Forget Me Not

You took a mystery and made me want it

You got a pedestal and put me on it

You made me love you out of feeling nothing

Something that you do

Chain Reaction – Diana Ross

Dust glittered in the air as the Nabootique seemed to sigh with relief. Silence stretched between its walls heavy and impenetrable. Objects that had sat despondent on their shelves for months, trying desperately to remember the shine that had once livened up their existence, now held their breath. The entire shop sat yearning for their return, waiting patiently, trusting that all would not continue as it was. It could feel a change in the air, sense it. Sense that just outside, so very close by one of them was there… the dust glittered, the shop sighed, content. It could wait that little bit longer. Everything was unfolding just right… it could feel it.

Chapter One

The Taxi Man

It wasn't a pretty sight at all. Even from this distance he could see the shattered glass glinting off the bitumen and the torn and twisted metal flung in all directions. He hadn't seen it happen. Hadn't even heard it, which now that he thought about it, was actually quite preferable. The idea of hearing the screech of twisting metal and piercing screams in the wreckage didn't appeal to him at all. Even now, sitting mid traffic, listening to the whines and screams of bolt cutters and the jaws of death on warped metal his gut was twisting uncomfortably.

"What's happening?" his fare asked, peering over his shoulder to try and see better over the line up of cars in front of them.

"Not sure," he replied, eyeing his fare in the mirror. The kid was possibly the oddest thing he had ever had in his back seat, the Northerner thought half heartedly as he scratched his beard. The broken heater in the car was making the air muggy and thick, and being stuck in the line up slightly more uncomfortable. Even still, in his situation James couldn't complain about having such a fare. He was six hundred pounds behind and there wasn't much work he could knock back these days… let alone as large a fare as this one. And it just wasn't morally right to complain about a car crash keeping up the traffic, even if he wanted to.

With a sigh he wound the window down, allowing the breeze in. It was rather cold, and yet worrying about the weather wasn't something James bothered with, especially when it was preferable over the smell emulating from the vents - just one more thing on his list that needed fixing, he thought, his frown deepening. Perfect, more money he just didn't have. It was bad enough his next payment was coming up soon, and a couple more fares like this one might just get him there. Maybe, if he was lucky - not that he was all that often. The heater was just more proof of that.

Though in hindsight, he was somewhat luckier than those in the crash…

Face it Fountain, he thought, you're still screwed. Maybe if it had been you up there they'd give you a couple more days to find the money

"Bit cold, innit?" his fare asked leaning against the back seat.

"Not right now," James replied, glancing in the rear view mirror at the twenty-something blonde musician in his back seat. If the kid preferred the smell over the chill there was something right messed with his head, or his nasal passage. James could tell a lot about the kid just by looking at him. On the tall side of average the guy was slight and nothing too striking; though the eyeliner and tight clothes probably made him attractive in the circles he worked. The guitar case resting over his knees said he was musical and how he'd drummed his fingers annoyingly as they'd made their way across town made James think of a bass player. Now, parked in the line up, the kid was staring out the window. Airhead, James mused.

"It'll get worse though," he said more under his breath than to the fare.

"Weird name for a shop, ain't it?" the kid said all of a sudden. James frowned and turned his attention from the rear view to the shop the kid had been staring at, small eyes creasing to almost pin points as they focussed on the building.

"Huh?"

"Said it's a weird name for a shop, isn't it? Nabootique. Kinda cool."

"Sounds ridiculous," James said, glancing over his sun glasses through the glass over at the small shop. The red and yellow lettering gave it a sort of oriental appeal; it looked like it was probably run by out of touch hippies when it was open, but at this point the news papered windows and boarded up door told a story of ill repair. No doubt the drug money had run out and they'd been too stoned for the shop to have actually made any. It was the type of store James always expected to end in disappointment.

"I ain't been in Dalston in aaaages," The kid said, grinning.

"You ever lived in Dalston?"

"No," James muttered, ignoring the sudden niggling feeling in the back of his mind. Fact was, he couldn't remember ever driving out into Dalston. Usually he was stuck in Brent. But who was he to shove off a fare that was gonna rack up about fifty quid? No sir, James Fountain wasn't stupid, that's for sure. It'd been luck that he'd managed to pick up the little Camden Twat anyway.

"Nah didn't think so. You don't sound from round here."

"I used to live in Leeds."

"That's it! Haha, I knew it!" The kid laughed as the line began to move. James glanced back out the window as they drove past the papered window of the empty Nabootique. It was odd, James thought, if it'd still been open he might have taken a look (inside?) - even though there was nothing about the front of the shop that said it would ever hold anything to do with jazz; there was still something that intrigued him.

"Thought I recognised something about you. I got a mate who went up to Leeds for about a week and came back talkin' like you. Bleeding hilarious. He didn't think so. But then he didn't notice," the kid was saying more to himself than to James, fingers back to drumming against the guitar case.

James frowned and gripped the steering wheel as he turned off into the right street, there was something about flighty little fashionistas like this kid that drove him up the wall. Not that he'd driven many – he was after all a taxi driver in bleedin' Brent, not Camden. But even () so – just seeing them waltz up the street was enough to make him snort derisively. Why on earth couldn't they see that life was about living, not about … well, whatever they went on about, hair, or jeans or something.

"Here we go," he said, pulling the taxi over in front of a black and silver building. It sought attention to itself on the street during the day with it's black two story walls in a street of made entirely out of small run down and out boutiques and out of place houses painted different shades of cream and off white. Still, it seemed almost as derelict as the Nabootique had been. James was sure at night the place would attract far more attention and clientele than it's appearance suggested, with the neon lights - pastel and ugly now in the sunshine - illuminated and glowing when the Moon came out.

"Velvet Onion," the name flowed off his tongue and James felt the sudden urge to complement it with 'try not to call at four am this time()' that he only just suppressed. He bit back (down?) on his tongue, it sounded familiar as though it was something he'd said before. Not that he ever had… why on earth would he think something like that? Why would he ever say anything like that? He lived in Brent. He'd never even ventured out this way before… And he didn't know anyone who'd even think about being up at 4am.

"Jesus Christ, this day just keeps getting better and better. Hope they know what they're doing," the kid muttered, staring wide eyed at the building. James jerked in his seat. He'd almost forgotten the kid was there. He coughed, clearing his throat.

"Why?"

"Looks shit." To be honest the building looked just the weird sort of place the kid would fit in with, but it seemed by the discontent look on his face it was less than satisfactory and nowhere up to standard. For James, the building was making his skin almost itch. He felt nervous and almost scared.

"Wouldn't know," James replied, turning around and quoting the fare. The kid nodded, pulling out a wad of cash from impossibly tight pockets and handing it over. One step closer to making the mark, but not close enough, James sighed.

"Hey, look thanks. Here – apparently we're playing here tonight," the kid muttered opening his guitar case and handing over a vibrant yellow flyer. James couldn't help but raise an eyebrow as he looked down at it. Five people all practically identical stared up at him, each one of them carefully stylised in Photoshop so they were nothing but black shadows with illuminated features.

"It was a long way – I'll get you in free as a thanks for putting up with me." The kid smiled. James had to admit it wasn't often he was actually thanked.

"Yeah, whatever," James answered; he seriously doubted that Blank Verse was going to be his cup of tea. A sudden crash jerked James away from the flyer as the kid slammed the door shut, just as someone emerged from the club.

"Alright Cash! You took yeh time!" James's mouth twisted as he watched as one of the kid's defacto's emerged. Slight frame, tight clothes and South London accent, the new kid was the same as his fare. The exception being that this one had a carefree spring in his step and his mop of hair was black and appeared like someone had taken to it with scissors whilst drunk. No doubt it was the look they'd been hoping for, because even at the distance as he pulled away from the sidewalk he could tell the kid was vain and probably put more effort into his hair than he did into most things in life. Still, James didn't really think about stuff like that. All he needed to live was petrol in the car, a couple of good jazz records and for Court to stop teasing him about his moustache.

That and to get his payments in on time…

His frown deepened and he tightened his grasp on the steering wheel as he turned the corner. That was the last thing he really wanted to think about. The wreckage was still only half gone as he passed it, though he determinedly avoided looking at it. Like his debts it wasn't something he wanted, nor needed, to see or think about. Nor did anyone else it seemed. Turning the radio up as he careened down the now relatively empty street, James felt his heart begin to pound faster and faster. Suddenly he couldn't help but stare as he neared the little shop again. It seemed so out of place along the street for some reason.

Pull over.

Slightly stunned by the voice so clearly echoing in his mind, he gripped the steering wheel firmly.

Go on. Pull over. Stop. You know you want to.

Want to or not, all James felt right at that moment was alarmed. It was almost as though his mind was talking to him. Like he had a second subconscious hidden inside his own.

Pull over.

He couldn't help it.

He pulled the car over to the side of the street.

Fingers on autopilot, he turned the radio down, eyes drawn to the small abandoned boutique with its fading paint and newspapered front window. It captivated him, kept drawing him in. Before he knew what he was doing he was outside the car and across the road.

Keep goingthe voice hissed and then it stopped. One foot on the pavement, the other on the bitumen, he blinked as the sound of a door closing echoed in his mind, a slamming door, one after the other. Somewhat disorientated, he blinked furiously, snapping out of his daze, a thousand eyes staring at him from the papered glass. What on earth am I doing? Glancing around him, small eyes darting to detect the slightest hint someone was watching him, he let a sigh of relief escape his lips. The world kept spinning, no one seemed interested enough in anything not entirely of their own volition, not that there were many people on the street anyway. James laughed, shaking off the nerves tensing up his shoulders. He didn't know what had gotten into him, didn't know what that voice had been, how on earth it had convinced him to stop - let alone get out of the car, but whatever it was had passed and there was no point dwelling. He glanced down at his watch as he crossed the road. All of a sudden the weight of the world was back on his shoulders, and the strangest part was that he hadn't felt it leave. It was ten to five… he had three days left to find six hundred pounds. At this time in three days he'd be… well to be honest he didn't have the faintest clue. But it wasn't good, at least everything he'd imagined in his head had made him cringe at the very least, and he was sure that while the bank was no longer permitted to use torture as recovery of payment, they would find a more than adequate way of making his life unbearable.

But little did James know as he pulled away to begin the drive back to Brent, flyer ignored on his passenger seat and mind firmly focussed on anything but his worries, the Nabootique, or the crash, that he had in fact been watched the entire time - a pair of eyes shone from the shadows of the adjoining alley. Nor did James know it wouldn't be the last time he saw the kid meeting Cash with a hurried "Cash, mate the owners insane! You do not want to see him dance." Nor had it been the first time they'd met either. But James didn't remember that. James was oblivious to a lot, but things were in motion that nothing could intercept.

James didn't remember a lot of his life before six months ago. The life he did remember had been carefully constructed and handed to him on a plate.

And that plate had nothing at all to connect him to the old life echoing in the silence of the empty Nabootique, nothing to make him stop and think just why he'd found himself standing outside it for no reason. So he didn't, he just kept driving. And at the Velvet Onion, the black haired front man stood awkwardly behind Cash as a blue suited American danced. Neither James nor the Front man connected their lives to anything to do with the small empty boutique or the faded newspapers and Missing person signs pasted over the windows, nothing to connect them to where a pair of eyes stared out of the darkness after the retreating English taxi.

A lot of things had changed in six months and the catalyst had tipped the balance. The ride was about to start.

The Nabootique sighed, happy. Everything was moving.