Chase

Mr Cordite makes small work of the crowded street; his left had pushing people aside while his right pumps like a piston to drive him forwards. People skitter aside at the sight of the colossal figure, a man of his size not seen since the circus was in town several months earlier, and at that time the fellow was behind bars.

Ahead he can see Tom darting left and right to dodge sellers markets, people pushing trollies and barrows, and a mass of well to-do shoppers, several of the people admonish him with a raised fist before catching sight of his pursuer.

Not two minutes earlier had they entered the busy thoroughfare: meat vendors, cobblers, saddlers and fruiters line the street. This is market row, a place to sell goods and shop and while away a Sunday afternoon, not a running track.

Here and there shop doors open, dancing, wafting smells of roasting things catch in Mr Cordites nose, his simple thoughts almost betray him to change course and seek out the delicacies, his mouth salivates around deep breaths.

His pace quickens.

He stays true though and continues to pursue his prey, the ever-elusive Tom.

The lithe little man draws him into ever narrower and narrower corridors, low-slung signs of taverns and brothels cause the massive man to duck and at times almost grasp the ground with open palms. The intentions of this man are clear, he’s brought Cordite into this den of immorality to loose his follower.

Opium dens open to his left and right and the rich smell clings to his clothes, a long forgotten past loiters on his mind, the scent a lingering remnant of his times travelling through Asia in the militia, an addiction he feels his long shaken.

As drunkards and felons quickly descend into holes that emit foul smells and gurgling, Cordite manages to call to his prey, “You will not loose me man, I will catch you, no matter the course!” The thought of crushing the mans head left out but the sentiment there nine the less.

Tom hears the bellowing voice from behind and proffers a glance to gauge the distance. In the split moment their eyes meet, not more than ten feet apart, Tom’s toe catches a displaced pebble or the corner of a wooden cart, leaning forwards, his abdomen facing the ground, he tumbles end over end to stop at the foot of a tavern, The Slippery Eel.

With raucous laughter Cordite throws a vagrant aside to clear the path and descends onto Tom. The man’s shadow blocking all light, natural and otherwise, the bawling cackle of the thrown aside tramp the only sound audible.

Turning his head Tom looks at the fellow a shallow gash dribbles blood down his forehead, “Well looks like you were true to your word.” With a quick glance to the side, at the detection of a slight movement, Tom smile back, “Well close anyway.”

Sneering the big man reaches down with his open palm, the leathery skin broad enough to encompass Tom’s face, scalp and a good portion of his neck.

The scared surface covers his eyes, leaving only his ears to detect what’s happening, and the hand, like an all-enveloping mask, shields his face. Tom detects a hollow thud and the clatter of broken wood spilling across uneven stones, several fragments blasting his chest and legs.

Several bottles follow in a loud smashing cacophony that rings like a hundred church bells, as the glass settles Tom hears the many stoppered tops spin in oscillating spirals before they catch on stones and broken wood fragments and roll to a stop, one coming to rest at his foot.

As the weight of the big man settles as if night its self were falling on him, Tom manages a glance around the shadow as even more light is drawn from his world. Standing erect and proud, with the broken crate in one hand and a shattered bottle in the other, Alfred winks at his friend.

“You didn’t think I’d run away from a fight did you?”

“The thought did cross my mind chap, but since when do you stick to a plan?” Tom says while struggling from bellow the giant.

Tossing the debris aside Alfred helps him to his feet, “We’d better see what’s happened to Henry, no doubt the damn fool feel behind ands in a world of trouble.”

“No doubt.” Tom agrees through deep breaths.

…

Henry stands his ground as Änderson eyes him from across the street, in the distance the path of Tom, the giant and Alfred can be heard.

The two old acquaintances watch each other with hawk eyes, Henry watching, waiting for Änderson to make the decisive move.

“You could run ol’ boy!” Änderson calls across the thoroughfare, his voice carrying and landing plumb in Henry’s waiting ears. “I guess that’s what I expect from you Henry, you always were a coward.” The man baits his old friend.

Henry, rooted to the spot, the sum of his fears now standing before him, the fire at the orphanage a true testament to what this being is capable of, that action having cemented his initial thoughts of the man.

He says nothing.

“Well have it your way lad.” Änderson gloats with a smile.

As if suspended by wires, or wings, Änderson advances across the street, Henry watches on in stunned silence, his feet anchored to the spot. This sudden fear a mystery to the man, all the adventures, tortures and horrors he has bore witness to in the past months now a mere shadow of his past. This man, his old friend, now the embodiment of that fear, the sum of all his worry.

Änderson stops ten feet from his friend, his feet coming to a sudden stop, as he watches Henry sees a sudden shift in the fellows demeanour, a silvery blade ushers from his pant pocket. Sun glints of the shard, rays dance across Henry’s form like a torch.

Taking two steps backward Henry moves into the shadow of the alley, his feet kicking aside discarded newspapers and the occasional broken bottle.

“Good, good, lets make this discreet friend.” Änderson says as he continues to advance.

Several more steps and Henry’s shoes butt up against a broken milk box, the empty bottles within tinkle and ring like angel bells, apt he thinks as he hears them chirp.

A shadow grows around Änderson as he enters the lane, his shape now a dark shadow against the sunny street behind. People move in the light like ghosts, each one absent from what’s transpiring right besides them. Henry feels like he should call out, but the fear holds his lips shut, he mentally curses himself for his foolishness.

A single shaft of light breaks the shadow suddenly, then another, like meteors raining down from heaven. Three then four, five and six, now ten stream into the path, each ones trajectory aimed at Änderson, and all making contact.

The man stumbles backwards as they impact his chest, legs and head.

“What the hell is this Henry, what vileness have you drawn me into?” he yells while stumbling backwards into the light of the street, another ball of light impacts the side of his face.

Fear washes over the villain, the same fear that Henry’s been feeling at his advance.

Looking on Henry watches as the man is driven back across the street, a dozen onlookers a gasp at the fellow’s odd behaviour.

Henry now sees that the glowing missiles are nothing more than white stone broken from the architraves of nearby buildings, the glow nothing more than clean white sunlight caught on the pristine nuggets.

“This is far from over friend, far from over!” Änderson calls back as he steps over the threshold of his refuge. “And Gestalt will pay for this folly, mark my words.”

Standing still he watches as his foe vanishes into the doorway, a moment later Henry breaths, the cool London air chills his throat. Looking up, and seeing as if for the first time, he watches as a dozen dirty, grime covered children march from the shadows and alleyways, their tiny hands grasping the white stone chunks.

At their lead the urchin who helped them uncover Änderson hiding place, “You didn’t think I’d miss the opportunity of getting a bit more coin did you?” The child says using his hand to display his full pocket.

Henry simply smiles back at the boy, enough of a thank you for now.

⚅⚀thoughts

Confrontation.

Tom strides through the doorway, his feet tapping out a solemn rhythm, reaching up to grip the brim of his borrowed hat he unconsciously tries to shield his face from view. Head bowed he shifts his eyes back and forth trying to take in as much of the room in as possible.

Entry was easy, he thought he’d have to at least knock on the door and engage in an overly long and tiresome conversation through the mesh. But when he pulled on the knob it opened, in fact the damn thing was left almost ajar, almost as if the occupants were inviting people to come in and see what went on inside.

Looking up from her desk, at the sound of the door, the middle aged clerk looks Tom in the eyes, as best she can, people walking on from the street were rair at the best of time, one of the reasons why the door was always unlocked.

“May I help you sir?” she offers.

“You may be able to mam, I’m looking for someone, a Mr Tomkins?” he says with as much confidence as he can muster. Tom’s mind reals over the details of the plan, the lingering thought of why their even taking this tact keeps popping up and pestering him.

“Mr Tomkins?” The lady says while thumbing through a card index, “are you certain he works here?”

“Quite sure.” Tom announces, “Seven James Street?” he imitates reading from the top of a box found on the street.

“Yes that’s right, but I’m afraid we’ve no one of that name here.” She responds bewildered, her eyes trying to catch a glimpse of the parcel.

“Right, it must be wrongly labelled, that’s ok I’ll take it back to the depot and see what I can find.” Nodding his head towards the lady he takes in one last look of the room.

·      Floor to ceiling cabinets with glass doors, the contents of which resembles bric-a-brac, odds and ends and antiques.

·      A triptych of portraits hang in a line behind the front desk, three men in state uniforms, each with his own assortment of medals adorning their chests.

·      Scattered across the desk common office equipment: quills, inkpots, blotter and writing matt, card index, and business cards.

Looking at the business cards Tom quickly, with out a thought, darts his hand down and grasps one. The lady looks up as if to question him. With a quick response he says, “Never know when I’ll need, Qui permanet in vitam intrare, odd.” He says while stopping in his fleeing turn, “Those who enter continue into life?” testing his long dismissed Latin.

The office lady looks up, “A motto.” She says as if programed to respond this way.

“I see, but that’s all it says?”

“Indeed it does,” she falters to take a breath, “leaves room for us to write a message!” she finishes.

“Is there a problem Deidre?” a voice utters as a side cabinet slides inwards to reveal a doorway, the tiny ornaments clink and clatter as the door opens, a fine sheen of dust escapes the top to hang in the air like a veil.

Stepping forth a man, who has to duck under the eave due to his height, enters the room, his face ashen in colour, his skin mottled with grey as if dusted with flour. Keen blue eyes look Tom up and down, heavily oiled hair, spread like a birds wing, covers most of his forehead like white ghost fingers.

“What have we here then?” he asks while reaching for Toms parcel.

“It would seem an incorrectly labeled delivery Mr. Cordite.” The secretary adds with sarcasm, the game clearly up.

“Truly.” He continues as he tries to grasp the box.

Tom takes a step backwards, towards the door, “That’s right, I’ll be going now if you please.”

“What’s the hurry Tom?” a familiar voice echoes from the opening behind Mr Cordite hefty form.

A look of horror washes across Tom’s face, the sheen of it not vanishing quickly enough for Deidre and Mr Cordite to miss, they both smile in acknowledgement.

Stepping out from the shadows of the room Änderson resolves in the light, his face filled with genuine glee at seeing his old friend “I never thought you’d find me, in fact I feared you may have perished in the blaze.” His cold eyes look down at Tom tracing the remnants of black ash on his face.

Feeling himself shrink slightly Tom tries to straighten his back and legs, a vain attempt to gain a little height in the situation, the cardboard box, cradled in his arms to this point, tumbles to the floor with a dull thump. The forgotten contents clearly not important.

“So this is the right address then?” The giant asks with a smile in the corner of his lips.

“Evidently.” Tom responds. “Mr Änderson I also had a fear that we’d never see you again, after all you vanished without a trace, it caused Henry all sorts of anxiety.”

“Tragic.” He smirks, “I hope the dear fellow is over that now.”

“Quite.” Tom bites back while taking one more step to the door, his hand reaching behind him to touch the window.

“Leaving already old friend?”

“I have other deliveries.” He barks while springing towards the door, his legs like coiled springs. Pushing fiercely he all but swings off the handle into the street.

The door bursts open and they see Tom bounce out, his feet scrambling down the three steps as if he’s running on wet ice. Behind him, not more than two steps behind, a fellow of colossal size echoes his every step, duck and weave.

Tom looks across the street, his expression speaks a thousand words, the two decipher it immediately: Make for home. The intention as clear, they’re to hide their retreat, a twisted route through the city that ends at Alfred and Alberts home.

“Right lad lets see what we can do.” Alfred adds while climbing to his feet and sprinting after the giant and Tom.

“I think he wants us to go home!” Henry adds while following suit.

As if chasing down wild game Alfred exits the ally running at a steep angle, his left hand outstretched to steady the fall that might come, tiny stones skitter away from his pounding feet and the leather of his soles squeak and groan.

Henry exits somewhat more reserved, but still with in eyeshot of both Tom and Alfred, the giants bouncing head above the crowd a clear enough beacon to track their trajectory.

As he starts to follow the door of the office springs open again, in its arch he spies Änderson, the fine figure and stance of the man clear. Sliding on the cobble Henry shudders to a sudden stop, the two make eye contact through the gathered mass, horses and trays.

Änderson smiles as if to say, old friend.

⚅⚀thoughts

The urchin returns.

The cold stone step comforts the three men somewhat, having sent the girls and Albert home some hours earlier their able to discuss things as they are, at least until the urchin returns with news.

After much toing and froing they each decide that waiting has its pros and cons.

Alfred feels that waiting allows one to explore the remote confines of ones brain, waiting is best done alone as there is no unwanted or unnecessary distractions that will pervade his thoughts.

Naturally the others quickly exclaim, in unison, “do you wish us to leave?” And as naturally Alfred waves the query away with a simple, and oblivious, “No lads your fine.” The blatant jibe lost on the man.

Although this is all very interesting to Tom and Henry they seem to co-operatively think that time left waiting is mostly wasted and at best is a time to either idle away thoughts or cause severe anxiety, in Henry’s case the kind that could almost paralyse oneself.

Luckily Henry is kind enough to let his fellows know that he’s quite enjoying this wait. “After all when was the last time we were able to while away the hours, certainly not during the high adventure we’ve recently been involved with.” He adds with a hearty chuckle.

Sure enough the waiting does come to an end, however fruitless it’s all been, with the solid running footfalls of their urchin friend and several of his compatriots.

The children; five in total, three boys and two girls, dash around the corner to see the men almost laying in the doorway of a closed saddlers, the lead boy races up to Tom and with staggered breaths announces, “We’ve found the tray, horses and establishment!”

Sitting upright, almost sliding off the step, Tom looks the soot covered child in the face, “Are you sure you’ve found the place our friend was taken?”

“Sure as sure governor, Suzie found it, she did.” The child looks across at one of the girls, a tiny thing no more that five or six with peach coloured cheeks and ratty blond hair.

“Suzie.” Tom says walking towards the girl, “Did you see our man?”

Despite her shy demeanour the girl puffs out her chest and looks the adult in the eyes, “I might have sir.” Her grubby little hand extended.

“Sure enough little one.” Tom says with a somewhat guilty look as he tosses a single coin into the child’s waiting hand. “Now did you see him?”

Looking gleefully at the coin, never taking her eyes off it she responds, “The tray pulled up and the rough men took him inside.”

“Boy did you tell her what you saw?”

“I did gov, and she said it was the same fellows.”

“Good lad, now show us the way and we’ll put enough coin in your pockets to feed you for a month.”

“And perhaps get them a good soaking in a tepid pool of water.” Henry adds as he turns to follow the kids.

The three men trot along behind the children at a steady pace, the writing mass of filthy kids dodging this way and that, skipping around corners and through busy thoroughfares, at times almost knocking people down or spilling things from street vendors tables.

After twenty minutes of this sort of chase the group comes to the end of a lewd, black soot covered ally. Several vagrants look up from their daily naps as the five kids and three men trot by.

“Across there governor.” The older boy says, his finger outstretched to point at a large brick building, a building somewhat at odds with the rest of the neighbourhood.

“That one?” Tom asks while looking back at his friends. “Are you sure?”

The small child called Suzie turns on her heel and marches up to the adult, her hand drawn out, before Tom can reach for his coin purse the child grasps his chin and directs his vision to the clean redbrick building, she slowly turns his gaze along the wall and down to street level. “There’s the tray and horses sir.” As if trying to prove a point.

“I see.” Tom says, “and the man they took inside, did you get a good look at him?”

“He was tallish, thin and pail sir.”

“Apt description miss.” Alfred says with a sardonic smile.

Reaching into his coat Tom starts, “Now listen this money is for several things, listen, first get some food into your bellies, next time we see you you’ll be well feed. Next, and more importantly, your not to speak a word of this to anyone, you hear me?”

The five children watch as he draws the coin from his pocket, their eyes glistening with hunger and pride. Each one nods and offers a solemn vow of sorts before snatching the coin and disappearing into the alleyway.

The boy stays behind to talk with the men, “I promise they wont speak a word of this, you have my promise, also if you need anything, anything,” he says forcing the word, “you’ll find me?”

“We will lad, I promise.” Tom says with a nod.

With that the child turns and darts away with his fellows.

⚅⚀thoughts

Interrogation.

“So the question that must be asked is,” straightening his back somewhat, his joints pop and creak with the action, “how much are you willing to impart on your own volition?”

Turning his head to the side Gestalt hears as the leather strap holding his forehead lets out a screech, the thing almost too tight for any movement. “Well how about you start asking questions, enough of all this intimidation with bright light and sharp pointy things.” He spits out at his former colleague, a thing stream of spittle runs down his cheek and onto the table, the white bubbles amass there like tiny living things.

“Very well.” The dark figure says while pushing the sharp light aside, “I never was very good at tactics, better at attack.” He smiles around his tone, the old Änderson there for a second before the new one returns. “Would the king ever consider using his brave troops in combat?”

“That’s a fairly direct question friend, and a rather guarded one.” Gestalt answers with a curious look. “He has, and will again no doubt, but just like your question I don’t think it says much.”

“Your point?”

“The king has waged war several times, mostly in defence, rarely in attack, and only around his limited realm.”

“The volcano kingdom.”

“Right, I think your cautious question might be aiming at something more grand, no?”

“Ok.” Änderson says with a shrewd smile, “Would he participate in a full scale war with this world?” his arm stretched out to the far wall and the world beyond.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious, our forces were hardly able to hold back the small force of apes that attacked us, besides the king and his whole kingdom don’t know a thing about you or this upper-world.” Forcing his eyes to the ceiling he continues with a whisper, “by god he doesn’t even know of the world beyond the gash.”

Turning on his heals Änderson marches across the wall several times, in and out of the captive mans vision, his foot falls solid and loud. After several minutes of this he stops and grasps a blade from the waiting tray.

Gestalt hears the clank of metal on metal and a slight scratch where the blade cut into the tray, then the return of Änderson by the sound of his footfalls.

Stopping at the side of the table Änderson brings the blade to bear, “What if we told him of the world and displayed a threat that would draw him out?”

“No, he’d never succumb to that, the council of elders wouldn’t allow it.”

Bringing the blade up to his eye Änderson examines it while forcibly directing shafts of light into Gestalts eyes. As the man turns his head away Änderson bring the blade down and slices through the top of Gestalt’s hand.

Gritting his teeth, as the blade dissects his skin, a bead of sweat tumbles down his face, then another, and another, falling like pearls onto the floor.

The pain increases as the blade sinks deeper into the mans flesh, his fingers tighten under the pressure, unable to clench due to a heavy leather strap holding his hand palm down and open.

Twitching the tips of his fingers just as one falls limp, the tendon cut, a savage snap precedes the pain that runs up his arm like hot lead and into his brain, his entire arm shudders under the release of tight pressure, somehow he knows clenching the hand would have made this thing a whole lot worse. He focuses on that small mercy as the pain continues to pulse up his arm.

Pushing his head back, the leather strap tightening to grip his head all the more, he yells in agony, long tendrils of spittle string from tooth to tooth. He holds the posture for a minute and the pain slowly dies to a dull aching throb.

As he tries to move his hand he feels warm liquid pooling around the palm and soon enough his ears pick up the sound of blood dripping onto the floor then slowly dribbling into a drain with a drip, drip, drip.

Breathing heavily Gestalt manages to hold the pain at bay, or at least prevent it from growing stronger. With all his thoughts focussed on the burning pain he tries to pull them away one at a time and reassert them onto his breathing, in and out, in and out.

Breathing deeply he masters the pain somewhat, one last breath and he asks, “What was that for?” though his breathing is heavy the words are clear.

“I was board of your answers, besides you were cocky to me before and I didn’t like it.” Flicking the severed tendon with his forefinger Änderson continues, “Now what would bring him to the battle?”

Gestalt continues to look at the celling, his eyes focussed on a single point in the centre, a black smear on one of the white tiles, no more than a dot in his vision. Pushing his eyes forwards, in his mind, he allows the black dot to consume him, so much so that he starts to fall into it, soon the mark surrounds him, it covers him like a blanket, an all encompassing shroud that leaves the pain outside.

After a moment in the blackness he speaks. “Your threat would do it.”

Looking oddly at his captive Änderson asks “My threat?”

“Yes your threat.”

“Please friend elaborate.”

“Oh I see I have uttered another cautious statement, one with many different outcomes, is that frustrating?” Now fully covered in the blanket of the ceiling spot Gestalt knows the man has no way of reaching him, this is his interrogation now.

“Are you saying there’s a way to bring him out of the cave, a way for him to come to the fight?”

“That’s precisely what I’m stating.”

“Then how, what price would bring him forth, tell me that and the pain will end, I will have our surgeons fix this mess I’ve made, and you will be given care and luxury.”

Without turning his eyes Gestalt says, “Your head.”

For a moment Änderson juggles that response in his brain, as if tossing it from one hand to another, the thing an oddity that he can’t quite understand. Then like the snapping tendon he understands, “You mean he would see me as a threat and come out to fight me?” A smile playing across his sinister face, a drop of blood on his lip quickly rolls to the bottom one where his tongue removes it with a flick.

“Once again I think you misunderstand Mr Änderson, he would see you for who you are, he would come and he would use your skull as a goblet to drink from.” Drawing back from the spot he looks Änderson in the face, “He would never fight for you.”

“No I don’t suppose he would, not knowingly anyway.”

⚅⚀thoughts