STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT, is an original story, inspired by the U.S. cult T.V. series BEAUTY AND THE BEAST and was first written in 1998 and published independently. I can confirm that I am the original author.
Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Ron Koslow, Witt-Thomas Productions, Republic Pictures, CBS.
With regard to the poem THE LIFE THAT I HAVE - I feel that I should point out, that although, in the context of this story, Catherine says that she cannot recall the name of the movie where she heard these poignant lines, they actually come from the old British movie, - CARVE HER NAME WITH PRIDE, starring Virginia McKenna as the heroine VIOLETTE SZABO - and was written by Leo Marks.
The night was bitterly cold and wet, a heavy rain having set in late in the afternoon and had not let up since, and despite the many layers of mismatched and much mended homespun clothes and the heavy cloak with which he covered himself, Vincent found himself shivering this late February night.
His rough whiskered, leonine face was slick with rain water, the usually fluffy bangs of his hair, and his fringe were soaked through where they were not protected by the capacious hood of his cloak, and his boots squelched in deep puddles as he deliberately tried to hug the line of buildings, keeping to the deep shadows and taking advantage of the protection the buildings afforded from the bitter, biting Easterly wind.
He was fortunate to be blessed with a strong constitution and an unusually resilient immune system, but he still didn't take unnecessary chances with his health, and was looking forward to returning Below, to dry ground, to begin his journey to Catherine's basement threshold, where he had arranged to meet her later.
First, he had promised Father that he would take the food and medicine to Isaac Blum, an elderly helper, who lived in a small, damp, bed sit in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and who had recently fallen on hard times himself. Old and infirm now, Isaac had no family, save for those he had helped for the past twenty years, Below, and now it was their turn to return the favor.
Isaac had been in a bad way when Vincent arrived, a hard, hacking cough rendering him incapable of speech, and Vincent had had to physically help him into bed, where he had gasped and wheezed for the best part of ten minutes before finally choking out his thanks for the food and medication.
Vincent had been reluctant to leave him, fearing the worst. That the old man might slip away.
Such was his compassionate heart that Vincent did not like the idea of the old man dying alone, and would have stayed, had Isaac not made it clear to him that he did not want or need the younger man's sympathy.
Father, Vincent knew, would be very sad to hear of this swift deterioration in Isaac's condition. They had been relatively close for many years, Isaac providing fresh fruit and vegetables from his small grocery store with a generosity that was overwhelming.
He was also the one chess player that Jacob Wells could beat with any regularity.
This thought brought a smile to Vincent's lips, the small gesture that lifted his features gently, without revealing his teeth, as he huddled inside his cloak and hurried across a wide gap between this block of buildings and the next block, ducking swiftly behind a rusted, faded green garbage dumpster at the sudden sound of an approaching vehicle, whose twin beams of dull yellow light, illuminated the alley.
Vincent shivered again, and not through cold this time.
Here in this part of Brooklyn, he felt very exposed, there being only three entrances to the tunnels Below, and they were quite difficult to access, a fair distance apart too.
Fortunately, he only had another four blocks to traverse before he could duck into the old, long abandoned print shop, KIMBLES, down to the sub-basement, and to sanctuary and dry ground beyond.
Vincent thought about Isaac again, as he squatted beside the garbage dumpster.
When he returned Below later, to tell Father how the old man was, he would suggest that they approach one of the other helpers to look in on Isaac in the morning.
Perhaps Clifford Wilson would oblige. He didn't live too far away, only six blocks from Isaac's place.
Vincent's train of thought was suddenly and violently disturbed by loud, throbbing music, emanating from another vehicle as it cruised down the street, flooding the alley with white light that picked out even Vincent's huddled form, his breath a plume of white vapor in the night air.
As he peeped out from beside the dumpster, Vincent could see the vehicle passing on toward the intersection up ahead, and knew that something was afoot, that he had to find somewhere better to conceal himself.
Inside the car, a late model, dark saloon, building up speed now as it headed down the street, Vincent could see four men,
Up front, smoking cigarettes, were two men, who appeared to be in their early twenties, wearing dark, knit ski caps, and in the back, through the blue haze left by burning tobacco, Vincent could just make out two younger looking men, nothing but teenage boys really, clad in dark jackets and the same dark, knit ski caps.
Vincent's intense, keen blue eyes narrowed as they followed the car's movements down the alley toward the intersection, close on the wheels of the first vehicle, which Vincent hadn't had time to observe properly when he had taken cover from the first set of headlights.
Suddenly, the night was filled with noise, car doors slamming. Young men shouting, laughing ...
Gunfire ...
Gunfire ...
Which sent Vincent scurrying for cover as a hail of bullets suddenly flew over his head.
The young hoodlums, spraying the alley and the garbage cans and the rusted metal dumpsters which lined it, indiscriminately with their automatic weapons.
Their keen young eyes must have spotted his sudden movement, as he broke from cover, for a string of bullets followed Vincent's dark cloaked, huddled form, back up the alley, hot on his heels, sizzling hot metal hissing in the rain, the bitter, acrid smell of gunpowder filling his nostrils as the bullets whizzed past his head.
And Vincent suddenly felt a sharp, stinging sensation in his left shoulder. then another in his lower right back, and another in the back of his left thigh, his eyes darting from side to side frantically, seeking an escape route.
"Hey man, what was that?" He heard someone shout from close behind him, as he tried to accelerate away from them, but his usual speed was not there.
They were gaining on him, youth and good health on their side.
"Dunno ..." This from a second, disinterested voice.
"Some dumb hobo, lost his pitch for the night ..." Another voice with a sneering laugh filled the air.
"Hey! Hey, did we hit him?" A third, younger, more anxious voice shouted. "Dammit, I ain't up for that!"
"Shut up, dope, you wanna wake the whole neighborhood?" A fourth, older, more authoritative voice echoed around the alley.
His lungs burning, his strength ebbing away, Vincent lurched on until, at last, just up ahead, the alley rounded a corner, and opened out into a dark, cobbled courtyard, the backside of a block of old apartment buildings, strung with slack washing lines and telephone cables.
It was a dead end.
But it was the only hope he had.
If he could just find something to hide behind.
The old cobbled yard was uneven and slick with rain and as he skidded around the corner, Vincent lost his footing, tumbling head first down a flight of narrow stone steps surrounded by a black, rusty iron railing, bumping down each step with a gentle thump and a soft gasp of pain.
Quickly, gathering his wits, Vincent scrambled to where no light from the street penetrated the shadows at the foot of the steps, realizing that he had been fortunate enough to fall into the entrance to a basement apartment.
"Hey, where'd he go?" This from a different voice, close by.
"Who cares ..." The disinterested voice again.
"This ain't no fun ..." This from a much younger, higher pitched voice.
"Yeah, lets go find another place to do our ... hunting ..." More laughter.
"What about the hobo?"
"Like I said, who cares?"
"If we hit him, he might die ..." A different voice again,
"So what? One less wino to fall over ..." Laughter again.
"But hey, man, that's murder ..."
"No it ain't ..." A younger, cocky voice mocked.
"It's manslaughter ... ain't like we planned to kill anyone ..."
"But we didn't exactly check the alley to see that no-one was dossing down there either, did we man!"
"You're so smart ... now!"
"Hey, shut up ..."
"C'mon, lets get out of here ..." The authoritative voice again.
The sound of an approaching police siren split the night air, and was quickly followed by the sound of feet, splashing through puddles, ringing around the alley, quickly followed by car doors slamming, and then engines being gunned, before the squeal of tires echoed in the night.
Breathing heavily, a grimace of pain twisting his top lip, Vincent waited to see what would happen next, if the police would show up, but for what seemed like an eternity, there was only the distant sound of traffic, music from a jukebox from a distant bar, a dog baying at the moon, the wind, the rain, a baby crying, his heart pounding in his ears, the ragged sound of his labored breathing.
Vincent tried to stand, but every breath filled his entire upper body with excruciating pain and fire, and his leg would not hold him up.
He was getting weaker.
Losing a lot of blood.
So cold.
So cold ...
Dear God ...
He was going to die here ...
The thought flashed through his mind, bringing with it images of Father, Catherine, Mary, Mouse, all the people that he loved, and who loved him in return.
Never to see any of them again.
Tears of pain and anger welled up in his eyes, and he thought again about Catherine.
She would be waiting for him. She would continue to wait, he reasoned silently, trying to hang on to consciousness, and when he did not show up at the appointed hour, in her basement, she would know that something was wrong, and she would alert Father.
But ...
That wouldn't do him any good.
They would ask the helpers Above to look out for him, but by the time they found him ...
If they found him ...
It would be too late.
It was getting harder and harder to breathe, to stay lucid, to hang on to consciousness.
"Catherine ..." He groaned in anguish, reaching out to her with his mind, wondering if through their empathic link, she might be aware of his plight.
But no ...
That was too much to ask ...
"Catherine ... I ... love ... you ... and Father ... dear Father ... I ... love you ... too ... I'm so sorry ... so ... sorry ..." He gasped raggedly in a small, sad voice, the last of his strength almost gone.
Suddenly, everything was very blurred and foggy.
Everything was pain.
Fire.
Blackness.
With a soft little sigh, Vincent embraced the blackness, slipping into the waiting void, his body slumping forward in a heap against the bottom stone step, his hood falling forward to conceal his face.