Chapter 10

Ziad was awoken by the sound of a motorcycle revving down the road. He rolled over and groaned.

"You, dear Ground, are extremely uncomfortable."

He slowly pulled himself up off the ground and picked up his duffel. He was in a small field just outside a picturesque and quaint English village.

Ziad examined the town as he walked down the side of the road and entered the village proper. This looked like neither an abode kind of place nor a domicile or even a house place, but more like a cottage kind of place. Definitely no French names here.

It was shaping up to be a beautiful summer day, and Ziad was feeling famished, which is normal for someone of his age, especially if that someone has eaten once in the last eighteen hours. Ziad, remarkably, still had no money, despite being homeless for the better part of a day. He walked around the village green, and failed to find a restaurant, tea shop, or grocery open for business. Then he remembered it was Sunday morning.

Ziad sighed and decided that he could wait until lunch. The only life he saw was a small group of well-dressed people standing outside a church doing whatever it is Christians do on Sunday mornings. He sat down on the green and pulled out a book. He really had no idea about his plans for the rest of the day, only that he had lots of time to fulfill them.

He read for an hour before he was awoken from his book-incurred-reverie by the sound of his absolute favorite song. He slowly turned around and saw a group of young men standing around their motorcycles, generally looking rebellious and out of place in this quaint town.

I remember when I was young

Feeling sick on Sunday morning

I don't wanna do it anymore...

He stuffed his book into his bag and approached the young men.

"That's The Bolshoi, isn't it?"

The Bikers-Errant turned around and sized him up with their eyes while generally giving off an air of confident superiority.

"Yeah it is. So what?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just that's my favorite song."

Oh, how we'd kneel down

Oh, we were so quiet

Never any light there

I don't care, it's not right there

"Yeah, we always play it on Sunday mornings, just to piss off the old folks. Ever since it came out in 1986."

"Brilliant! Friends was one of the only records I had back in Beirut, where I'm from. I don't know why, but my Dad loved that album."

The young men glanced at each other. The apparent leader flicked his chin at Ziad, "Hey mate, why're you here? I've never seen you before."

Ziad looked at his filthy shoes, "Well, I used to live in London with my Uncle, but he got pasted by a bus. My only friends live here, and so I made my way here to ask them for help. Only problem is is that I don't know where they live in this town."

The leader had what passed for a look of pity on his face, "Who's your friends?"

Ziad very purposefully didn't correct his grammar. "They're the Patils. Two twins, Padma and Parvati?"

The young men looked at each other and smiled knowingly. "Lucky guy, are you?"

Ziad blushed, "I don't know about that. But were they to ask, I wouldn't say no, you know?"

"Oh, we know."

"That's a little creepy, you know. They're fifteen."

"Can't arrest us for looking, now can you?"

"Well, actually- you know what, that's not important. Do you know where they live?"

They gave each other another of their trademark infuriatingly knowing looks.

"Yeah."

Ziad waited.

"Well... Are you going to tell me?"

"We can take you there."

Ziad glanced uneasily at the motorcycles. "On one of those?"

"Yeah. These are real rock-n'-roll bikes."

"Is that descriptor really relevant, or important? No."

"You're a real smart-ass, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

Ziad much preferred riding the motorcycles than the Thestrals. He actually kind of enjoyed it, to a point. He felt a little weird straddling the back of one, but he definitely saw the appeal of pealing down the small Essex roads with the roar of the cylinders.

A few minutes later and as many fields out of town, they pulled up in front of what appeared to be an entirely normal cottage.

"Here? Really? It doesn't seem very... them."

Ziad climbed off the bike and slid his bag off his back.

"Well, it's were they live, like it or not."

He looked at the house. It was perhaps too normal.

"Thanks, guys." he said, distracted.

"No problem. Anyone who likes The Bolshoi is our friend."

"Mm."

They zoomed off, making as many vrooooom noises as they could coax out of their machines.

Ziad was left alone in front of a door for what seemed like the millionth time. He walked up the walk towards the door, which had a large pineapple-brass knocker affixed to its heavy wooden body. He lifted the knocker and knocked once.

He counted to sixty twice. Nobody answered. He knocked again.

The handle turned, and the door opened.

Author's Note:

I'm incredibly tired today, and I really don't feel like writing any more, but I'd feel bad if I didn't write anything. Hence, this short thing here. I apologize if anybody reading this lives in Finchingfield (or any of the places mentioned in this story, really. I haven't spent much time in any of them) and I totally butchered it. I understand your pain, people write about where I'm from all the time and always mess it up.

Also, please listen to the song Sunday Morning by The Bolshoi. It's worth it.

That's all for today, folks. I'll hopefully have something a little longer up tomorrow.