I cast a shadow that swallows you whole.
I swoop, I climb, I cling, I suck,
I swallow you whole.
The Adverts, "The Great British Mistake"
He comes upon a woman at the stream. It's the same as always. She scrubs a bloody shirt, steam rising from her hands as she furiously works the fabric. Bloody jumper. Bloody trousers. The article of clothing doesn't matter. But every time it's blood she's scrubbing.
He wants to ask her. He needs to know whose clothing. He knows. But he also needs to know.
She looks up at him. Her eyes are pale. They're mist on a moor. Reflections of a full moon. The hairs on his neck stand on end. He's stood frozen, trapped in her gaze.
She raises an eyebrow and the edge of her mouth hitches in a smirk. Ask me, she mouths. When she lifts the shirt (the trousers? The jumper?) from the stream again and turns towards him, he sees she's now holding a bloodied wolf skin. She begins to rise and the blood rushing in his ears sounds like drums.
And he runs.
As he always has. And always will.
She had five days to be out of the flat. Well, she didn't have to be, but she wanted to be. Five days was all she had left in her. It seemed like a brilliant idea at first-a large, converted warehouse flatshare in East London. Lots of young artist types, all new or newish to London. Didn't take her long to discover it was nothing of the sort. The idealists had fled the high rents and left the poshers in their wake. It was miserable.
Clara hated the internet. How could she possibly find the right flatshare out of hundreds of thousands of potential places? How could she know she'd found the right one and wasn't living with an axe murderer? Or worse, a banker? She closed her laptop in frustration and stuffed it in her bag, gulped the rest of her tea, and left the cafe in a huff, stepping out onto the high street in a sour mood.
Figuring buying something cheap would put her in better spirits, she noticed a small record shop across from the cafe. Mostly by its brilliant blue door, a colour which stood out amongst the mostly neutral and inoffensive shop fronts. Nothing else about it was very noticeable at all. There were plenty of record shops in the area-brand new and minimal, not a trace of dust to be found on their pristine and overpriced recent pressings, still in their wrapping.
As soon as she stepped through the blue door, she was shocked by how much larger it was than it'd seemed from the outside. Stacks and stacks of records filled the aisles and shelves, dusty and musty, something comforting about the chaos.
She was in heaven. If only she could move in here.
Despite seeing no one in the shop, not even an employee, she began digging through the stacks. Kate Bush was the first gem and, of course, she snagged it. After what felt like hours she had ten perfect additions to her slighty-too-large-already collection. But there was still no one in sight.
"Um, hello?" she asked the empty store. "Can I pay for these?"
From behind a haphazardly hung curtain, a wild-haired older man stepped out. Frowning, he eyed her suspiciously.
"How long have you been here?" he asked gruffly, with a strong Glaswegian brogue.
"I'm not sure. It seems like time moves differently in here," she replied, though she felt a bit silly admitting it. "Could I buy these please?" she asked again, slightly exasperated.
He stepped over a short stack of records, his Doc Martens making a heavy thud on the creaking floorboards. "Depends."
"Depends?"
"Aye. Depends. On what you have there." He grabbed the records from her arms and took a look. "The Smiths?" he questioned immediately.
"I know Morrissey's a wanker, but I still like them. Unapologetically." She stood resolute and looked him directly in the eyes. She thought she saw a glimpse of something wild there at her challenge, but it might've been spillover from his eyebrows.
He flipped through the remainder, eyebrows raised in what appeared to be appreciation as he landed on a few of them. "All right. Four pound fifty."
She crossed her arms. "Do you really judge every purchase before it's made?"
He nodded. "And I charge on a sliding scale based on how much of a pudding brain the haul would suggest the buyer to be."
"So where am I on the scale?"
"I'd imagine you made out quite well, considering initial trepidation." He put the records in the bag and then added one more before handing it over to her.
"What's this?" She took a quick look at the worn album cover. The Adverts.
"Take a listen. If you hate it, you can give it back." He shrugged.
"Seems like a fair deal. What's the name of this place? Looked like it said 'Police Box' out front."
"It's TARDIS. Don't ask what the acronym stands for. Disco's in there. Obviously not my idea, I just took the place over." He paused, considered. "Don't go telling people about us, though. Last thing I need is for this place to be written up by some pudding brain hipster as an 'undiscovered gem.'"
Clara shook her head and laughed. "Fair dues. And you don't look like you've listened to a second of disco in your life."
He smirked. "The grey had to come from somewhere, didn't it?"
She nodded. "I'm Clara, as it goes."
"The Doctor."
"Right. You couldn't possibly have a normal name. Well, thanks for the record, Doctor."
He nodded and turned to put a record on the turntable behind the counter. The warped, tinny sounds of frenzied guitars filled the shop. Dingy record stores were obviously where old punks went to die. Or live forever like some sort of strange vinyl Nosferatu.
Clara walked towards the door and noticed taped to the door was a small handwritten note about a room available. Near the Hackney Wick Overground. Only a hundred per week? She pulled out her mobile to call whoever had posted the note and then immediately realised there was no number.
"Doctor, do you know who put this here? Has this been up long?"
"Of course. And I suppose it's been awhile. A few months now." He turned down the music a bit.
"Could you put me in touch with them? I'm tired of looking for a new place and this is perfect."
"When can you move in?"
"Tomorrow," she said, maybe a bit too quickly. "Whenever. Soon."
"You don't have any pets, do you?"
"None. And I don't own much, I'm a teacher in Shoreditch, very quiet and clean. Plus, I bake. I'm really an excellent tenant."
He nodded. "All right. Want to move in tomorrow then?"
The dull ache from the weight of her computer bag blossomed into a twinge of pain. She moved it to her other shoulder and raised an eyebrow. "So it's your flat?"
"That all right?" The Doctor seemed a bit uneasy now. He scratched the back of his neck and looked down at the counter, rubbing at the sticky ancient remnants of some sticker, torn off years ago.
Clara took a minute to consider. One more night in the flatshare from hell seemed worse than any other situation she could possibly imagine. Even a situation as rife with potential for horridness as moving in with this strange, aging punk record store proprietor she'd just met. "Yeah, go on then."
He pulled a worn Moleskine from his back trousers pocket and wrote a few words down furiously. Ripping out the piece of paper, he handed it over to her. "Come round six or so tomorrow, yeah? Won't be home til around then, but here's the address."
She grabbed the paper from him and folded it over, putting it in her computer bag. "All right, Doctor. See you tomorrow night."