Monday – David Part Three
David fell off the railing and landed on his arse on the concrete. He lay back and screamed until his throat gave out. The sky above was clear and the stars peeked through the light pollution, mocking him with their silent regard. Maybe everyone was out there. Maybe they were all on the moon, looking down at him and pointing and laughing.
He rolled onto his side and put a hand over his face. The floor was cold. He slept.
He woke once in the night and the sound of the Thames rushing below the bridge was so loud it made him jump. It faded just as quickly as he realised there was nothing else. He clammed his eyes shut and rubbed his face with the heel of his palm and waited. The waiting lasted forever and every second was filled with the silence but eventually, he went back to sleep.
He woke to sunlight creeping over the OXO tower and prying into his eyes. It seemed to welcome him back, as though he’d stood on the edge of death and been pulled away at the last moment.
He stood, feeling better than he had in days. Then the pain hit and the silence hit and he crumpled to the floor. He was pathetic. He couldn’t even end it when the end was coming anyway. Why was he here?
It was the first time he’d asked himself that and it surprised him enough that he stopped shaking and sat up. The movement sent pain through his shoulder, spasms running up and down his back. He could barely move his arm. His throat was clogged and filled with gunk and he hawked and spat over the edge.
Why was he here? The flower seller had given him roses for his wife and he’d given them to Steph. That was bloody stupid. He was in hell all because some weirdo got on his high horse. The word God floated through his mind and he snorted. Weirdo with some serious mojo was nearer the truth. Actually, was there much of a difference?
He wasn’t in hell. Hell didn’t exist, although he decided the guy who invented the whole fire and brimstone thing was a bit lacking in imagination. This was some kind of altered reality. Maybe there were drugs in the roses, something he smelled that made him think this was all happening. Or maybe he was strapped in, Matrix-style, to some giant computer. It was fake either way.
But he felt sick, there was no denying that. They could do anything with computers these days though. He sniffed and pulled himself up the railings. It all felt so real. Well, if there was no one here, there was no one to stop him doing anything he liked. There was an Aston Martin garage in Kensington.
With his first smile in twenty four hours, David made his slow way over the bridge.
Doing ninety down Oxford Street was as much fun as he’d imagined. As was going on a shopping spree around Harrods and raiding the ice cream parlour. But every time he paused, the silence came flooding back like the tide running up the beach.
After a couple of days of living like a Sultan, it began to wear thin. There was no TV, no one to cook anything, no one to do anything with or to. And the silence kept coming.
After a week, he took to talking to himself, loudly commentating everything he did. But his throat was hoarse and he soon ran out of words. He was supposed to be dying, but the sickness had frozen where it was, leaving him washed out and snotty all the time.
Everything had frozen. His beard stopped growing and his hunger soon went away. And after a couple of weeks, he found himself back before the flower stall. The flowers were still in bloom, bright and beautiful and the only things that smelled of anything anymore. He sucked in the aromas, clinging to that one small sign of his previous life.
His mind wandered. His thoughts became simple, images that meant nothing. He spoke out loud now and then, but the words no longer made sense. They were just sounds, with no one to hear them. His sleep dried up as well. He did everything he could to exhaust himself, but he’d fall into a light sleep that would last only a couple of hours at most before he woke.
The flower stall became his refuge and it was just as he was trying to remember why, that someone appeared. In the dim recesses of his memory, in the part that still worked, he recognised the man as the flower seller. But he saw much more now. He saw the light surrounding him and the darkness hiding behind it.
‘Hello, David, how are you?’
He stared blankly at the man, waiting for this David person to reply. When no one did, he thought that perhaps he was David. How was he? He shook his head, mouth hanging open and the man smiled.
‘Have you learned?’
‘Learned?’
‘Why are you here, David?’
‘Roses. Something, there were roses.’
The man sighed and shook his head. ‘Perhaps I left it too long. No, it shouldn’t have happened this quickly.’
He leaned closer, pursing up his lips. Finally he spoke. ‘When you wake, examine your life. And if you are in doubt, remember that you can always come back to this place.’
The flower seller took careful steps backward to stand beside his stall. There he froze and the scene faded until David stared at the blackness and wondered why he was suddenly so warm. He reached out a hand and pressed it against warm flesh.
The person sighed and rolled over, dislodging his hand and his eyes flew open. The first thing he saw was the bedside clock, the numbers 5:32 glowing gently in the darkness. Almost time for work. He blinked, expecting to drift back off. But he felt oddly awake and stretched, reveling in not feeling crappy at half five in the morning.
Amber rolled over again and he stared at her face as it came into view. How had he ever loved her? Just the sight of her grated and made him want to leap from the bed. With a grunt he rolled back to stare at the alarm clock. There was something on top of it and he reached out a hand.
He hissed as his fingers closed around something sharp. He jerked them away, then took it more gently and lifted it to his face. It was a rose, a single red rose and it smelled wonderful. It made him think of Steph. He reached for his phone then looked again at the time. She wouldn’t thank him. Maybe he’d text her on the way to the station.
As he stepped into the shower, he wondered where the rose had come from. A voice inside told him he knew exactly where it had come from, but he couldn’t remember. Didn’t matter. Dammit, the shower was bloody freezing. When he stepped out of the house, he didn’t notice the silence. It was only when he reached the train station and found it dark and empty, that it came flooding back.
Interlude
That was a shame. He’d expected more. Some people just weren’t ready to change. Now that sounded like he was making excuses. It was another in Purg though and they all had to be accounted for. Which meant more paperwork.
Was he losing his touch? The last three had all gone to the dogs and he thought his choices were perfect. Maybe he should listen to Seph and do what he suggested. Take the easy ones, get your quota, and get ambitious at the end of the month when it wasn’t so important.
But that didn’t work. What was the point if they weren’t on the edge? And there didn’t seem to be any easy ones. There were easier and harder, but no shoe-ins. That wasn’t how Seph told it though. To listen to him over a beer, he was swimming in easy subjects, lining them up and knocking them down.
Luke picked up his list and stared at it. Were they getting the same list? Several names faded in the minute he looked at it, so they were working from the same sheets. Was he losing his touch?
He swung around in his chair and gazed out the back of his chamber. The Flights were quiet. Most of them were still at work and the rest down at the Dome. He peered over the edge and stared down through the stars, past the thousands of chambers to the Dome. He could go for a beer.
His eyes were heavy though. Keeping David in Purg for that long without the Engine was hard work. He’d rest and start again tomorrow.
Bayleigh’s story begins Thursday 12th June
