Title: Many Roads
Author: Lily Ann
Contact: saywardluckett2000@yahoo,com
Many Roads
by Lily Ann
Chapter 3: Freedom and Youth
She was wrong about hell.
It wasn't sharp-eyed little men in white coats, wielding wonky drugs. Or group therapy with two schizophrenics, a compulsive flasher, and several Shouters, as she came to call those patients who suddenly screamed out, for no apparent reason.
"Ingrid, turn the dryer on! There's a bear in the tent!"
"Where's my grandmother, bitch?"
"In the end, there can be only ONE!"
That was just a little frightening and a lot wiggy. Hell, she had concluded, was Heathrow airport, at rush hour. With her only bag lost, serious currency confusion, and the line for the bathroom longer than the Hollywood strip, Buffy was quickly losing her fingernail grip on control.
It didn't help that, halfway across the Atlantic, icy-cold terror had dropped over her like a bucket of ice water. Suddenly doused with relentless and paralyzing doubt, the free cocktail peanuts in her belly surging upward, Buffy had bolted for the tiny bathroom, plowing over stray purses and feet in her headlong flight. Afterward, she returned to her window seat and remained there, face averted from the dizzying view. Maybe, Buffy reasoned, if she was very quiet, no one would make her leave the plane. She could just fly home again. Right, Buff, common sense immediately countered, flawed reasoning, much? It probably goes to Moscow next. With her luck she'd wind up in a gulag. Or a chain gang, spearing trash. Or, worse yet, dead.
What was she doing, crossing an ocean by herself? Thinking she could run away on some wild adventure and not have it all end very, very badly? She had very little money, only the bare bones of a plan, and no knowledge of life beyond Los Angeles. Hell, she'd never been out of California in her life. Everything she knew about England came from Harlequins, where every heroine had skin like pearl and all the men were named Allesandro.
Her situation only got worse once the flight ended. After the discovery of the lost bag, minor hyperventilation ensued. Then, she was nearly trampled by a reuniting family. Escaping the hugging, squealing horde with only a bruised foot and mussed hair was a major accomplishment. Perhaps, the only one of the day, because, when she finally elbowed her way up to the information desk, fate, yet again, served her big, fluffy failurecakes. With a doily and real butter.
"What do you mean the bus only goes to Nutley twice a week?"
She stared at the well-groomed clerk, praying she'd heard wrong.
"It's a very sparsely populated area. The people who do go usually drive themselves." She handed Buffy a pamphlet. "You could rent a car."
Sure, I could. If most of my money and credit cards weren't in the Houdini bag of spontaneous disappearance.
But, Buffy managed a wobbly smile. "I'll do that."
"Actually, you're very lucky. The next bus goes out tomorrow. At," the lady consulted her schedule, "Ten A.M. from Piccadilly Circus."
There's a circus? How appropriate. "Um...where's that?"
The woman was obviously used to dealing with tourists who were clinging to the fender of the moving clue bus. "It's at the center of everything, of course. In London." She pointed to a stream of people, all flowing toward some common point. "The tube will take you straight there."
"I go through a tube to get to the circus?" Buffy had officially gone down the rabbit hole. Oops, better not say that. It was probably somewhere in the airport, complete with teacups and mocking fantasy figures.
The tube, it was then patiently explained to her, was London's subway system. Only, it wasn't called a subway, because subway meant something else. Halfway through, Buffy felt a tension headache coming on, and tried hard to concentrate on the even voice and gesturing hands that were, at that moment, her only lifeline.
Luckily, she was still able to grasp most simple concepts, and managed to find her way to the correct platform following the clerk's good directions. The ride to London was not quite an hour long. Buffy spent most of it in a daze. Very occasionally, the crackle of newspapers or shuffling feet penetrated her fog. Just like at home, there were a lot of backpacks and cellphones on the train. Everybody seemed to be playing Kylie Minogue. Lulled by the rocking of the car, Buffy finally closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the car had stopped and passengers were disembarking to the call of "Mind the
gap!"
Piccadilly Circus wasn't at all like she expected. Emerging into the light, still blinking sleep from her eyes, Buffy walked past a food boutique, a couple of banks, and some souvenir shops aflutter with Union Jacks, and found herself in the large roundabout she'd been told to look for. Her first impression of the place was that it was noisy and bright, a disharmony of horns and voices. Crowded and somewhat garish, like Los Angeles, but full of culture and a certain pride. There were a lot of people, hanging about. Buses, idling. A neon signboard announced the presence of Burger King, an oasis of familiarity in a strange land. Buffy spent a little of her precious money on a hamburger and ate it while she walked, the flavor of America exploding across her tongue with every bite. Pickles and ketchup and home. California. She wondered if she'd ever get back.
Night fell too soon. It always did, she thought, when you had no place to go. Buffy considered appropriating a park bench and just waiting out the darkness. But, in the movies, homeless people always got killed on park benches. Shot, stabbed or beat about the head for their coat or their shoes. Buffy didn't have a coat, but she had shoes. Nice ones. She intended to keep them. And maybe, just maybe, some small vain thread of her, woven tightly into her sense of self, resisted the notion of Buffy-as-vagrant. Once, a long time ago, she'd been popular and admired. Bound for glory. A budding May Queen. If she just kept walking, maybe she could be all those things again, not this scattered wreck of a girl who jumped at shadows and slept with ghosts.
She walked until her legs trembled from cold and fatigue. It was early September, and the temperature reflected the subtle change of season. Buffy ducked into an alley, where she leaned against the side of a building, shivering. It was stupid, she knew, to crawl into dark places, given her history and her sex. No worse, though, than getting arrested for loitering and missing the fucking bus, she reasoned. Pressing her forehead against the red bricks, Buffy wondered if it was possible to die of despair.
She fished in her jeans pocket, lit a cigarette with quaking hands. Turned and leaned her head back, exhaling a long stream of smoke. Gradually, began to feel stronger. It was then, in the meager orange glow, that she noticed something set on the building to her left, slightly higher than eye level. A plaque, of some sort. Flipping her lighter open, Buffy lifted it high, tracing the raised letters with her fingers when the shadows and gloom conspired to keep their secret.
FORMER SITE OF STAFFORD JAIL
ESTABLISHED 1800
A tingling sensation like icy breath washed over Buffy's spine. Why, she knew not. There had to be thousands of such memorials all over such a grand, troubled old land. She moved closer. It read, in full:
On this spot of ground, in the year of our lord, eighteen hundred and sixty-seven, four Irish rebels were hanged for crimes against the majesty of Britain. They organized the infamous jail break at Manchester, in which lives were lost, and made the ultimate amends.
Thomas Collins
Patrick Bannon
Michael Cleary
Liam O'Connor
Climbed the rugged stair
Dedicated by the Anglican Sisters of Mercy. May, 1901. "Temper your wrath, Lord Jesus."
Beneath the last, someone had defiantly scratched a word with some sharp tool. Fenian.
"It was another name for the Irish Republican Brotherhood."
The voice came from somewhere beyond her left shoulder. Startled, Buffy whirled, dropping her lighter and plunging the alley into darkness.
"Relax, kid. This isn't a stick-up."
"What do you want?" Buffy pressed back against the bricks.
"Not your entrails for my midnight snack, if that's what you're all twitchy about. Bloody Jack I'm not."
Realistically, Buffy knew that she was about as scary as a dish of rice pudding, but a little bravado couldn't hurt, she reasoned. "Scram, before my knee has a powwow with your crotch, mister."
The stranger merely laughed. "Straight to the point. I like that. Nobody threatens each other these days, y'know? There's no rumbles or brawls to speak of. No demanding satisfaction or confrontations at high noon. Did you know that, back in the day, a man's dueling pistols were more valuable than his wife?"
"That's very interesting. Now, get out of my way."
"No problemito, my violent little Senorita." The man stepped back, just as dark clouds cleared the moon, releasing a thin, white light. In that pale glow, Buffy saw the speaker clearly for the first time. He was dark, swarthy, and rather small, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
"Who are you?" she asked suspiciously.
"The stranger tipped his bowler. "Whistler."
Funny name. Kinda gay. "Do you always hang out in alleys?"
"I could ask the same of you..." He trailed off meaningfully.
"Buffy," she supplied. "Buffy Summers."
Whistler grinned. "See, we're old friends already."
"Yeah. Whatever." Buffy shrugged. Weird little guy.
"So, tell me, Buffy Summers," Whistler tapped the old plaque. "Are you a history buff? Pun intended."
Buffy groaned. "That joke was ivy-league bad. Totally flop worthy. And no, I'm not historical."
"I wouldn't say that."
"What do you mean?" Buffy shuffled her feet nervously.
"There's history in everybody, kid. We're born filled with it. The world makes us forget. But it's there. In the shape of a face. When we dream or feel the drive to create." Whistler's keen eyes cut through the shadows to find Buffy. "Some forces are more powerful than death. We survive ourselves." He gestured to the wall. "You could have a connection to one of these poor boys here and not even know it."
Buffy shivered. "They were hanged right here. For their country."
Whistler shrugged. "Partly. It takes a certain kind of man to go forth and act without prudence, sanity, or caution. It's a myth that every hero is pure and noble. All the ones I've known were filled with rage and self-doubt." He laid a hand on the plaque. "This was the way their anger went. Who knows what would have become of them without that outlet, what other tides might have swept them up. There's no fever like freedom when you're young."
"I've never been that passionate about anything," Buffy remarked, a little sadly. "Except some drawings straight out of the Adams Family album."
"Maybe you just haven't found your tide yet. Seems to me you're on the right track, though. Braving the big, bad city." He looked at her quizzically. "Why was it you came to London, kid?"
"It's kind of private."
"Fair enough."
"You wouldn't believe it if I told you."
Whistler laughed. "Probably not." He glanced at the moon, taking its measure. "Where did the time go, huh? Its been grand, but I'd better shuffle before the meter maid tickets my windshield. I think she's a Horgwrath demon in disguise."
"Oh. Okay." Buffy did her best to sound nonchalant.
"Adios, amiga." He made a funny little bow, lifted his hat in salute. Turned to go, but took only two steps before returning.
"Say, can I drop you somewhere?"
Buffy refused to open her curtain of gloom and let in the smallest ray of hope. "Oh, I couldn't ask you to do that."
"Why not?"
"It's seriously far out of your way. Seriously. There's woodchucks."
"Really? I love woodchucks. They're like the other white meat."
"No, you don't."
"Yeah, you're right," Whistler sighed. "The only thing I like less is a dame in distress. So, come on. Shake a leg."
Whistler's car was parked two streets over, still ticketless. An old Cadillac that had seen better days, but the seats were soft with age and the interior was comfortingly leathern. Whistler flipped the heater on when Buffy was settled and she leaned gratefully into the warmth.
"So, blondie. Where to?"
"Um, Nutley. It's in a forest."
Whistler nodded. "Interesting little place. Wild as you'll get, in these modern times."
"You've been there?"
"Uh-huh. It's famous, in a way. Milne based his Hundred Acre Wood on that little piece of heaven."
"Milne as in A.A. As in the?"
"That's the one."
"Wow." Buffy settled back in her seat to watch the streets begin to fly by as the ancient car gained speed. This was probably a really bad idea, heading into a forest in a strange car with an even stranger man. Look, Ma! No hands! But the decision was already made, had been clinched in the alley. It had been surprisingly easy to choose, like some invisible force was giving her a giant push from behind.
Buffy let her head fall back, exhaustion finally keeping pace. She'd held it at bay for hours and hours. Now, it was winning the race. Through slitted eyes, she glimpsed the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace. Quaint old buildings. The car was quiet and dark, Whistler's driving fast and steady. The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality. She'd read that somewhere, a long time ago. Since then 'tis centuries.
Buffy's eyes finally drifted shut.
And she dreamed about passion. How you found it. Where it led.
********************************************************************
No one could see her, but she was always there.
Drifting through the halls of the old hotel, listening to the sounds of love that wood and plaster couldn't contain. At the grave side, with the rest, when they buried Sleeping Beauty after ten years gone. On Cemetery Hill, her gown a flurry of stars, watching the pale man and the willowy girl walk hand in hand. He called her his yellow rose of Texas. She loved him to the end of his days.
It was good.
*********************************************************************
"Hey, there. Are you alright?"
Buffy seized awake to find Whistler peering at her in concern from his side of the cavernous automobile.
"Fine." Buffy struggled to sit up.
"You were crying in your sleep."
"Allergies," Buffy lied easily. "Hay fever nasty."
Her companion merely raised an eyebrow. Buffy focused on the horizon. Sunrise was upon them, spreading silver-rose fingers of light over the landscape. Buffy drew in a breath. It really was a forest, thick with brambles and fern, heather and ivy. Oaks with gnarled branches and heavy trunks. They passed stands of copper beech trees and a hectic herd of wild sheep before rolling into the town proper.
Main Street, Nutley-style, consisted of a small general store, chemist, and one diner. A church steeple was just visible, peeking over the rooftops.
"Here we are." Whistler cut the engine. "I think it's safe to say, Springsteen will never play here."
Buffy clambered out of the car and shut her door. "Thank you so much," she said simply, through the open window.
"You're welcome, kid. I hope you find what you came for."
"Me too," Buffy replied. "Thanks again."
Whistlerstarted to pull away, then abruptly slammed on the brakes. "Hey, kid," he called, drawing Buffy to the side of the car. "Did you know there's vampires in the Balkans?"
"Noooo." Buffy let the word out slowly, puzzled.
"You will."
And then he was gone with a squeal of tires.
TBC
Notes: Yeah, Angel was born in the 1720's, but this an AU, dudes. They go where they want. Ta. And, yeah, I moved the Stafford Jail from Manchester to London. Cause I could.