Take Back The City - Part One of the 'Life in London Town' series

15 - Lost Boy

   Victor stood proudly over the dispersing bodies in the Common Room, staring authoritatively at the two open square arches at the opposite end with uncharacteristic vitality. Since the disasterous offensive at St Paul's all those years ago, I doubted whether Victor had enjoyed such an experience as the one he was faced with at that very moment in time. After all those years, Victor was back where he deserved to be - at the top. “Lord of the manor at last, Victor!” I exclaimed, leaping into his arms excitedly despite half of the crowd still being easily within eyeshot. "Never forget this day," I added. "Once again, Holborn is Captain Victor Keats’s domain.”

    Overexcitement had got the better of me. Having decided to silence the random extroversions spewing from within me, he set about trying to humble himself again. “Nox,” he said quietly. “How much convincing is it going to take you to realise that I’m not as special as you think I am? You did most of the work, Nox. All I had to do was finish off.”

    “No, Victor,” I groaned, “you listen to me. You are a fine human being.” I took a brief moment to circumnavigate his body, climbing over the handrail to get as good a look as I could at his features. “I reckon that there ain’t a single man sharing this station with us that could ever compare to you,” I continued.  Victor dropped his stare and gazed around, trying to pass as nonplussed.

    “You are a fantastic specimen of a human being, Victor," I said. "I don't know why you ever began to doubt yourself. Of course, you could claim that the St Paul's offensive you told me about last night could be held responsible for the dive in confidence but, let's face it, the longer you keep yourself from rectifying your mistake, the worse the effects will be and the worse you'll feel."    

As I finished my speech, Victor caught sight of his reflection in the convex surface of the stairway handrail beside us and, for the first time in years, saw the face of a man just as brilliant as the golden glow of the metal it was reflected in. He was a fine figure of a man though, like all of us, a little ravaged by life fighting through the underworld; the stubble on his face sometimes sprouted out through mauve bruises and cuts slashed through his hands and cream-coloured cheeks. His life, I thought, had prepared him well for this; I suspected his hardiness must have been imposed upon him throughout his life in both the Army. He said nothing for the next few minutes, expressing himself only in light hums until he finally said the words I’d been longing to hear; “I think, Nox, that you might well be right.”

    “You’re a brave man, Victor,” I said proudly. “You’re much braver and far more decisive than you think. Trust me, without your conviction I’d never have gone looking for Patrick’s boy...”

    “Get him to convince you to go looking for him again, then.”

   A new voice, full of gruff tones came from the floor of the Common Room. Our heads lurched upon their necks, allowing our eyes to make an attempt to follow the poorly co-ordinated information the ears had given them. After the blur of the movement faded, the owner of the voice presented himself to us. Leaning on the pillar at the back of the hall was Will Carter-Gladstone.

   “Have your senses taken leave of your bodies or something?” he said sternly, neglecting formalities such as a quick ‘Hello.’

   “Good morning, Will,” I began. “Changed your mind about leaving innocent civilians to die, have you?”

   “Of course I damn well haven’t,” he snarled. “I still think the pair of you were out of your tiny minds when you went looking for him last night.”

    A flicker of anger flashed through my face as every word he spoke struck my ears. “Why bring it up, then?” I asked in a release of blood-boiling rage.