighted her expression, or rather lack thereof. He couldn’t scare her anymore. This was a fact he noted with a sliver of admiration, but mostly disappointment. It was going to be a lot harder from now on.
“Look,” growled Costa. “I want to talk to her. Go tell her I’m down here.”
A long silence reverberated between the two, during which Shahd wordlessly peeled herself from the wall and drifted back towards the drainpipe which she’d shimmied down earlier.
Costa didn’t breathe easy again until Shahd had vanished through the window.
He waited all night, but Zeina never appeared.
CHAPTER IV
The hut was constructed entirely out of cardboard and tin scraps and so the rabbits had a hard time fixing it up after it rained. Long needles of sunlight stuck through the thin roof, stabbing into the ground on sharp angles.
Nick the Greek’s feet were propped up on a large can as he chewed thoughtfully on a colourful plastic chip. The stool on which he sat rocked dangerously on the uneven floor. At last, he twirled the chip between his fingers and let out a low whistle.
“All out, you say?” He grinned nastily. Costa scowled.
“I am.” Nick the Greek removed his feet from the can and gave the man a long curious look.
“Didn’t you ask Damien for more?”
“Damien and I don’t exactly see eye to eye.”
“You work for him don’t you?” When Costa remained silent, the Greek’s grin widened. “I see,” he cackled at last. “Such a shame, I remember when I got you into that joint. Now that took a lot of convincing. After all, no one really wants idealists on the dumb staff.”
“Will you have me or not?” snapped Costa. Nick the Greek waited what appeared to Costa an entirely inordinate amount of time before answering. He leaned forward, scratching the long grey bristles on his broad chin.
“Have you ever read Dickens, Mr. Thale?” Costa rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh.
“No sir, I haven’t.”
“Ah!” crowed Nick the Greek, sitting back into his stool in a self-satisfied manner, all the while stroking his beard. “Then you would not know of the plight of poor Oliver Twist!”
Costa glowered at him.
“Oliver Twist?” he answered mechanically.
“Yes, Oliver Twist!”
“Who, pray tell sir, is Oliver Twist?” The alien manner of speaking sounded strange and thick on his tongue, though the well-practiced conversation had echoed daily throughout his childhood.
“Oliver Twist, my boy, is the principal character in one of Dickens’ iconic novels for which the precious manuscript was named!”
“Go on, sir. What great events did pass as written in this praised literary work?”
“One scene comes to mind…” Costa had an inkling of which scene Nick the Greek was about to describe. He swore under his breath, looking instead out of the makeshift window. Nick the Greek, eyes closed and swaying as if in some kind of religious trance, didn’t notice. “Young Twist, starving and underfed, approaches the soup-giver in the mess hall. He says to him:” Costa’s lips mouthed the words automatically as the Greek spoke. “Please, sir, I want some more.”
There was another unnecessary gap in the Greek’s speech. When he spoke again, his voice was low and hoarse. “And what do you make of this infamous statement of young Oliver Twist’s?”
“I cannot say, sir. Please tell me.”
“Was it fair of the spoiled little brat to ask of the poor soup-giver for more rations?”
“No sir.”
“Did he take into mind that the soup-giver would have no soup for himself if he gave Oliver Twist what he so rudely demanded? That he had a reputation to uphold, and a family to feed?”
“No,” said Costa through gritted teeth, still focused furiously on the empty window pane. “No sir.”
“And yet,” continued the Greek dangerously. “You deem it reasonable to come here and demand of me something you know that I cannot give?”
Costa turned on the floor, looking the old man square in the eyes. Nick the Greek smiled his toothy, unpleasant smile, and began to chew on the rim of the chip again.
“You’re far too old, Constantine. You know that. And besides, I have all the help I need.”
As if on cue, the tattered curtain flapped as one such rabbit skidded into the shade. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness, before bowing stiffly to Nick the Greek. The Greek didn’t appear to notice, still chewing and leering down at Constantine Thale, who did notice.
Costa’s eyes popped furiously and his hand moved subconsciously to his nose. The boy paled, his mouth dropping open as he remained rooted to the spot by pure panic.
“Oh it’s you, Eight.” Said the Greek lightly. The boy’s attention snapped back to Nick the Greek, instantly forgetting about Mr. Thale. “I was hoping it was Two. But then again he never made such a ruckus as you.” The boy flushed. “I hope you’ll excuse me for a moment, Constantine. I have to deal with this one quickly.”
With a crooked, mottled finger, Nick the Greek beckoned the boy closer. Trembling, the boy approached him.
“S-sir?” he stammered.
“What have you got for me this morning, hmm?”
“N-nothing, sir.”
“So then why have you returned, in the middle of a meeting with an old friend, nonetheless?” The boy gaped, terrified.
“I-I-I- T-two sent me, h-h s-s-said to tell you that T-t-t-thirteen…” His voice choked off in a squeak.
Nick the Greek sighed impatiently, rubbing his temples. “Oh dearest Eight,” he crooned. “You had better not make me get up.”
The boy shook his head feverishly.
“N-no sir!”
“Tell me, child. What is Two doing right now that is so incredibly important that he has sent you in his place?” Eight’s brow creased in confusion.
“Two, s-sir? I-I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. Well, perhaps you can answer this simple question, you thick skulled, narrow minded cretin. What is it he has asked you to tell me, in as clear and fast speak as you can manage without tripping over your own tongue?” The boy swallowed.
Costa took in the transaction with what can only be described as a considerable amount of smugness. Two had arrived far after his time with the Greek, but Costa could easily recognize the tactic that had been employed by the top rabbits after his departure. Obviously the news this miserable creature had to tell Nick the Greek was less than satisfactory, otherwise Two would be here himself.
“Let me get you started,” continued the Greek. “Something about Thirteen.”
“Yes,” said the boy slowly. “T-thirteen, he… We were on the path, sir. Like you told us, and he t-t-tripped on the ladder-“
“Did he fall, Eight?”
“Um…”
“Answer when spoken to.”
“Yes.” The boy’s voice came as little more than a shrill.
There was a long silence. Nick the Greek wove his fingers together, propping his elbows on his knees as he leaned forwards. Costa sat up a little straighter, now extremely curious of the situation. Admittedly too, he was a little eager to see the finish.
“I t-t-think he broke his l-leg, sir.”
Nick the Greek pondered this last bit of information for a moment.
“Thank you for telling me this, Eight. You did the right thing.” The boy’s shoulders sagged in relief. Costa’s face twitched a knowing smile. “Did you leave him there?” The boy nodded enthusiastically.
“Yes sir,” he chirped. “Just how you told us- Look sir! I remembered to take his findings too, see? I have the pouch and the chips here, sir! Also the crowbar, and his shoes!”
Nick the Greek patted Eight’s arm, turning away from him and back towards Costa. “Good boy. Now, if you wait outside I’ll be right there to give you a little reward.”
Eight froze, and his jaw became slack. Even Costa regarded the Greek with a fraction of alarm.
“S-sir?” peeped the boy.
“Go on, child. I’ll only be a moment.” Ever so slowly, Eight backed towards the curtain, his eyes slowly filling with tears as he looked from Nick the Greek to Costa. Neither looked back. He raised his little fist to his mouth, biting hard. A bead of blood trickled down the back of his hand.
“Hurry up!” The child vanished.
Costa raised an eyebrow at the Greek, who had a dazed expression over his face.
“A little early for rewards, don’t you think?” he said stiffly. Nick the Greek tittered softly.
“Perhaps, but I haven’t given a reward in a long time… Barely seventeen since Four, do you recall?” Costa’s eyes briefly clouded.
“Yes,” he said darkly. “I do, sir.” Nick the Greek hummed contentedly.
“Hmm, well, you never earned a reward, did you. You were a particularly ugly child.” He laughed harshly. Costa remained still. “Yet,” continued the old man, peering dreamily out of the window. “You remain today one of the best little rabbits I’ve ever had. That is why I will help you today.”
Costa raised an eyebrow as he got to his feet. He dusted the back of his jeans.
“Thank you, sir,” he said at last. “This is most… I’m in your debt.” The Greek giggled.
“Silly Costa, you’ve always owed everything to me.” Nick the Greek got to his feet, scuttling towards the curtain. He pulled it open, graciously offering Costa the exit. “You go about your business Constantine Thale. I’ll send a rabbit with my contact. It was so kind of you to pay a visit!”
“The pleasure was mine,” replied Costa politely, tipping his head in gratitude as the old man pressed the tattered, slimy chip into his open palm. He pocketed it quickly.
Stepping outside, Costa squinted in the bright light. The curtain flapped closed behind him.
He wasn’t surprised that Nick the Greek hadn’t followed him.
Rewards were given out back, away from the eyes of the public. But that didn’t soften the rhythmic cries of Eight.
CHAPTER V
“I removed the drainpipe last night.”
Shahd looked at her feet guiltily.
“Why?” she asked in mock curiosity. At this point she knew that trying to feign her innocence would be of no use, yet out of habit the feat was still attempted.
She took the slap in silence.
“There is only one Dame’s in Downtown, missy,” growled Dame, leaning in close. Shahd continued to glower at her feet, trying to ignore the sickeningly sweet scent of mouldy perfume. “And I do not appreciate your pathetic attempts to sabotage it, do you hear me? These little nightly crusades of yours will end. Is that clear?”
Shahd remained silent.
Dame sighed dramatically, throwing his arms around her and drawing her into a bone-breaking embrace. Lost somewhere in his chest hair, Shahd choked: the scent was overwhelming.
“What am I going to do with you, hmm?” he crooned, stroking her hair. He paused for a moment, looking at the top of her head curiously. “One more week and I can have you on staff, but do you really want to work here that badly?”
Shahd dared not to open her mouth for fear of swallowing some of those itchy orange wires dripping with rotten fragrance.
“Oh Shahd. Why don’t you go back to your father? Why do you stay here with me and the girls?”
Shahd frowned, tilting her head back to look at him.
“You don’t want me here?” she asked slowly. Dame relinquished his hold on her, pulling her instead into his lap, where he began to braid a strand of her hair.
“Oh honey, you have the most darling curls!” he said brightly. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you chopped them off of Zeina’s head!”
Shahd braced herself by resting her hands on his shoulders, eyes loosely fixed on the wall behind his head. Some of the brick was visible beneath the faded, peeling wallpaper. Dame often told the girls that, as this was a class establishment, it was of French design. Shahd had never bothered to ask him what that meant.
“It’s because of Zeina, isn’t it,” muttered Shahd after a long moment.
“What is, sugarplum?”
“The reason you’re being so nice to me? The reason why you don’t want me to stay?” Dame continued to braid away. When he finished, he unwound the hair, beginning anew.
“Listen babycakes,” he said at last. “Your sister is something special. She’s gorgeous. Stunning.”
“Are you saying… I’m not pretty enough?”
“No, no of course you are, darling! You’re practically her twin!” Shahd beamed over his shoulder.
“Really?”
“Of course! But you see, honey, that’s not what it’s all about. Zeina has what we here like to call ‘the vibe’. Do you know about ‘the vibe’?” Shahd said nothing. “She’s got the stuff. The right stuff for what she does. But you know what? Zeina doesn’t have the right stuff for the streets. Not like you, dear! You’re good with your hands!”
“Mr. Thale says Zeina’s good with her hands,” muttered Shahd darkly.
“That’s something different, sugar,” said Dame quickly. “You can fix things! Like your Papa! That’s what you should be doing, not being cooped up inside a stuffy old building with me and the girls.” He took a deep breath, unwinding her hair again. “And another thing. Zeina? She’s our top dog! She brings in more business here than all the other girls combined. Without her, we’re all in trouble! And the thing is, because she’s such a sweet girl, your sister- well, there’s the problem right there. She’s your sister. She spends so much time taking care of you, making sure you’re okay, that she’s been slacking off lately. Now, we can’t have that-“
“Zeina hasn’t been slacking!” Shahd protested loudly. “She’s been working harder than ever! She-“
“Sweetie-pie, she spends so much time on you when she could be contributing to the house! Don’t you understand?”
“I do, I do!” Shahd said desperately. “But Dame, can’t I stay here? I won’t be a burden anymore, I promise! Like you said, I can work for you next week, right? I’ll be old enough then! I’ll look after myself, and I’ll learn ‘the vibe’! I’ve been working already-“
“Shahd, honey,” said Dame softly. “You haven’t had any customers.”
Shahd gaped at her, blushing furiously.
“Yes I have!” she said indignantly. “I’ve had lots! How would you know, anyway?”
“Schnookums, I’ve been in this business a long time. Believe me, I can tell.”
Shahd’s shoulders drooped sadly. A long silence ensued.
“I can learn it, can’t I?”
“The girls I take on,” murmured Dame gently. “They’ve all had experience of some sort. And as for ‘the vibe’, I’m afraid it’s something you’re just born with. And no matter how many times you sneak out at night that’s not something you’re just going to pick up.”
“Dame?” she asked softly.
“Mmm?”
“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. That’s all I wanted to hear.”
“So… Will you put the drainpipe back?” Shahd shrieked as the little patch of hair that Dame had been twisting and the piece of skin on which it grew was ripped clean from the scalp.
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