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2.
"No! Not that. Not like her! Not like that pregnant woman! Please!"
"Will!!!!"
"Somebody! SOMEBODY! HELP ME! HELP ME!!!!"
A wave of ice-cold water rolled over me, splashed over my face and tore me away. I gulped and gasped. Drowning. Drowning in my own bed, the white coils of linen twisting around my body like some monstrous tentacles trying to drag me under.
"Will!! Will! Wake up!"
A voice. Pete's voice, yelling nearby. I opened my eyes. The lad's face hovered above me like a pale slice of freckled cheese.
"God! That-that bloody thing." I panted, running a shivering hand through my hair as I sat up right on my cot, pulling my knees so far up that they were sticking into my belly. "It was that bloody dream again. That bloody nightmare."
Pete looked like he was nagged by guilt.
"I'm sorry. I tried everything as soon as I saw you trashing, but you just wouldn't wake up, no matter how hard I yelled at ye."
He dropped the empty bucket on the floor, and picked up some dirty piece of clobber lying around to drape it around my shoulders. I used a sleeve to dry my face, feeling cold, and trembled like a leaf in the draft. Bradbury, Higgins and Pete, they were all standing around my cot, staring down with a mixed expression of sympathy and horror.
"I'm sorry, Will. I really am." Pete mumbled, and I remembered promising the boy last night that I would pound him into powder when he failed to wake me up in time, but there wasn't enough strength left in me to get seriously pissed at him. I was completely drained. My body felt like a stiff, curious wax job.
"It was just a dream, my friend." Bradbury said, gently putting a hand on my shoulder. "Calm down now. You're back in the land of harsh reality."
"God." I muttered, rubbing my eyes, rubbing the sleep away and with that, the frightening experience of the nightmare broke down into more easily to swallow bits and pieces. It was a good thing that my friends were here. That I had friends, and an ordinary world to wake up to.
"Here." Higgins pushed a bottle of gin under my smeller. "Take a sip of that. Might warm you up a bit."
I took the flask and poured the content into my mouth where my tongue was lying on the bottom like a mummified rodent. The booze lit my throat with pleasant warmth that quickly spread down into my stomach. Coughing a bit, and piercing through half squinted eyes, I gave all the fellas a good look and noticed that they were dressed up real fancy and rather formerly. Even Higgins was stuck in an ill-fitting suit, making him look like a bloated, over-cooked sausage.
"What the bloody hell is this?" I said, puzzled and frowning. "Are you going to a funeral or anything?" Then, after giving it a second thought, added worryingly. "It was just a dream right? I didn't really die."
"No, you silly boy." Bradbury said. "It's Saturday! We were going back to the National Gallery. Don't you remember the luxurious amount of loot you earned for us yesterday? The celebration with the expensive wine? William, the purse-snatching champion of the National Gallery? The King of the Finger-smiths?"
"Yeah, and Darling Dashing Will, and Willie o-Dearie." I added, certain highly disturbing images of the old prof dancing around starkers with his dog and balls cheerily bouncing along, rushed back into my head. "Right. The ten pounds fifty snatched from the snobby wankers at the public Italian exposition. The gorging and drinking party afterwards. I remember it now." I nodded, somehow feeling relieved that I really could dig it up from the murky brown waters of my otherwise frequently faltering memory. "And Pete and I are going back today to get more." I studied the tall black top hat, the flannel trousers and split tailed jacket Bradbury was dressed in, making him look like the ringmaster of a county-fair circus, and I stared at Higgins, trapped inside his blue, long sleeved vest with the tortured rows of buttons barely holding things together, his dark hear brushed back and gleaming with fat, making him look like a soddin freak-show. A cheery little organ tune that was associated to dancing monkeys and goofing clowns grinded inside my mind's ears. Ladies and gentlemen! Bradbury would yell at the introduction, tipping the rim of his top hat in a flamboyant gesture; Open your eyes in wonder and behold! Mr Dean Higgins, the World's one and only Greasy Human Sausage!
"Oh! You two are not coming with us, are ya?" I asked, fearing the obvious but hoping for the other.
Bradbury said nothing, just hitched his brows and gave me a wide grin, which told me quite enough.
"Oh, Bollocks." I muttered, rolling my eyes up to the strings of cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. "Oh balls."
TBC
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2.
"No! Not that. Not like her! Not like that pregnant woman! Please!"
"Will!!!!"
"Somebody! SOMEBODY! HELP ME! HELP ME!!!!"
A wave of ice-cold water rolled over me, splashed over my face and tore me away. I gulped and gasped. Drowning. Drowning in my own bed, the white coils of linen twisting around my body like some monstrous tentacles trying to drag me under.
"Will!! Will! Wake up!"
A voice. Pete's voice, yelling nearby. I opened my eyes. The lad's face hovered above me like a pale slice of freckled cheese.
"God! That-that bloody thing." I panted, running a shivering hand through my hair as I sat up right on my cot, pulling my knees so far up that they were sticking into my belly. "It was that bloody dream again. That bloody nightmare."
Pete looked like he was nagged by guilt.
"I'm sorry. I tried everything as soon as I saw you trashing, but you just wouldn't wake up, no matter how hard I yelled at ye."
He dropped the empty bucket on the floor, and picked up some dirty piece of clobber lying around to drape it around my shoulders. I used a sleeve to dry my face, feeling cold, and trembled like a leaf in the draft. Bradbury, Higgins and Pete, they were all standing around my cot, staring down with a mixed expression of sympathy and horror.
"I'm sorry, Will. I really am." Pete mumbled, and I remembered promising the boy last night that I would pound him into powder when he failed to wake me up in time, but there wasn't enough strength left in me to get seriously pissed at him. I was completely drained. My body felt like a stiff, curious wax job.
"It was just a dream, my friend." Bradbury said, gently putting a hand on my shoulder. "Calm down now. You're back in the land of harsh reality."
"God." I muttered, rubbing my eyes, rubbing the sleep away and with that, the frightening experience of the nightmare broke down into more easily to swallow bits and pieces. It was a good thing that my friends were here. That I had friends, and an ordinary world to wake up to.
"Here." Higgins pushed a bottle of gin under my smeller. "Take a sip of that. Might warm you up a bit."
I took the flask and poured the content into my mouth where my tongue was lying on the bottom like a mummified rodent. The booze lit my throat with pleasant warmth that quickly spread down into my stomach. Coughing a bit, and piercing through half squinted eyes, I gave all the fellas a good look and noticed that they were dressed up real fancy and rather formerly. Even Higgins was stuck in an ill-fitting suit, making him look like a bloated, over-cooked sausage.
"What the bloody hell is this?" I said, puzzled and frowning. "Are you going to a funeral or anything?" Then, after giving it a second thought, added worryingly. "It was just a dream right? I didn't really die."
"No, you silly boy." Bradbury said. "It's Saturday! We were going back to the National Gallery. Don't you remember the luxurious amount of loot you earned for us yesterday? The celebration with the expensive wine? William, the purse-snatching champion of the National Gallery? The King of the Finger-smiths?"
"Yeah, and Darling Dashing Will, and Willie o-Dearie." I added, certain highly disturbing images of the old prof dancing around starkers with his dog and balls cheerily bouncing along, rushed back into my head. "Right. The ten pounds fifty snatched from the snobby wankers at the public Italian exposition. The gorging and drinking party afterwards. I remember it now." I nodded, somehow feeling relieved that I really could dig it up from the murky brown waters of my otherwise frequently faltering memory. "And Pete and I are going back today to get more." I studied the tall black top hat, the flannel trousers and split tailed jacket Bradbury was dressed in, making him look like the ringmaster of a county-fair circus, and I stared at Higgins, trapped inside his blue, long sleeved vest with the tortured rows of buttons barely holding things together, his dark hear brushed back and gleaming with fat, making him look like a soddin freak-show. A cheery little organ tune that was associated to dancing monkeys and goofing clowns grinded inside my mind's ears. Ladies and gentlemen! Bradbury would yell at the introduction, tipping the rim of his top hat in a flamboyant gesture; Open your eyes in wonder and behold! Mr Dean Higgins, the World's one and only Greasy Human Sausage!
"Oh! You two are not coming with us, are ya?" I asked, fearing the obvious but hoping for the other.
Bradbury said nothing, just hitched his brows and gave me a wide grin, which told me quite enough.
"Oh, Bollocks." I muttered, rolling my eyes up to the strings of cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. "Oh balls."
TBC
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