Author's Notes: Thank you to every who read my last story – and new comers as well! You are the reason I decided to continue this story. I hope I don't disappoint you :)
As usual, unless specified it'll all be in 2D's POV.
(All Things – The Cinematic Orchestra)
So. We're back here again?
I remember his heavy eyes staring at me with a bitter coldness; a singular moment in my life (excluding Mum's outbursts) that left me shattered, almost unable to rebuild. She could never have loved me, and nor could he.
London is always bustling with too many people going about too many lives, but in my three years here after being sentenced to relocate schools after the crazy shit that went on in Gloucestershire, I've been able to figure out some back street ways to get from the faculty building to the place I now unfortunately find myself employed: Uncle Norm's.
"I tell ya, Stu," Uncle Norman would say at the end of each working evening, "I can't stick this London game. Too many people."
I nod in agreement at our similar thinking on that respect.
"I miss our old Crawley... maybe I'll move back one day..."
Maybe he will – but I won't be going with him.
The sun glints dirtily on the glass windows embedded into the skyscrapers, tiny uniformed ant people high in beautiful offices in the clouds, staring down at the rest of us subjected to the grimy earth. No matter how many alleys I wiggle into, the brawl of traffic never leaves, and as I find my way out of a particularly claustrophobic and narrow one, I'm met by the clash of skidding wheels as the immense metal circus rolls before me.
I stop and watch for a while, on the edge of the pavement of a busy main street as pissed off Londoners push through me, because it really is like a circus: performers whizzing about on bikes, dangerously running through red lights and past the angry revving lion-cars that growl and snap at their heels – accompanying this scene, the huge steel scarlet elephant-buses glide past, completely oblivious to the chaos bellow.
"You wanna shift it?" Remarks a moody citizen in a sharp blue suit – maybe he worked in one of the sky towers.
"Yeh, sorry, mate." I'm brought out of my trance and start to walk away as the blue-suit-man shakes his head, disgusted at my friendly term, and briskly trots away. I roll my eyes and press the button at the edge of the road, awaiting the green man's signal of approval to well and truly "shift it" to work – I don't trust myself to maintain the concentration to not get hit by a car without the aid of traffic lights.
I sound pessimistic – one of the very good features London boasts is looming over me right now: the sky.
A whirling hue of grey has completely taken it over. For some, it's too gloomy and depressing, but I can't help this colour reminding me of a better time with a better person. The time in my life I was starting to feel at home in – but what's the use reminiscing? It never gets you anywhere.
After a few minutes of what must seem, to a stranger's perspective, like mindless ambling, I make my way towards the front door of my distant Uncle's keyboard shop – and my home.
It's not a big shop by any means, and it's not really keyboards either. That was the "dream" but Norm found it pretty tricky making a living just by selling those, meaning we have rows of all kinds of things: cellos, trombones, box drums, a whole bloody rack of triangles snagged from the charity shop for 50p or so.
"Heh. Charity shops, Stu," he'd chuckle to me after coming home from a night of heavy binging once, "proper helper of the community, me."
He'd walk ten miles if it meant saving one penny from going towards the proceedings of charity – luckily, his cheap nature outweighed his hateful one.
"Uncllle!" I call towards the till, making an educated guess that there wouldn't be any customers.
I saw a head peek above a music book stand.
"Hi, lad. 'and me those books over there."
I picked up the desired texts and made my way to the front of the shop, passing them to him then hopping over the counter.
"Had a good day, Stu?" He said, concentrating hard on the order of the band guitar tabs.
"Yeh, fanks. I got hit by a truck at break and then my English teacher sexually abused me on 'is desk while the whole class watched. He filmed it too."
"Tha's nice, mate."
It's a game I play almost every day: see what kind of disturbing things I can say that my Uncle will completely ignore. He stands up strait, cracks his back violently, and actually regards me, as he does at about this time every day.
"So, I'll be out tonight. You all right looking after the place?"
And I answer the same way as always: "Yeh, tha's fine."
He comes over and grabs his jacket off of the desk at the same time as ruffling my hair.
"You're a good kid, you know? Stay safe."
"You too."
And he darts off as quickly as possible, the call of alcohol and prostitution yelling loudly in his ear.
Bye, then.
My stomach rumbles as I realise I've accidentally gone another day without eating. No wonder I'm bloody skinny – I'm so air headed I don't remember to eat unless my body or someone else physically reminds me. Sighing and really REALLY feeling like left over Chinese takeaway, I wander through the door behind the desk and into the tiny kitchen me and Uncle share. It's not as dirty as you might think; Norman is a pretty bad OCD sufferer and relishes in scouring surfaces with bleach. It's not the worst affliction – tidy kitchens remind me of home.
And then I take back any positive thoughts I'd just had about him as the fridge which doubles as a drug storage unit comes into plain sight – it's been bolted. And he's taken the key.
"Twat." I utter with the last of my strength.
I lie down on the top of the desk after shuffling back into the shop and grab a few magazines from the side: porno, porno, porno, car mag, porno.
Then, buried at the bottom of the pile, I find a strange looking one. It's a deep blood red that causes my guts to shift uncomfortably and the palms of my hands to burn, though I don't know why, adorned with scrawling black letters littering the top. I gently open the cover and look inside at the contents – one article in particular strikes my attention.
I was cursed.
Feeling a strange rhythm in my heart I turn to the page (text written underneath a picture of a very fed up looking girl) and concentrate on the words. They jiggle about slightly, my horrendous reading barricading me from the full truth, but phrases like "He controlled me," and "after the ritual..." jumped out from the glossy paper like crickets.
Then I see the symbol emblazoned on the forehead of the girl, scarred to her skin: a little stick man. I can't remember how long I spent pouring over ever detail of that article, reading it, but not taking anything in, absorbed as if the world around me was inconsequential. If an alarm went off or the lights went out, I doubt I'd hear – by the time I manage to pry my eyes away the sky is navy blue.
I hear a noise and sit up sharply just in time to see the shop door slam and someone run off into the darkness of the night.
(Sound of loud, blaring music playing from clubs in background)
NARRATOR
"I said, 'ave you got it?" Hannibal was sighing angrily as he regarded his younger brother.
"Yes! Calm down, it's 'ere." Murdoc produced a bag of multi-coloured pills and nervously looked at the older sibling. His eyes searched the contents of the plastic critically; the almost luminous green colour had lost some of its brightness recently – too many late nights hanging out with the Niccals father, doing crystal in sleazy bars all over London. Murdoc was never invited to such gatherings, thank his lucky stars.
"Okay. It's all here." Han eventually decided, making the other exhale shakily – he didn't want to know what would happen if he'd have been stupid enough to loose some of the "rainbow."
"Now," he continued, "I don't want you selling in the joints – you'll get the shit beaten outta ya and I'll loose my stock to whichever little girl was strong enough to over-power you." He gave a cruel smirk, leaning back against the smoke stained brick wall of the strip club where they had their little meetings.
"Okay. I'll, um, meet you back at the flat, then?" Murdoc asked expectantly, hoping to Satan he could just go to sleep and get this stressful day over and done with.
"Ha! You'd like that, wouldn't ya? Nah, I've got something else to keep ya outta trouble, mate." He signalled to a particular red haired henchmen who Murdoc thought might've been called Mark? He didn't know. Mark or Matt or whoever brought over a small brown paper bag and handed it to his friend.
"Right, Muds, this 'ere is some Angel Dust," the 19 year old's eyes widened and Hannibal tutted loudly, "Don't piss yourself, Myrtle, I just want you ta make a delivery fo' me. Here's the map." A tatty, stained piece of paper printed off the computer was handed over to the shaking teenager.
Murdoc started to slowly walk off, his loving brother calling "Try not ta fuck it up!" after him.
He wandered down the streets, posh birds looking distastefully as his unkempt goth look (if you could call it a "look" - he just threw most of it on), tarty girls trying to grab onto him in hopes of making some money and every last male completely ignoring him.
"Like I ever fuck it up... purposefully." He muttered to himself, squinting at the map. He should be asleep by now – hell, he shouldn't even be in London. There was a good thing that had been going on back in Stoke with the band before he was whisked away by his psychotic family to make some drug money in the capital. He could leave them but... it had been made clear to him that wasn't an option.
"Think I wasted all those years feeding you jus' so you can fuck off and leave me in my old age? Not a chance. Ya brother's a good kid and 'e needs your sorry arse to 'elp him support our family. Blood's thicker than water, Murdoc."
So, that was what Jacob Niccals thought on the matter, therefore it was gospel – no way around it. Murdoc was doomed to a Billy-no-mates life with the family. One thing was for sure; Satan was a lying bastard. He said life would get better after everything that happened...
Grey, sobbing eyes, matted cobalt hair and thin wrists flashed into his mind as he remembered the last few moments of his old life.
Then he pushed it out of his mind, because whenever he thought about the boy he had cared for so furiously, he almost felt he was touching him, exploring his mind and ruling his world. That couldn't happen. So he didn't think about him.
After trying desperately to follow the shit map, a sleazy bar came into view. Murdoc checked the paper - "Knife's Edge," that was the name... hadn't he known somewhere called that before?
He rapped on the door and almost instantly it cracked open, revealing a pair of grey, paranoid twitching eyes.
"Uh, delivery?" He tried. This better be the right address-
He was grasped by the front of the shirt and yanked through the door before it quickly being slammed shut.
"'ey my boy! Thought ya were gonna take all night! Got the item?" The man stood, or rather hunched, before him was balding slightly, with mousy brown hair and heavily aged skin – his collar bones stood out abruptly at the top of his messy work shirt; a tell-tale sign at his underweight state.
"Yeh, sorry." Murdoc produced the brown bag which was practically torn off of him (along with his hand) by the now hungry looking bloke. His tongue darted to his lips expectantly as he gawked at the contents. Before Murdoc flew out of the door in a quick dash to get away from the diseased looking room, he paused, and looked back.
The man looked ecstatic, but under that, sad. There was something about him, maybe a feeling or even a memory of a feeling, something so faint it almost wasn't there. But it was.
"Uh," Murdoc raised a hand to the back of his head and played with his hair awkwardly, "you're okay, then?" What the fuck was he saying? "You don't... need anything."
The man seemed baffled, that someone would give a fuck if he (the waste of space so ostracised by the rest of his family they gave him the only other disappointment – his nephew – to live with him, killing two birds with one stone) was all right, and instead of saying yes like most people, considered the offer – DID he need anything. And then a switch went on in his brain and he groaned.
"Oh fuck- the fridge!" He yelled and rushed over to the shocked goth, grasping his shoulders.
"Yes, I do need something, actually!" He continued. "My nephew, he's living with me and he's a skinny little sod – only remembers to eat once a day. But I've gone and locked the bloody fridge! Only I can't leave now," his dramatically turned and scanned the room before returning his gaze to Murdoc, "not when I've got this!" He held up the bag triumphantly.
"When I said anything-" He tried to back peddle.
"I know! You meant it. Thank you, son. Take this to 'im will ya?" The boy suddenly felt a deep, sick feeling rise as he regarded what the grey-eyed man pressed into his palm. A long key, thin, plain with no details. Such a simple thing, but he remembered, once upon a dream, he'd held a key just like that. Memory was a fleeting thing, and left almost as soon as it had arrived.
"I'll give you a map."
How did people have all these maps lying around?
(Wish You Were Here – Pink Floyd)
Why? Why SATAN had Murdoc wanted to help that old man? He could be asleep right now, wishing his life away. At least that'd be useful.
The man had given him a tenner for doing this – he could just not turn up, throw the key in a bin and head home. But how old was this kid? The bloke didn't seem a responsible type, his nephew could be 10 for all he knew, scared and hungry waiting for his drunk excuse of a guardian to stumble home only to find he'd given the key to food to a random teenager. And, surprise surprise, all the money had been spent on drink. That hit too close to home, as Murdoc remembered his own childhood.
So he carried on watching the sky turn darker and darker and the people on the streets get more and more unsavoury as he continued his journey. Taxis whizzed past, carrying people places – places they wanted to be. That must be nice. Maybe that's how the kid felt, wishing he had a place he felt safe in.
The image of that little boy was so clear in his mind, skinny, pale, messy spikey hair- no.
He couldn't think about him.
Even if he did wish he was here.
The shop came into view, a faded sign that read "Uncle Norm's" (as depicted on the surprisingly spotless map bequeathed to Murdoc earlier) hung above the window.
He entered, creaking the door open gently so as not to startle whatever little creature was hiding around.
"Come on, beastie! I've got the key for you." Murdoc whispered. His experience with children was limited to say the least, but he knew not to be loud. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a person led on the desk. Okay, so not a child; a teenager.
He looked up and dropped the key on the floor.
Because led there, oblivious to anything going on around him, was Stuart Pot. He was longer than before, lanky legs hanging off the edge of the desk, and his blue hair was spikier, sticking out at odd angles making him more than a little resemble Sonic the hedgehog.
Murdoc almost got lost in thought as he remembered his old Guinea pig, Sonic, then he remembered his friend from three years ago was right in front of him, reading a magazine like no one in the world could get through to him.
He stared for a while - at the paper white skin and thin figure, the gentle frown creasing the tops of his eyebrows and the way his fringe fell back off his face due to how he was led - before Stuart began to stir, being brought out of whatever insane trance he'd been in. Maybe time had just stopped, and the space of thirty seconds Murdoc had just experienced was actually only a brief moment.
Before the now 15 year old boy could see him, Murdoc bolted for the door, hoping the key he had haphazardly dropped on the floor would be seen.