The sun set over the city; its golden rays burnishing buildings of steel and glass, bringing additional warmth to brick and brownstones. The light flattered New York, imbuing a sense of nostalgia to tawdry scenes and glossing over grime and grit, just as candlelight smoothes the age from a faded movie star. This beautiful transformation went unheeded, for the most part, by the inhabitants of the city. They were too preoccupied with the few square feet of their life to broaden their vision, but the sun set on them regardless.
Two of the inhabitants were no exception. Two men. Two very different men.
Mike called out a final farewell and stumbled out of the bar into the freshening evening. He was a beer over his limit, but it was still early and he was not on call, so there'd be plenty of time to sleep it off. Despite exhaust fumes from the constant flow of traffic, the street felt clear and calm compared to the smoky crowded bar, and he paused to lift the collar of his leather jacket against the comparative chill.
The pause turned into a dither as the extra beer muddled his thinking but his feet soon found their way, and he set off along the familiar streets that led home. His steady progress was hampered by further pauses; waiting to cross the intersection, a chat with the doorman of a local hotel, a high five to gangsta wannabe who despite his fearsome appearance was getting good grades at school, and a moment's commiseration with a fellow officer standing guard at a crime scene.
The scent of cigarettes from a passing couple prompted another pause while he lit a smoke of his own. The flare of the lighter lit up his face, darkened by the shadow cast by the building he stood by. The sun's dying rays reflected off stained glass, their rainbow shimmer catching Mike's eye and causing him to look up. A cross atop the roof of the church was thrown into silhouette against the deepening hues of the sky and a shadow of a different kind crossed his face as the flame died.
Unaware of the grim set of his jaw, Mike's steps were more determined, and there were no further delays, as he made his way home.
Bobby sat, absorbing the hushed atmosphere. There was the occasional squeak of a nurse's sensible shoe on shiny floor, a snatch of muffled laughter and muted sounds of serious conversation. But the predominant sound was of his mother's breathing; the drugged deepness of her sleep turning the sound to a soft ragged snore.
She'd been distraught when he'd arrived, sobbing out despair and resistant to all attempts to soothe her. Her feeble fists had beaten off his attempt at a hug and his face had tightened as a half-memory flickered across his mind. Her weeping had continued unabated until, at last, he could bear it no longer and had called for the doctor.
His own words failing to comfort, he reached for another's – grabbing a book from the stack on the nightstand and beginning to read aloud. Slowly the rhythm and lilt of his voice, coupled with the effects of the sedative, lulled his mother to sleep. But he read on, lost in the world of a detective from an era that preceded his own career. Only the changing colour of the pages, from clinical white to evening orange, hinted at the passage of time, until at last it became too dark to read.
He closed the book and for a moment contemplated the title. Death is a Lonely Business. 'You got that right, Mr Bradbury,' Bobby thought as he began the solitary journey home.
Golden –age glamour gave way to gritty noir as the moon rose, throwing the city into stark contrasts and unrelenting shades of grey. Cameras flashed as the paparazzi feasted on the emergence of the latest hot things from the trendiest spot in town while, just metres away, a bony hollow prostitute got down on her knees, feeding a man's need so she could feed hers. Dispassionately, the moon bore witness, without favour or judgement and its soft light stroked a sheen over all.
Moonbeams caressed two faces; one dark and deeply lined, the other greyer and weightier with life. Two men, rendered innocent and young by sleep. Two very different men.
Mike's feet stirred as his dreams recalled the heady flight, the breathless laughter, the triumphant faces of his friends. He rolled over to lay flat on his back as dream-Mike soaked up the rooftop sun, and the juices of the stolen fruit ran down his chin. The dream continued; a sliced- together montage of childhood moments, all framed in that afternoon spent playing hooky with his pals. There were snickers and secrets, boasts and bravado, the content nebulous and drifting but somehow comforting. Mike stretched out his ease, his usually wolfish smile more wistful now, and his eyelids fluttered as the memory-movie played.
Suddenly, dream-Mike shrank. Darkness loomed larger and larger, and in his bed, Mike curled into a ball. The darkness resolved into a huge figure, the midnight robes serving to highlight the glinting beads of the rosary dangling inches from his face. The rosary remained as the figure faded, to be replaced by a more lovely vision with a sweet smile that spoke in the familiar Irish cadence. Adult and child, both Mikes reached out, love and hope welling. Recoiled; as real and remembered, the double- whammy of rum and its punch shattered the dream state. Mike sat bolt upright in bed; panting, sweaty and disorientated.
Bobby's face nestled into the pillow, the weight of the down comforter snug. Dreaming, he was curled in his mother's lap, her arms holding him tight as she rocked him, the lyrical language of Italy lulling him further. All around him were patterns; striped shadows of blinds across squares of linoleum, the endless floral repeat of the wallpaper, the paisley whorls and swirls on her dress. Boy-fingers traced the intricacies, fascinated, and their older version stroked cotton covers in mimicry. He inhaled the scent of fresh-laundered sheets, but only smelled the Youth Dew of his dream mother. His body sank deeper into the mattress, heavy with relaxation, safe and secure.
The rocking became swaying became swinging, the patterns morphed and mutated, churning his stomach further. Adult hands grasped the pillow, dream hands clutched at his mother's softness only to feel the sting of a slap, to hear the lullaby of love turn to hate-filled horror, to plummet into the void. Bobby tossed and turned, hands clawing at the mattress in a futile attempt to gain purchase, to stop the fall. He moaned, giddiness increasing as brief images of sanctuary flashed past, tantalisingly close, before spiralling away. And still he fell. Bobby thrashed and floundered in an attempt to evade the nightmare blows that struck at random as he fell, not knowing if hurt or hope would come next. The twisted sheets tangled around his feet finally jolted him awake, with tears drying on his cheeks and a head still full of the sensation of falling.
And the moon continued its mute observation as two men paced away what remained of the night in different rooms, lost in different memories. Dawn finally drove dreams away, and two men showered and donned shirts and suits, the daytime rituals banishing the lingering remains of nightmares. Two men left, to face the day.
Two men who were not so different, after all.