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

24 - A True Identity

   These were the streets I used to know. Strand, Bedford, Garrick; I knew them all, but though we were old friends they shunned me like strangers. They were no longer the puerile, fun-loving bastions of the wild youth at large. They were shells of their former selves, like widows stuck in darkened lounges staring at a portrait of their dearly departed all day and all night; much like me, they could do nothing more than dwell on memories that seemed a million miles away. Windows stared mournfully into the gloomy tarmac; the layer of condensation covering them slowly dripping down to the whitewashed ledges were their tears, the worn curtains their eyelids wishing to close forever and leave the world behind for good. We were the condemned, and the city was our Tyburn Tree.

    For once, Patrick’s son was leading our little group. Though he was more frightened of what lay ahead than Victor and I combined, he was by far the most experienced at dealing with the unenviable situation we found ourselves in. He didn’t deviate; his route was predictable, neither leaving us exposed in the main roads and the open squares nor running through the shady, constricted alleyways. Nevertheless, our senses were still on red alert. We were still in Central London, and the skies were still dark; anything could happen.

    “We should probably head west,” suggested Patrick’s son. “If we head any further north, we’ll end up walking straight into their arms.”

     They, I thought. It had been the first time that his complaints about ‘them’ had entered my head; subconsciously, I think I had known exactly what he meant for a while but, in the furore of ‘Operation Acre’ and in the brief moment I had to reconnect with Patrick’s son I had forgotten to bring the whole thing up. The Faceless had occupied the entire Central Line and, indeed, if we headed much further north we would enter territory that was firmly theirs. Judging by everything he had told me about ‘them’ earlier, he obviously had a lot of previous with them; as soon as we found a place to camp, I would make it my utmost aim to find out what exactly that previous entailed. After all, Jamieson had speculated that Patrick’s son could even be one of them. Could it be true?

    Four words re-entered my consciousness: We will find you. My mind shot back to that morning two days ago, to the mezzanine between the Central, the Piccadilly and the surface at Holborn, and the jumbled memories of that day that had been stuck in my head ever since, re-emerging every so often like a picture on a television with poor reception.

    “I-I don’t know,” he replied. "I-I couldn't tell you, even if I knew. They'll come for me again. I know it." He dropped his voice to a chilling whisper. "They'll come for you, too," The picture changed. He was no longer the boy I knew. He was the boy I feared. "Th-W-We," he choked. Words wouldn't form. Semi-conscious, he flipped a hand out from underneath his body and slapped the ground. His other hand followed. A face, no longer covered in tears but by brimstone black hair, ominously emerged from the sprawling body, containing glinting golden eyes which burrowed through my skin and sucked out my soul. Mists whipped up in my memory. All was obscured – vision, sound, everything. A face burst from the mists. As loud as a thousand thunderclaps, he bellowed those four terrible words into my face – four words which resonated within me like an earthquake, four words which made my heart leap from its strings and hide, petrified, in a corner of my chest, four words that put the fear of death into my very soul: “WE WILL FIND YOU!”

    “NOX!”

    I was shaken back to my senses. We had arrived at a charcoal-fronted building near Leicester Square; a restaurant stood on the ground floor, but a small side-door led us up a flight of steep stairs covered in grey, dust-covered carpets which looked as if they hadn’t been changed since the Seventies. A torch produced from Victor’s pocket provided us with the only light we had, for there was no electrical supply running into any part of the building. A tiny speck of light was all we had to guide us, but what was revealed by that tiny speck showed me all I needed to guess exactly what kind of a place lay at the top of the grotty flight of stairs.